by Hart, Holly
I trail behind, platforms clunking. My skirt’s made of the same fabric as hers, but it drags where it ought to float. Cleaves embarrassingly to my thighs. God, it’s between my legs, clinging—do I have camel toe? In a dress? Cameras flash, capturing my disgrace. Isn’t this enough?
I’m falling behind. I pick up the pace, and my skirt finally dislodges itself from my crotch. But now I’m leaning forward, tottering on my heels, and my bodice is straining—I can feel the tape pulling against my skin, and any second...any...second....
Fuck it. I clap a hand to my chest and keep walking.
My victim reaches the end of the runway. She strikes a pose, turns, and strikes another. She’s smiling, sort of, this cute quirk to her upper lip. Like a kid living out her dream, which is exactly what she is. And I’m about to fuck that up. She’ll never even know why.
I bite my lip. Most of my secrets aren’t horrible. So I’m kind of a klepto. And a catfish, and a dine-and-dash artist, and an Internet troll. I could keep walking. Strike my pose. Swallow my mortification and spare the girl.
But if all of us thought that way, or most of us... I’m not sure if Kyle followed through on his. He’s been tight-lipped since Rachel’s breakdown. And Carson—I could see his pride getting in the way. Even Wes—and Max....
She’s coming my way. Now or never.
Max. I’m doing this for him. I destroyed his life once. I can’t risk it again.
I grab her by the arms—I don’t even know her name.
“What are you—”
“I’m so sorry.” I shove her hard. Her nails score my wrist, and over she goes. I can’t look. I turn away, hand clapped over my eyes. All around me, people are shouting. I can see flashbulbs going off through the cracks between my fingers. Someone screams, a guttural, gurgling sound. Pure rage.
I take a halting step—the wrong way. I need to get out of here. Turn back, run, not—
Pain erupts, sharp and sudden, at the nape of my neck. I look up. Did something...fall on me? A hot trickle courses down my back. I pat at it and...yeah. That’s blood. “What—?”
I step on something hard and almost lose my balance. A shoe? I got beaned with a shoe?
Bare feet slap the runway. I turn, and her other shoe catches me across the cheek. I scream and throw up my hands, but there’s no escaping her fury. Sharp nails scratch my chest. I hear tape rip, and...laughter. That’s laughter. A few shrieks, a few shouts, but most of them are laughing. Laughing at me, bare-breasted, getting trounced with a stiletto. And it hurts—she’s really letting me have it. Assault charges, nothing. I’ll be lucky to escape without stitches.
“Stop—please!”
“Bitch!”
I skid away. My heel skates off the side, and the ceiling lights flash before my eyes. I clutch thin air, brace for impact, and someone catches me. Sets me on my feet. I sink to my knees, wishing I could keep going, all the way through the floor. This is worse than I’d imagined. Infinitely worse. There’s blood in my eye, in my lashes, running into my mouth. Let Carson accuse me now! Got off easy, did I? Can’t picture some veteran going after him with a shoe.
“Why’d she do that?”
“—don’t know; out of nowhere!”
“Here—get a shot of—”
I shy away from the voices, the cameras. I’m completely hemmed in, the crowd knit around me, the runway at my back. All I need is someone to start chanting Fight! Fight! Fight....
Please...please...get me out of here.
There are hands in my hair, tilting my head back. I shy away—
“Hold still. I’m a doctor.”
—oh, fuck. If she stitches me up right here, I’ll die. Absolutely die.
She lets my head drop. “Okay! Going to need you all to clear a path.” She’s waving her arms, attracting more attention, as if every eye on the room wasn’t already on me.
I hang my head and let her pull me to my feet. I’m towering over everyone in my ridiculous heels, staggering like a drunk as she leads me through the crowd. Cameras and cell phones line the aisles, capturing every excruciating moment. I’ll never live this down. Never, ever, ever. Not in a million years. I’ll be a red carpet joke: Who are you wearing? Kate Miller. Oh—where’s the shoeprint?
I’ll have to change my name. My whole brand. My profession.
