*
Late Thursday, I’d installed myself before my easel on the wraparound balcony outside of our suite, capturing magic hour and the mountains of Saint-Martin, indigo spires against a salmon sky. Hayes was in the bedroom going over his tour itinerary. They were heading to South America in a month’s time, and he wanted me to join them.
“At least Brazil. And Argentina,” he said, stepping out onto the balcony. “We have days off in between and we can explore.” He wrapped his arms around my waist, nuzzling my neck. “I’m sure that’s your dream holiday, right? Buenos Aires with me and the lads.”
I laughed at that, the idea of me and the five of them. And then I paused, setting down my brush. “I don’t trust your friend, Hayes.”
“Who? Rory?”
“No, Rory is harmless. Despite being the least gay.” I smiled. “Should I not trust Rory?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s harmless…”
“I don’t have a problem with Rory,” I said.
He pulled back then, turning me to face him. He knew. “What did Oliver do?”
I told him. Most of it.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me when it happened, Solène?”
“Because I didn’t want to make it a bigger deal than it was … than it is.”
He sighed, wrapping me in his arms. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m okay. I can take care of myself.”
“Oliver is smart. Oliver is one of the smartest blokes I know. But he can also be a prick and that’s not always the best combination.
“He’s like … the closest thing I have to a brother…” he continued.
“I know…”
“… and all that entails.”
“I know,” I repeated.
“He’s competitive, and he’ll push. But he’s not dangerous. He’s not going to hurt you.”
I paused, taking him in, his eyes changing colors in the setting sun. “But he would hurt you…”
Hayes nodded, slow. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe he would.”
*
On Friday, our last full day on the island, we spent the day by the pool, me reading, Hayes penning lyrics in his leather journal. His expression intense, focused; one hand pulling at his lip, mind elsewhere. The staff all disappeared directly after lunch, and we skinny-dipped before making love on the pool stairs and cuddling on one of the lounges. Bob Marley serenading us. He fell asleep in my arms, and in that moment he looked so lovely that I disentangled myself and went to fetch my sketch pad and pencils from inside.
I drew him, naked, lying on his stomach, a peaceful expression painted on his boyish face. His beauty was so exquisite it was unnerving. And I knew, even then, that I was capturing something unspoiled and consummate. And that youth was fleeting and in the blink of an eye Hayes would no longer look like this. He would lose his hair or grow hair in places I’d rather him not, his muscles would atrophy, his skin would lose its suppleness, its flawlessness, its glow … He would no longer be the Hayes I fell in love with.
But in that moment in time, he was still perfect. And he was mine.
*
We were changing planes Saturday in San Juan when the spell was broken. Hayes had arranged for an airport handler to meet us and usher us through customs before we had to separate for our respective flights. We’d just rechecked our bags and were killing time in the priority lounge when it happened.
“Fuck,” he said, louder than he normally would in a public setting. I looked across to where he was seated tucked away in a corner. His eyes were on his phone, a pained expression on his face. “Fuck.”
“What? What happened?”
He covered his face with his hand and sat like that for thirty seconds while I imagined the worst. Finally, he looked up over at me and for an instant I thought he might cry.
“Hayes, what?” I moved in closer to him.
“I love you,” he said, soft. “I’m sorry.”
My heart had begun to race. “What are you sorry about?”
“I’m going to show you something, okay, but you can’t freak out because there are people here.” It was barely a whisper. I may as well have been reading his lips.
“Did someone die?”
“No.”
“Did you get someone pregnant who’s not me?”
He almost smiled then. Almost. “No.”
“Okay,” I said. “I can deal with it, then.”
But I couldn’t.
On his phone, he’d pulled up a celebrity gossip blog, and there in big, bold colors was a photo of the two of us, on the back of the speedboat at Dog Island, and there was no mistaking what was going on.
My stomach lurched. I began to shake, my hands clammy, my head reeling. This was what an anxiety attack felt like, wasn’t it? This terror. I could not breathe.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“Shhhh.” Hayes was holding my arms, his forehead pressed to mine. “I’m sorry, Sol. I’m sorry.”
“Who has it? Where is it?”
“It’s everywhere.”
“Who sent it to you?”
“Graham.”
Graham. Of course. “Is that the only picture?”
He shook his head.
I began to cry. “Isabelle…”
“I know.” He kissed my forehead. “I know.”
But he could not, because he was not a parent. Because he was a celebrity, and in some strange way he’d asked for this. Or at the very least, he was prepared for it. It was not out of the realm of normalcy for him. This intrusion, this parasitic creature that fed off of him and every little thing he did and broadcasted it for the masses. This fandom that leeched.
I wanted to hit him. For being so fucking stupid. For exposing us like that. But what good would it have done? It’s not as if he were solely to blame.
“Who took them?”
“I don’t know. Someone with a really good lens … Do you remember seeing anyone, any boats, following us?”
I thought about it. The catamaran. It had been there at Shoal Bay. It could have been that one. It could have been anyone.
“Does it matter? My life is completely ruined now. My parents are going to disown me. Daniel is going to take Isabelle away. Lulit is going to offer to buy out my share of the gallery. It’s over. My life is over.”
“It’s not over, Solène. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“But you are really, really good at eating pussy, so maybe it was worth it.”
He laughed, kissing my wet cheeks. “I love you. I’m so sorry this happened. I love you.”
“Yeah … That’s what all the boys say.”
“No, they don’t,” he whispered. “No, they don’t.”
aspen
By the time I touched down in L.A., it was, as Hayes had confirmed, everywhere. I was greeted by nineteen new voicemails, thirty-three texts, and forty-two emails when I powered on my iPhone. And without looking at any of them, I powered it down.
Daniel was not scheduled to bring Isabelle back until tomorrow. So I went home, turned off the landline, crawled into my bed, and cried.
And cried.
It wasn’t until eleven the next morning that I turned on my iPhone again and found no fewer than a dozen messages from Hayes awaiting me. I called him immediately in London.