In the morning, I stop by Francesca’s building.Heavy smog coats the sky, matching my mood.
I still haven’t heard from Leah.My patience is gone.As I wait for the elevator, I call Dmitri.No answer.I call him again.This time when it goes to voicemail, I leave a message.“I’m calling to check on Leah.I’d like to talk to her.”
I end the call and go up to Francesca’s office.Dove is already waiting with Francesca.The three of us look over the statement Dove will post to PhotoGram on my behalf.
I would like to set the record straight.Nicola Johnson and I are not currently in a relationship, and we have not been together in sixteen years.My current relationship has nothing to do with Nicola, although I do wish Nicola the best.Please respect my wish to move forward with my life, and respect my new relationship.I am a private person and will not entertain questions or requests for interviews at this time.
Dove shows me the account she created for me.My profile image is a generic headshot.The short bio is briefer than most.Actor, Academy of Ghosts, Seasons 3-5.
I already have four thousand followers.
“When did you create my account?”I ask.
“This morning.”Dove holds the phone out, as if waiting for something.My approval?It won’t happen.I’m an actor, but even I can’t fake those kinds of feelings.
“Well?”Francesca gestures at the phone.“Hitpublish.”
“Right.”I jab it with my thumb.
There.Now it’s out.I’m not panicking.
But I’m not happy, either.
I make the right noises of gratitude and say quick farewells to Francesca and Dove.The trip down to my car is a blur.The post is live, and people will be making of it what they will.The words don’t belong to me anymore; they belong to the public.
Actually, the words were never mine to begin with.There’s something freeing in that thought.
The drive home to San Esteban is quicker than usual.There’s nothing for me at home—Leah isn’t waiting.Gone are the evenings when I arrive home and she’s curled up on the sofa with a book in hand, waiting for me.That miniature snapshot of domesticity was just that—a snapshot, a teaser of reality.
A tiny woman with a head full of long, black braids stands near the parking garage elevator.As I approach, her braids come into better view.They’re tipped with blue and purple.
She smooths her hands over her business suit.“Gage Hawthorne?”
So she’s a reporter.A flare of anger bursts like a phoenix in my heart.I stride past her and jab the elevator button.“How did you get into this garage?It’s a private space, monitored.”
“Please, only a couple of questions.My name is Beryl Crake.I want the real story?—”
“I have no interest in speaking with you.”I search the area for photographers; no doubt there are several hidden behind nearby cars.“No photos, no interviews.No fucking comment!”
“Mr.Hawthorne, I saw your post on PhotoGram, and?—”
“No.”I feel bad for swearing at her.I don’t want to be this person.I take several breaths and cloak myself in my dominant, calm persona.Free of anger, free of fear.Free of any emotion whatsoever.
She sees the change in me and her brown eyes widen with understanding.“I apologize for coming to you like this.If you ever want to talk...here’s my card.”
I stare at the paper pinched between her fingers, but I make no move to take it.The elevator doors open with a soft chime.I step through them and carefully, calmly, push the button to my floor.
The reporter’s lips quirk upward in a playful grin.As the elevator doors close, she flings the card into the elevator.It lands face-up next to my shoe.The print is blocky and easy to read.Beryl Crake, San Esteban Sun, followed by an email and phone number.
As the elevator moves up, I leave the card on the floor.My heart is hammering with residual anger and fear from the altercation.I lean against the elevator wall, gripping my chest, fighting off panic.The calm, dominant cloak I put on is nothing more than smoke and visual effects.Pixels on a screen.Tricks of the eye.
No doubt, a write-up of my two minutes with Beryl Crake will be plastered all over theSan Esteban Sunin the morning.She got what she wanted: a reaction.
But what I want—safety and privacy in my own building?
I don’t think I’ll ever have that again.
* * *
