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My head, my eyes—the pain intensifies.
“Thirty minutes? But I thought we had four hours?”
“No, we don’t. Now hurry.”
She runs out of the room, the same time I hurl into the bowl one more time. This will be the very last time I consume any alcohol, I swear. I want to cry. I need someone to hold me and tell me that everything will feel better soon.
An overdramatic Milana needs to shut the fuck up and get the hell out of here.
I turn the shower on, scramble to find any clothes which happen to be a pair of jeans, my Chucks, and an unironed shirt. It doesn’t matter. We will fly through the airport so quickly that no one will notice me anyway.
By the time we get to the airport, I feel slightly better having taken some Advil and Gatorade. My hair is annoying me, so I twist it into a bun, wishing I had put on some makeup since my face looks so pale and tired. The dark circles beneath my eyes make it look ten times worse.
JFK is surprisingly quiet this morning, not like the mad rush when we arrived here. Our driver unloads our bags as three security guards stand by, ready to assist us with checking in.
As soon as the automatic doors open, there’s cameras in my face flashing with bright lights, blinding and forcing my eyes to flinch, people yelling my name, loud noises, people crowding my personal space with microphones. My heart rate accelerates, and my chest tightens from the claustrophobia. I look over to Emerson in a panic. I don’t compute.
Why are
they surrounding me and not her?
And then through all the noise, I hear one person shout into my face, “How long have you been in a relationship with Wesley Rich?”
Then, the others follow suit.
“Are you pregnant with Rich’s baby?”
“Is it true that you’re having an affair with Wesley and left your boyfriend?”
Amongst the hysteria, I look over to Emerson again, her expression fallen as the words resonate with her. I want to talk to her in private, but there’s an onslaught of paparazzi. Our overprotective security guards fight them off, shielding our bodies while scurrying us toward the terminal and straight to boarding the flight.
What the hell just happened?
How did they find out?
It’s only when I sit down that I notice Emerson isn’t behind me. I stand, searching, worried and confused. Hank, a younger bodyguard, answers my question before I even ask.
“She’s in a private room. They’ll board her last.”
“Oh,” I mouth, sitting down, disappointed.
I stare out the window. The rain is falling lightly, the gray sky casting above us. What happened back there terrifies me. I don’t think of myself as an overly anxious person, but the anxiety cripples me with people demanding questions about my personal life, and my inability to walk without being scrutinized. Even in the midst of it all, I see their judgment.
Wesley Rich. Movie star.
In a relationship with this ugly girl.
She’s nothing like Emerson Chase.
Look at the way she’s dressed, and her hair. Where did he find her?
The muscles in my leg tighten, this urge to get off the plane becomes more and more desperate. I take deep breaths, holding back the nausea and cries that so desperately want to escape. We still have some time until we take off. I frantically search for my cell in my purse where I find it fallen to the bottom amongst my other possessions.
I see Wesley’s texts, one after another, but I don’t have the strength to open them. I’m overwhelmed by us, and what this relationship is doing to me. I want to hear his voice, and despite my drunken stupor last night, I recall us exchanging words that can’t be retracted, at least, not in my eyes.
And I know myself well enough to know that his voice, alone, will lure me into his sinful ways. He will tell me this is nothing. I don’t have to worry and fuck ’em. He doesn’t care, so why should I?
Without realizing my hands are shaking, I dial Mama’s number, desperate to speak to her and seek the reassurance I need at this moment. The cell rings, and rings, until it hangs up on its accord.
