I glanced down at my mid-thigh shorts and newly-acquired maternity t-shirt. “Thanks,” I said instead of dwelling on the fact that I’d accidentally kissed him a couple days ago.
I spotted my phone and then looked at him. His expression told me he didn’t know about the article that essentially challenged everyone to become paparazzi. “I’ve got some bad news,” I said, reaching for my phone.
He froze in the middle of setting down his guitar case and looked up at me. “Uh-oh.” He set the case down and came over to me.
I handed the phone over, the article pulled up.
He muttered obscenities as he looked it over. “Well, I can’t leave my house now.”
“You think it will be that bad?”
He looked up at me, his smile bitter. “I think it will be worse.”
I was slightly alarmed by his grim outlook. “Really?”
“Stuff like this…” He let out a ragged sigh. “It brings out the worst in people—in fans.”
“Are you really going to stay in your house?”
“Yup.” He slid my phone across the counter to me.
“You’re going to go crazy.”
He shrugged, then his brow furrowed as he fell into deep thought. “I might end up needing to go somewhere for a few days. Pop up in some photos in New York.”
“You’re going to leave?” Why did that idea make my stomach drop?
He let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it seems like the only legitimate option. Until they get a photo of me, it’s going to be a madhouse.”
I bounced my heel up and down and chewed on my lip. “How long would you be gone?”
He looked at me, his eyes sad. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on how the media responds to me showing up. The interest could totally die out, or they could go crazy, wondering why I’ve been off the radar for so long.”
“So…you’re just going to go clubbing or something?”
He snorted. “No. If I show up, looking like I’m trying to be photographed, it will cause even more problems. I’ll work with Randy and figure out a way to ‘accidentally’ be photographed.”
“So, like, a week? A month?” I was clearly stuck on the fact that he was leaving at all.
He came around the kitchen island and pulled me to his chest. “Hopefully just a week. Maybe two.”
A week I could probably handle. Two sounded…less doable. I tightened my arms around his waist. I wasn’t sure at what point Sean had become a necessary part of my life, but he was.
♪♫♪
Sean was gone the next day. Off on a jet, going back to New York where he would submit to the demands of his fans and give them what they wanted—namely crappy photos taken from behind bushes and trash cans. I swear those were more popular than the good photos.
He had shaved on the plane, leaving his North Carolina beard behind and putting his baby-smooth handsome jaw on display.
The first photo to hit the internet was clearly taken from just beyond Sean’s privacy wall. He was standing in his yard, talking to a security guy, wearing jeans and a black tee. He wore a hat, probably because he was still growing his hair out and wanted to hide it.
A bunch of photos popped up from random citizens who had spotted him at a coffee place. He was wearing his hat and sunglasses. He looked like he was trying to be incognito but failing miserably, which, of course, was exactly what he was going for.
Each time I checked my phone over the next two days, there were a handful of photos. I started to breathe a sigh of relief as social media rejoiced at Sean’s return to New York City.
On day three, I checked my google alerts and my heart sank as I read the latest headline and found the photo attached to the article. It was a photo of me.
Me and Sean. And my pregnant belly.
The title read, “Sean Amity Hiding Away With Pregnant High-School Sweetheart.”
The author had done their research. There were photos of us from our high school yearbook. There were photos of me in my various outfits, dragging him from bars, complete with a link to the article that had been written about me years ago. But of course, the highlight of the article was the photo of Sean helping me from my car. The wind was blowing my hair off of my splotchy face and pressing my dress tight against my stomach. Sean and I almost never went places together. This had clearly been taken the day he’d found me crying in my car three weeks ago, long before the cash-for-photo reward had even been offered. Apparently someone in my neighborhood had recognized Sean, taken the photo and kept it to themselves until they saw the perfect opportunity to cash in.
The only upside was that this article had chosen not to mention my marriage.
My phone rang. It was a video call from Sean.
I heaved a sigh and answered it.
“Hey,” Sean said, his voice tired as he gave me a weak smile. “We have a problem.”
“I know.” I told him. “I already saw it.”
His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, Libby.”
I tried to give him a reassuring smile. “It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, it is.” He sank down onto his couch.
I wished I were there with him so that I could reach out and put my hand to the back of his neck, like I had so many times in high school. It was how I had always comforted him, how I’d let him know I was there without saying anything. “I knew what I was getting into.”
“Sure, but I had a plan. I was trying to keep everything quiet. You don’t need this.”
“Once that magazine offered a reward, it was only a matter of time.” I shrugged. “Besides, it could be worse.”
“How?” he asked, skeptical.
“Well, they could have plastered my husband’s death all over the article and speculated that you and I were having an affair before he died.”
His face went white.
“Like I said.” I grimaced. “It could be worse.”
He put a hand over his mouth, shaking his head and looking at me with guilt-filled eyes. “What if someone writes that story next?”
I shut my eyes against the possibility. “Let’s just hope they don’t.”
He let out a ragged sigh. “I’m coming home.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“The paparazzi are going to start prowling, Libby. I don’t want you to deal with that on your own.”
“I’ve done it before.”
His chin pulled back and I realized my mistake. “What do you mean you’ve done it before?”
I let out a sigh. “After you got out of rehab.”
He was silent, and I could almost see his mind spinning. “I didn’t look at any media afterwards. Randy and my mom kept it away from me.”
Lucky him. I shrugged. “They realized that the assortment of girls pulling you out of bars and clubs were all the same girl. Then they realized it was me. There was a lovely article with a bunch of high school photos in it. It was linked to the article,” I said, confused that he hadn’t seen it just now.
“We must be reading two different articles.”
“Oh, good.” My sarcasm was thick and bitter. “More than one article.”