The cool night air hits me as we slip out the fire exit. Seconds later, the door slams behind us, cutting off the chorus of jeers.
This had better be the end.
Chapter 17
Max
* * *
This has to be the end of it.
I shut down my computer and let my head loll against the back of my chair. I can still see text scrolling behind my eyelids—thousands upon thousands of tweets and statuses and photo stories, all boiling down to one thing:
isn’t, like, ur entire purpose keeping pplz info safe on social media? if u cant do that, what’s even the point of u?
What’s even the point of me? Been wondering that myself.
“Sir?” My assistant pokes her head in. “Need anything else?”
I crack my eyes open. “No. Go ahead.”
We’ve done everything we can for now. The offer of three months’ free service seems to have slowed the cancellations, but we’ll take a hit from this. Already, the cartoons and memes are popping up. A Photoshop of me giving the thumbs-up to a banana breaking through a condom seems to be leading in popularity.
I reach for my coffee: empty. There’s still most of a bottle of Jack in my bottom drawer, but I’ve got calls to make. And I should check on everyone. Kyle bit the bullet this morning. Rachel didn’t. Carson, Wes, even Kate... I have no idea. She called a few hours ago to commiserate, and to say she was getting ready, but whether she actually went through with it... I try to picture Kate in a physical altercation with a model—with anyone—and chuckle at the absurdity of it.
I loosen my tie and grope for my phone. There are less notifications than I expected: one from Kyle—Done—and a photo from Wes: a full-page ad in the London Times. It’s too blurry to read beyond the headline, but there’s a lot of red digits. A list of his debts. My brows shoot up at the length of it. Jesus, Wes.
Carson’s texted twice: once an expletive, which I take as his confirmation, and again—with Kate. Get over here. That one’s only a couple of hours old, but it’s—fuck. Four in the morning. Where’d the time fly to?
I dial him anyway. Can’t picture any of us sleeping tonight. And if Kate’s waiting....
I shouldn’t care. I do, anyway.
The phone rings and rings. My foot starts to tap. Come on...come on....
He picks up on the sixth ring, breathing heavily. “Sorry. Had to get outside. Still at the hospital.”
Hospital? “What the hell?”
“Haven’t you passed a TV in the last six hours?”
“Cut the shit. What happened?”
“Kate got her ass kicked by some model. She’s getting stitched up right now.”
Stitched up?
“Which hospital?”
“Uh, Weill Cornell—East 68th.”
“Be right there.” I’m on my feet already, rushing for the elevator. Oh, this is bad. A hundred percent fucked. I should’ve foreseen this. It’s Carson’s fault, making out like Kate’s situation wasn’t serious. Friday night in the fashion industry—wasn’t that how he put it? Free publicity. Maybe we’d all have taken it more seriously, if he hadn’t—
I press my forehead against the elevator doors. This isn’t Carson’s fault. Not really. Not unless he sent the notes. Whoever did it: that’s who I need to be pissed at. That’s where my focus needs to be, right after I make sure Kate’s all right. Stitches—shit. Unbelievable.
I step off the elevator, breathing hard. Everyone’ll be freaking. I need to keep it together.
I almost smash up my Tesla, peeling out of the garage.
They’re camped out in front of the hospital: the paparazzi. Stalking Kate, no doubt. L
ike she hasn’t been photographed enough. I keep my head down, angling for the doors, but I’m spotted—because of course I am. Because one thing going right on this misery of a night, that’d be silly.
“Whoa, that’s Max Westbrook!”
“Mr. Westbrook! Hey!—having a heart attack to go with your hack attack?”
“Got a comment on the—”
I shoulder my way through the throng, resisting the urge to throw an elbow or two. Anyone standing between me and Kate, right now...it’s not a good place to be. I lower my head and keep shoving.
“Oh! Weren’t you and Kate Miller an item, way back when? You here for her?”
Carson bursts onto the street. “Max! Over here!”
I aim for his voice. A floating boom smacks me in the mouth. A flash goes off, turning my vision white, then red. My composure’s hanging by a thread. One more flash, one more gross armpit in my face, I’m punching my way out of this.
