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I click on the link that immediately follows his message and there, in full detail, right down to his goddamn ring, is a photo of Christian and me walking along Gas Works Park the other day. Right underSeattleite’sencouraging heading of “Shipping heir, Émile Cromwell, slumming it in the District with mystery man.” Nothing in the sorry excuse for an article mentions the ring or our engagement, but a quick skim of the comments shows it didn’t go unnoticed.
Fuck.
Normally the engagement isn’t a surprise and there’s a photographer on hand, ready to take official announcement photos, but considering that day was a blur of family disapproval and Neil’s bum, it didn’t exactly sit high on my list of priorities.
But now people are speculating. Either Christian is engaged to someone else and having an affair with me, or ÉmileCromwell is officially off the market. Lying to my family is one thing, but lying to the world has slightly heavier ramifications if we’re found out.
Me:
You okay?
Christian:
Think so. It’s just a bit weird to see my face on some random gossip site.
I don’t point out to him that now they’ve run it, we’ll likely be popping up all over the internet. Given no one in my family is famous—far too crass for the Cromwells—we’re usually left alone by the American obsession with celebrity culture. The only time we’re bothered is when one of us fucks up—thankfully a rare event—or when there’s large shifts within the family. Being as wealthy as we are, holding a huge amount of power through our supplying the world, means we’re always going to draw notoriety.
Pa’s passing brought a whole pile of speculation onto our inheritances and who would be the heir to step up to the board, and I’ve seen news of my return to America, meaning I’m ready to settle down and start a family of my own. Speculation about me and Darcy has been news fodder for a while now, and I knew what I was doing when I was seen purchasing that engagement ring.
But that afternoon at the park had been private. A quiet moment. One where neither of us were pretending, where we didn’t feel the overwhelming pressure of what we were doing. I shared things with him I hadn’t shared with anyone and maybe he doesn’t appreciate the significance of me talking about Pa, but I know that moment brought us closer.
Me:
How did you go tonight? Did you break a leg?
Christian:
Thankfully not literally. But yeah, it was pretty good.
Me:
Only “pretty good”? You mean I don’t get to see you all week because you’re off living your dream, but your dream is only PRETTY good?
Christian:
Okay, smart-ass. It was amazing.
I smile, this happy ache settling in my chest as I flop back onto my bed.
Me:
What’s your favorite part?
Christian:
It’s kinda hard to explain. The atmosphere, maybe? It’s like … this ball of tension that surrounds everything, and then you get on stage and it snaps and you fucking fly. I get to be someone else for a few hours and it’s like my brain just switches off.
Me:
No catastrophes?
Christian:
Nah, we rehearse so much that everything is second nature. I don’t need to overthink every single thing I’m doing. It’s the one place I’m not scared I’m going to mess everything up.
Me:
You don’t mess everything up with me.
