CHAPTER ONE
Emerson
I always saw myself in the romantic comedies I watched as a child. I was the gawky, awkward girl that hoped I might still somehow get the guy. But now I’ve had the makeover scene, but I still haven’t found love. Instead, I’m here trying to disprove a theory about my own boyfriend, the mere act of which basically proves my relationship is doomed. Every one of my relationships has ended in a rather spectacular fashion.
I stand up from the couch, a pure white West Elm leather sectional that Josh bought after watching me save an Instagram photo of it. Romantic, right? Except, I hate pure white furniture, which I told him at the time. I had been saving the photo for my best friend, Georgia. Also, we had only been dating for a week. Kind of presumptuous to already be picking out furniture. I walk over to the bookshelf and pull out one of my favorite titles, The Object of My Affection by Stephen McCauley. An older title, but a fantastic read that was turned into a fun movie. Josh swears he’s read every single book on this shelf, but lately I’ve noticed that whenever I ask him about one of them, he finds a way to change the subject.
“Babe? Have you read this one?” I turn the cover of the book toward Josh. He plays for the Red Sox, and when we met I hoped he could be the Real Deal. Marriage material, someone worth the six months I’ve spent flying from LA to Boston to get to know him.
“Oh yeah, love that one. One of the best.” Josh gets up and joins me at the shelf, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me close to him.
“I just reread it and can’t get over the twist at the end. What did you think?” I turn toward him, still holding the book, and stare intently at him as I wait for his answer.
He pulls me in for a deep kiss, and with one hand takes the book and shoves it carelessly back on the shelf. He doesn’t place it in its spot, just throws it on top of others. Then he wraps his now free hand around my jaw—something he knows I hate. I can almost feel acne forming where his fingers are touching my face. I pull away slightly. “Babe, the twist. What did you think?”
“Totally shocking,” he murmurs into my mouth as he presses back into me. “Best part of the book.”
“So you really were surprised when they took that guy hostage?”
“Of course. Great ending.” His other hand starts to drop lower. I pull back abruptly. I knew it.
“Josh, it’s a rom-com, there’s no hostages. Something you’d know if you’d read it.” I stare at him. “Have you read any of these books? Every time I try to talk to you about them, you make an excuse to change the subject, or just kiss me!”
I cross my arms to make clear I actually need a response. He sighs and scans the shelves, probably looking for a book that he’s watched the movie of. “Josh, just tell me the truth.”
The center wall of his living room houses a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that is stuffed full of some of my favorite reads. When I walked into his apartment for the first time during a New Year’s party, I saw the incredible structure full of books and knew I had to meet the owner. After breaking up with an actor who didn’t even read the entirety of his own scripts, I was ready to date someone who shared my passion for reading. I thought I could actually talk to him about the books I devoured, maybe even about the story ideas I dream up at night.
I thought wrong.
I see the moment that he caves, and then re-strategizes. “Baby, I’m sorry I lied to you.” He takes my hand and leads me over to the couch. “You were just so excited that we liked the same things, and I figured saying I’d read most of them wasn’t exactly a lie, because I would read them and win you over.”
“So have you been reading them?” Maybe I can work with this. I squeeze his rough palm with my manicured hand. Gel every two weeks destroys my nails, but they always look flawless once it’s on, and according to my agent, that’s what counts.
“Not exactly. I’ve just been so busy with training.” Josh eyes his home gym wistfully, like he wishes he could be in there now, bench pressing for the third time today rather than talking to me.
“Have you even read one?” Josh winces at my question, but I press onward. I just need to find one redeeming thing here, then maybe I can forget that he lied. Our relationship needs this to survive. “Is this your ‘to read’ list?”
“Well, my interior designer actually bought them for the party we met at. My mom was over and pointed out that it looked, well she said ‘shallow,’ but strange is a better word; it looked strange with only my own trophies on the shelves. I actually was going to recycle them after, because I wanted to put my stuff back up, but they led to me meeting you, so clearly it’s worth it.” He smiles at the end of this, as though he said something romantic instead of that he was going to send what must be six thousand dollars’ worth of books to their death.
“Recycle them?” It takes everything in me to keep my voice level. “There’s about four hundred hardcovers here. You could at least donate them.”
“Who would want this many books?” He looks genuinely flummoxed. Has he never heard of a library?
That’s it. I’m out of here.
“Josh, this isn’t working for me.” His mouth springs open in objection.
“Emerson, I don’t understand,” Josh pleads. He runs a calloused palm through his curly hair. “Baby, let’s just talk about this. We can take a vacation. Go to Cabo, relax, talk it out. I’ll buy six grand’s worth of more books and you can donate those.” He frowns skeptically as he says this, but then wraps my hand in his own calloused one. “This is it for me. You’re it for me. This is a silly blip; we can work through it together.”
I gently pry my hand out of Josh’s grip. “Josh, I don’t think we’re in love. Not really, and most certainly not the forever kind. I’m so sorry, but you’ll find someone that’s perfect for you.”
I’m ready to go in under a minute. I always have a bag packed so that I can travel at a moment’s notice for a shoot. I pause to say goodbye just as Josh stalks away and punches a hole in the wall, knocking a bunch of framed photos to the ground. I’m sure his assistant will have that covered by tomorrow night. And I’m sure I am doing the right thing. The suitcase slides behind me, the silence of its wheels matching my shame as I delicately close the door, nudging a now shattered framed photo of us at the World Series out of the way. I’m sure that photo is one of the many People will use in their inevitable “relationship timeline update” on me tomorrow. I can already see the headline: QUICK REFRESHER ON SUPERMODEL AND HEARTBREAKER EMERSON’S COMPLETE DATING HISTORY.
All press might be good press, but for once it would be nice to keep my failures to myself. To be able to walk out of the house with a makeup-free face and not have articles up within an hour saying I’m having a breakdown. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be natural. I have to be careful of every bit of myself I show to the world, since once it’s out there it’s no longer authentically me, it’s a part of my public image. I know I shouldn’t complain about the downside of the industry. This industry and the way I look gave me fame, and that fame gave me stability. Something I yearned for in my childhood. So I take the bad with the good.
Copyright © 2024 by Betty Cayouette
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