Someone grabs me by the elbow. It’s the final straw. I clench my fist, ready for a fight...and it’s Carson. He pulls me out of the crowd and we dash through the doors. They’re still taking pictures through the glass.
“Where is she?”
“Through here.” Carson leads me through the emergency room. It’s bright in here—too bright. Like walking through a giant tanning bed. I squint into the glare—where is she?
I might be a little delirious. Didn’t sleep last night, and—yep. Not much the night before, either. It’s got to be fifty hours since I last put my head down.
Carson herds me into a smaller room, and behind a flimsy green curtain, which makes a screeching sound when he pulls it back. Kate starts and yelps in pain.
The doctor ties off a stitch. “Try to stay still.”
She whimpers. Or, no—she’s stifling a yawn. Halfheartedly covering her mouth. “Sorry. How many more?”
“Almost there.”
I duck under the curtain rail. “How bad is it?”
She waggles her hand: comme ci, comme ça. I still haven’t gotten a look at her face: she’s bent forward getting her neck stitched, and that’ll leave a mark; that’ll scar for sure.
“I’m sorry.”
A faint chuckle escapes her lips. “Guess I got what I deserved.”
I shake my head helplessly. In a way, I suppose we all deserve much worse, but seeing her like this... It should be satisfying, seeing her brought down a peg, but it just hurts. In all kinds of ways. All I can think about is getting her out of here. Feeding her breakfast and tucking her into bed.
Not my problem.
I close my eyes and picture her bouquet scattered on the floor. The little glass bead that fell out of my cuff when I got undressed that night.
I hate her. And I want to kiss her better.
“I feel awful, Max. Just...terrible.” Her breath hitches, and I’m at her side in an instant, reaching for her hand.
“It’s okay. You’re almost done.”
“No—not that. Not physically.” She laughs, flat and mirthless. “I’m totally numbed up back there. It’s just...I was so busy thinking about myself, how embarrassed I’d be, I never considered—I still don’t know her name. The girl I pushed. She was a teenager. Never did anything to deserve that. And now....”
“Ssh....”
“No.” Her head jerks up again.
The doctor steadies her head with his hand. “Please, miss. Or I’ll have to clear the room.”
“Sorry.” Kate squeezes my hand. “I can’t ssh, though. Can’t pretend this is all right. How’s she supposed to book anything now? Models are meant to be these...perfect, serene, uh...living coat racks. Their careers don’t survive things like this. Not unless they’re huge—like, Tyra huge.”
“You could help with that, couldn’t you? Pull a few strings?” Not that I’d bother, in Kate’s position: she’s seriously hurt. I keep catching glimpses of blood through the curtain of her hair—blood, and a huge purple bruise. And she’s covered in gouges and scrapes, all down her arms and chest. Hardly a proportional response to a push.
She draws a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t know. After tonight, I.... I’m not sure I’ll have any clout left.”
“Oh, come on.” I swipe my thumb across her knuckles. “You’ll be a meme for a while. They’ll make fun on you on Project Runway, America’s Next Top Model—all the fashion shows. But your clothes are great. I’ve sat across from a dozen of your dresses on dates. First dates, even. No one’s going to care what you did when they need that next knock-‘em-dead mini.”
“Not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.” She makes a sound between a laugh and a sob.
The doctor steps back. “All done.” He frowns. “You might want to avoid the main exit. There’s, uh....”
“I know.” I cut him off, but the look in Kate’s eyes tells me she’s figured it out. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.”
“My hero.” It’s probably meant to come out mocking, but it sounds like a plea. She looks up, and I barely rein in a shout. Her left eye’s swollen shut. A crescent of black stitches rings her cheekbone.
“Ow....” I’m touching my own cheek.
“It looks worse than it is.”
I doubt that. She’ll be wearing her shame across her face for the rest of her life.
Carson passes me her jacket. I hold it out for her. “Come on. Let’s get back to the Plaza.”
The ghost of a smile touches her lips. My heart turns over in my chest. I could revive that smile. Make her laugh, make her forget, like I used to, after Matt. I’d draw dicks on my face with her eyeliner, pretend to trip over her wiener dog, anything to see that spark of life in her eyes.
