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The flash of a camera is so bright it almost blinds me, and for the first time in years, I put a hand over my face to shield them from the tears that are building in the back of my throat. Tears Inevershed in front of paparazzi. I’ve rarely even cried aside from the times I had to for work. I can count on one hand the number of times in the last five years, but watching my life fall apart in front of my eyes has the tears building from deep within like I’m preparing to exorcize years’ worth of demons.
I’m used to being in front of the camera. I’ve never been shy. Even at a young age, there are videos of me performing musical numbers for my stuffed animals and talent shows I put on for anyone and everyone in the neighborhood where I grew up. There are hundreds of VHS tapes in boxes in my basement of practice auditions and dramatic readings and singing and even more of me learning all of the skills that were on the resume glued to the back of my headshot.
Ballet, horseback riding, tap dance, archery, gymnastics, and the list goes on.
There are hundreds of Polaroids and pictures taken with disposable cameras that were once glossy and shiny but have faded over time in dozens of photo albums and shoe boxes because my mother could never take justonepicture.
I’m used to being on the red carpet where thousands of cameras are pointed at me; where I’m trying my best to focus on each of them, trying to give my attention to everyone at once.
Smile. Turn. Change pose. Smile. Turn. Sexy smile. Sweet smile. Wink. Flirt with the camera. Walk to your next mark.
It’s as easy as breathing. Of course, there were moments when I felt anxious. The moments when I didn’t feel my best, or I didn’t feel pretty, or I felt the pang of regret over skipping a workout. A fleeting worry that maybe I hadn’t been standing straight so a camera caught me at a bad angle. But I learned to take those moments in stride. I’m not perfect and having to beontwenty-four-seven is impossible. I’ve watched as it destroyed fellow actresses’ mental health and how quickly it could send them into a spiral.
As often as I’m in front of the cameras, I’m rarely in front of them for thewrongreasons. I stay out of the drama and the scandals and I’m one of the few child actors that hasn’t spent a night in the drunk tank. I’m considered unproblematic, genuine, kind, and according to the last issue ofPeople Magazine,one of America’s Sweethearts.
Unease washes over me and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me that my days of not being associated with drama are over. I want nothing more than to run. Run away from the room where I had a front-row seat to my worst nightmare and from the man that starred in it.
My man.
But running from this room like it’s on fire will raise questions and the last thing I want is to answer them for the paparazzi before I have a chance to answer them for myself.
“SHAY!” His voice booms after me and I try to ignore him just as I notice the movement of a group of girls pulling out their phones and holding them up towards us. I was the star of a hit television show in a relationship with Hollywood’s newest “IT” actor who was predicted to take home the Oscar for Best Actor in just a few months. So, it’s rare for the cameras not to be on us which is why I’m very confused as to why he put himself in a situation to literally get caught with his pants down. Even if he hadn’t been caught by me, which I know he wasn’t expecting given that this trip was a fucking surprise after weeks we’d spent apart, it was stupid for him to assume that he’d get away with fucking his co-star in the back room of a club without anyone finding out.
His hand grabs my elbow and I pull out of his grasp as gracefully as I can, wanting nothing more than to scream at him for what I just walked in on, but I can’t do that.
“This is not the place to do this, Pax,” I tell him through narrowed slits while also trying my best to appear unphased. He knows my looks, so he should be able to read the one I’m giving him that saysdon’t fucking push mebut might be unreadable from a stray picture taken by anyone at the club. His brown eyes are worried and it irritates me more than I care to admit that he keeps darting his eyes around the room to see who is paying attention to our interaction.
Don’t cause a scene.
Right now, it probably just looks like we’re in a lovers’ quarrel.
“Trouble in Paradise?”the headlines will read.
But responding the way I want to will cause a domino effect that I’m not prepared for without talking to my PR team and getting a plan in place first.
My job doesn’t allow me the luxury of acting based on emotions. Everything has to be practical. Pragmatic. Calculated.
I fucking hate it sometimes.
I’ll take the media outlets reporting that it’s just an argument versus headlines exposing his affair though. The ones that would speculate that I knew he was fucking other women despite our committed three-year relationship or even that I engaged in it.
No. Fuck all that.
I refuse to look weak.
For now, I have to keep things cute.
“Baby…” he starts, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair that he’d highlighted for this most recent part—that I’ll admit I do not particularly love.
“No.” I shake my head at him. “How could you?” I feel the tears building and I refuse to let them fall here. Not now. My eyes dart behind him and I pray the woman I found him with, his whore of a co-star—who’s a really shitty actress for what it’s worth—doesn’t emerge. That would just alert everyone in the bar that Shay Eastwood just caught her boyfriend of three years cheating on her.
I turn my head, searching for Damian, and just like always, I don’t have to search far before our eyes lock from across the room. Even with the low lighting, I can see his face transform from impassive to something dark and almost angry and then he’s a man on a mission, tearing through the crowd towards me. His long legs eat at the space between us and just as Paxton goes to touch me again, Damian is at my side towering over us both. “Everything okay, here?” His voice is low and I detect a hint of anger in it probably brought on by his instincts that everything is definitelynotokay.
“I’m ready to go.” I glare at Paxton. “Alone.”
“Baby, please just let me explain. Let me come with you. We can talk,privately.”What the fuck could he possibly explain? That I didn’t just catch him fucking his co-star? That I’m seeing things?He pulls at his suit jacket, probably trying to straighten how disheveled he still looks from having to get dressed so quickly to follow me out of the room.
Don’t cause a scene.
