“I don’t know where he is,” I tell Beck, but the line is already dead.
“Ho-ly shit,” Sierra says as the TV comes back to life.
On the television, Sara Claire is sobbing with her back to the camera, and Addison is on an absolute tirade, demanding to know where Henry is. Chad is arguing with Beck, and the whole thing is being televised.
Chad crosses his arms. “So you’re telling me you don’t know where this guy is? Literally one of the most heavily guarded reality television stars, and he just up and disappears?”
“Should I remind you that we’re live?” Beck asks.
“We’re back from commercial,” Mallory snaps.
Beck gives Chad a do something look.
Chad turns to the camera, a crazed look in his eyes and hair disheveled. “Well, folks, it appears we’ve got a missing person to report. Anyone want to put an AMBER Alert out on Henry Mackenzie?”
“Maybe it’s not the best time to make jokes about abducted children,” Sara Claire says through her tears.
“Does this mean no one wins the money?” Addison asks.
Chad looks to Beck, and she shrugs and nods.
“What a crock,” Addison says before storming off past the camera.
Chad begins to laugh maniacally, going from American dad to American psycho in record time.
Sierra turns to me. “I think you just broke Chad Winkle.”
At first, Henry was on every tabloid and gossip website. #MIAsuitor was trending for three days with one particularly memorable Twitter account posed as a fake tip-line, tweeting Henry spottings everywhere from Mount Rushmore to a Sbarro’s in Iowa.
Part of me thought he would turn up at the hotel or that I’d see him on the street somewhere, but every night when I go to bed, my hope that I might see him again diminishes a little bit more.
I’m on a first-name basis with most of the staff at the St. Regis. Sierra offered to let me stay in her room with her, but as part of my Gossamer contract, Erica insisted that I push for them to cover moving expenses and housing for the first six weeks. When I haven’t been at work or apartment hunting, Sierra and I spend most nights at the pool or in the hot tub. Luckily, last week I found the perfect place in Park Slope. When I told Sierra I wouldn’t be in Manhattan, she acted like I’d just cut off one of her fingers, but she quickly decided that this just meant she had a place to crash in Brooklyn.
I do a quick lap around my hotel room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Earlier, I found a shoe stashed under the bathroom sink, so there’s no telling what I’ve left behind. I touch my hand to my neck once more to make sure my necklace is still there. I found a heavy-duty corded gold chain to hold my parents’ rings. I wear both their wedding bands around my neck every day on a long chain along with my locket, and I left my mother’s engagement ring back at Erica’s for safekeeping.
“All clear,” I mutter to myself as I pull out the bedside drawer. Whatever I might have left behind belongs to the St. Regis now, as far as I’m concerned.
After work today, I’m leaving for a two-week seminar in Italy with the new women’s footwear team, some of whom are industry giants and others who are just as green as I am. It’s all a little intimidating, but I’ve already made a few work friends, which Sierra is very impressed by. (Of the two of us, she was the only one who ever attempted to expand our friend group.)
As I step into the elevator, my phone vibrates. “Hello?”
“Oh, Cindy, I wasn’t expecting you to answer. I was just going to leave a voicemail,” Erica says in a hurry.
“I’m just now leaving for work. What’s up? Isn’t it, like, five thirty in the morning there?”
“I’m trying a new hot-yoga class with Drew, and the only time we could get in was the six fifteen class. Anyway, I’m in the car, so apologies for the road noise, but what was the apartment number again?”
“One thirty-four,” I tell her.
“Oh, darn, I could have sworn it was eleven thirty-four. I’ll have my assistant call and fix it. I’ve got a delivery company all set to deliver your wardrobe when you return home from Italy. I’m planning on coming out that weekend so we can go furniture shopping?”
“Erica, you really don’t have to do that. Sierra and I can take her uncle’s truck out to an IKEA.”
Erica clicks her tongue. “I’ll not have you furnishing your first adult apartment with Scandinavian particleboard, thank you very much.”
I sigh into the receiver. “You know you can just come visit. You don’t have to use furniture shopping as an excuse.”
The day after the finale, I called Erica to apologize, and slowly over the last few weeks she’s warmed back up to me. It doesn’t hurt that the show has been the talk of the town since that night, but we’re still trying to find out how our relationship functions post Before Midnight. She was also impressed to know that I’d run away from home for the sake of a job interview.
Erica is silent for a moment. “Thank you. Noted.”
“How is—”
“Have you heard from him?” she asks, interrupting me.
“No,” I say glumly as I step out of the elevator. “Any word on your end?”
“Only from his lawyers,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Is the network really that upset about him disappearing that they need to involve legal? It’s probably some of the best ratings they’ve ever seen.”
“You’re not wrong,” she whispers as though someone is spying on her in her own car. “To be honest, it’s the highest finale numbers we’ve seen since the first season.”
“How’s Beck recovering from her prime-time debut?” I ask.
“Well, Mallory taught me how to send GIFs over text message, and apparently Twitter deemed the death stare Beck gave Chad highly GIFable, so I’ve found a great deal of pleasure in communicating via GIF only.”
“I’m sure Beck is really enjoying that. Hey, I’ve got to check out. Can I call you when I get to the airport later tonight?” I ask.
“Yes, please. The kids are dying to talk.”
“It’s a date,” I say.
After we hang up, I head to the reception desk, and Lydia, the manager, comes around to give me a hug and wish me good luck. She’d watched the show and even asked me to sign her eleven-year-old daughter’s autograph book.
There have been a few moments like that. Getting recognized on the subway or in line for coffee or in the hotel lobby. But for the most part, New York is a good place to disappear. Recent fashion school grad turned reality television star is just another square on someone’s NYC bingo card.
On my way to Gossamer, I make a quick stop. Unlike the first time I visited LuMac, there are no paparazzi or producers or film crew. The storefront has been converted back from a runway to its usual flagship layout.
When I knock on the glass door, the tall, slender salesclerk who definitely overslept this morning ignores me. I try again, rapping my fist a little harder. This time, she looks up and rolls her eyes before marching to the door and pointing at the store hours.
I glance at my phone. It’s only nine o’clock, and they don’t open until ten, but there’s no way I’ll be able to make it across town on my lunch hour.