“I’ll head out front and distract them,” says Carson. “Got somewhere to be, anyway.”
“Thanks, man. For everything.” I elbow him, and he elbows back.
Kate pulls her hood over her head, letting it dangle in her face.
I slip an arm around her waist, and we follow Carson out of the room, veering off in the opposite direction. Two blocks to where I parked: we’ll be fine. This, at least, is going right. I’ll make sure of it if it’s the last thing I do.
Chapter 18
Kate
* * *
We stumble into my room, barely conscious. I’m bottoming out, with the last of my adrenaline gone, and Max—he looks horrible. The bags under his eyes are so big, so black, it looks like we both got the crap kicked out of us. And he’s ashen under his faint spring tan.
“You eaten at all?”
He groans. “Not since, uh...not since.... I don’t know. Breakfast? When was that?”
“Yesterday?” I’m in the same boat. There was nothing but celery and water backstage, and after the show, well, food was the last thing on my mind.
“We should get....” Max plops down on an ornate fainting couch. “What do you call...in a hotel...when you pick up the phone and they bring you, uh...?”
I laugh. “Sweet salvation?” The room service menu’s in the nightstand. I bypass it and go straight for the phone. “Bring us, ah...French toast, eggs Benedict, couple of those gruyère omelettes. For two. Two of everything. And coffee. All the coffee.”
Max is mouthing something.
I cover the receiver. “Hm?”
“Bacon. Need baaaaaa-con.” He holds out his arms like a zombie.
“And bacon. Just, like...a plate of bacon.” I hang up and flop on the bed, wincing as every part of my body twinges, throbs, or protests.
I hear clicking from the couch: Max checking his phone. “Anything interesting?”
“Nah, just....” He tucks his phone away, lips tight. “Kyle said he’d text if anything happened with Rachel. Guess we’re all good, so far. Or....”
Or. Right.
Max tilts his head back. “I shouldn’t be in your room.”
“You say that....” I force myself up on one elbow. “You say that, but you’re putting your feet up. Taking off your coat. Oh, yeah. Aaaaand.
..you’re loosening your tie.”
“Mm-hm.” His eyes roll and close. “I got bacon coming. Can’t sully the, uh...the bacon experience with a pinchy tie.” He kicks off his shoes and wiggles his toes. “Ugh. Can’t feel my toes.”
“Oh, cry me a river!” I stick out my own feet, still strapped into a pair of glittery white platforms.
“Torture devices.” He leans forward and unbuckles first one, then the other. His fingertips trail over my ankles and along my feet as he eases them off. The gentleness of his touch makes me want to—I don’t even know. Burst into tears. Grab him by the tie and pull him on top of me. Beg him to leave before I do either of the above.
My shoes hit the floor. Max leans back on the couch and sits up again almost immediately.
“This couch is less comfortable than a coffin.”
I arch a brow. My face pulls and aches. “Been in many coffins?”
“One. And let me tell you, that cushioning’s all for show.”
“When—? Actually, I don’t want to know. Or, I do—but first, come up here.” I gesture at the bed.
He scowls. “I don’t think—”
“Come on.” I sound drunk. I feel drunk. “What are you going to do, jump my bones? I look like an extra from The Walking Dead. And our food’ll be here any minute.”
“Good point.” Max crawls up the bed and faceplants in the pillows. “Mmph...soft.” He flips over on his back, staring at the ceiling. “So, the coffin—I met this woman out clubbing one night. Went to her place, and....” He laughs, low and exhausted. “It was a funeral home. She was a—a mortician. A funeral director. Whatever the polite term is. And she passed out, and I....”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I was leaving—I really was. But this coffin caught my eye, this empty coffin, just sitting there with the lid gaping open. And I got this morbid impulse, like...why not preview the coming attractions?”
A peal of laughter has me clutching my ribs. “Ow! Oh, God! Preview death? You...you got in your unconscious date’s coffin, to see what it’s like to be....” I’m howling. “You’re crazy. Certifiable.”
