CHAPTER 15
REID
The paparazzi swarm has bal ooned. George is fielding hourly cal s from journalists proposing in-depth, exclusive, one-on-one reporting of my rehabilitation. We both know they’re far more interested in digging up juicy info about my possible hookup with a member of the peasantry.
I wasn’t shocked when Dori didn’t show up yesterday, between our little interface in the bathroom and the fact that my fansites were going crazy over photos of the two of us looking like we’re making out in the back yard. I’m accustomed to groundless rumors and misinterpreted photos. You have to laugh that shit off or you could end up in handcuffs after decking some a*shole photographer or stalker weirdo… or turn into a recluse, hiding from public scrutiny.
Stil , I was sure Dori would bounce in today, sporting a tshirt proclaiming her loathing of some vice I’ve reveled in at one time or another, if not on a regular basis. But Roberta just told me she won’t be back until next week.
“Was she that shaken up by al the photos online…?” I gesture vaguely to the surrounding yards ful of photographers after grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler. What I don’t say: Or was it the attempted kiss that freaked her the hell out?
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Roberta frowns, uncertain. “She’s working with her church’s VBS program, and they needed her this week.”
“VBS?”
Roberta looks at me like I’m an alien because I don’t recognize the acronym. “Vacation Bible School?” she prompts.
No help. Those three words don’t go together in any way in my experience. “So what’s she doing there that’s so important?” I twist the cap off the bottle and drink as we move towards the line for lunch.
“Actual y, she co-wrote the musical portion of the parent night program with the music director, and she’s in charge of the kindergarten performance.” Roberta’s obviously proud of this accomplishment, but it’s out of my sphere.
Church musical programs are the lowest form of community theater imaginable. Directing a religious musical program for five-year-olds? Kil me first.
“Wow. That’s awesome.” (Seriously. Kil me first.)
“Hi, Reid.”
Ah, Gabriel e. Just the distraction I need. “Sitting with me today?” I say, smiling down at her. She must have forgiven me for that comment about wanting nothing to do with her.
Gabriel e tosses a look of defiance at Roberta before smiling and poking me in the chest. “Duh, that’s why I came over here.”
Roberta purses her lips, wracking her brain to come up with a reason why the two of us can’t fraternize at lunch.
When she comes up blank, I pretend not to notice.
*** *** ***
Dori
Three days with no Reid, and I am so not conquering that temptation. I’ve alternated between wondering if he caused any trouble in my absence and wondering if he was disappointed that I wasn’t there—if he noticed at al .
Tonight, in the privacy of my room, and in opposition to any good judgment I’ve ever thought I had, I google Reid Alexander. First up: the sil y photos of the two of us, with me sprawled atop him like a linebacker sacking a quarterback.
There’s rampant speculation online about who I am, and whether or not I’m something more than just an uncoordinated girl from his volunteer site (I grit my teeth
— volunteer, my eye). His fans are also debating what we’re doing in the photo, but we had more than enough eyewitnesses, so real y, the worst anyone could say is that I stupidly fel on him. Or, as Kayla and Aimee think, bril iantly fel on him.
The majority view is that I’m a plain, unattractive nobody
—stated more harshly in most cases. I shrug it off because on one hand I am a plain, unattractive nobody, and on the other hand, none of these people know me personal y. They al base their verdicts on the same thing: what I look like in relation to him. Their assessments are superficial and excessive. Pretty similar to their appraisals of him, actual y
—based on little more than circumstantial evidence. (In his case, circumstantial y appealing.) I ignore further editorials and fan comments and go straight for the images link, because image is what Reid Alexander is al about. His beautiful face. His lean, muscular body. The blatant sex appeal that wel s up from that inner confidence and projects itself to the camera. I click on a cache of photos from a year-old GQ spread. He graces the cover shot and several outtakes in a dark pinstripe suit which was, I’m sure, precisely tailored for him and insanely expensive. He wears nothing but jeans in several shots, low enough to show off his chiseled abs. His chest and arms are defined and flawless without aid of computer graphics, as I know from multiple close-range shirtless encounters.
I click the arrow and the next photo appears—a mesmerizing close-up. My stomach drops and I exhale a dazed, “Oh.” Wearing a black tank, he grasps a tree branch angled just overhead. In the other shots, his expression is expertly arrogant—identical to his standard, now familiar veneer. But this one is the opposite. Open. Affectionate.
Sensitive.
I snap my laptop closed.
Googling him was a very bad idea.