“Holy cow. You and Royce made the cover of over ten magazines.” Vere’s eyes are bright as she’s going through various Instagram feeds. “Ten covers in the same month. All the big fashion ones, of course, and then, Rock&Roll, yes! That’s a score. But this one—this one, PopLifeGo? That is usually all about movie stars not musicians, at-all-ever and—look!” She flashes her phone in front of my face again. “Cover and feature story.”

“Okay. Cool,” I answer, turning to admire the marshmallow-castle-clouds floating below our plane, working hard to ignore the fact that under the clouds is all ocean. Only ocean. Deep, cold, water that would sink a plane like a stone should we end up down there. Am I the only one who hasn’t flown ‘the pond’ before? Am I the only one who wanted to cry ‘bull-shit’ when they told us our seats would float?

“Cool? Robin. Hello. Are you even listening?” Sighing like she’s annoyed, Vere shoves the wide arm rest separating us up until it disappears, making our two seats into one cozy couch. Then she reaches the phone up to my face, bumping it against the window so I will finally look at what she’s talking about.

The picture she wants me to see is a magazine cover made up of me and Royce with our arms around each other. It’s one that was taken during our honeymoon stills. “If only I could stop seeing myself nearly naked in that backwards Challa shirt,” I sigh, turning to analyze the design of how, what I thought was a solid wood arm rest, could have moved at all—yet there it is, now an integrated part of the first-class seat.

Every seat in this section looks like real furniture, not airplane seats at all. And I mean furniture with hydraulic seat cushions, and flat screens on the backs of them, and very deep—fits a crystal wine glass with a whole stem on the bottom of it—kind of seat! Because wine is what fancy ladies on the way to London drink while heading to London, and they need to drink it in stemware, I guess..

I, the fraud, of course am having a Coke. One full of ice cubes, which earned me an eye-roll from the British flight attendant. After she’d passed it to me with a look of disdain, Vere explained that in Europe, they shun ice cubes.

What and why?

“Robin. You have got to look at this. You look so hot.”

Sighing again, I take Vere’s phone before she accidentally bashes me in the head with her excitement, and zoom in to the photo of the magazine cover, shaking my head when I see myself. “It’s like they Photoshopped how my nips were popping out. If that’s how I looked that day…then…omg, so awkward.”

“Not even. You were the prerequisite rockstar wife, naked and sexy…” Vere takes her phone back and zooms in even more. “And wow, I think you’re right. They did make you extra perky. Whatever sells, right?” Vere laughs as I shove at her shoulder laughing as she adds, “You know that was such a hot look that Clara picked. Girl did you a favor to be sure. I still can’t believe you went for no bra, knowing you. And you haven’t done that since but maybe it’s time to bring those now famous boobs back to the public.”

“No. Never.” I snort. “I wasn’t given the choice to have a bra that day. Royce had torn my corset in half, there was not any appropriate underwear in sight, and I was literally a zombie that day from lack of food and sleep, so I hardly remember us taking those photos.”

“Well the world remembers. Look at this one.” Vere scoots over even more, nearly lying on me this time so I’ll look at her phone again. “Holy wow you got the feature,” she squeaks out, eyes twinkling. “This story is three pages longer than the article they wrote about Madonna’s awesomeness when she was at the Women’s March. Remember? When she was dropping the F-bombs like crazy on live-TV right after Trump was elected.”

I nod. “And the extra pages mean something important because…why?”

“Because no one ever gets more than two pages max in this magazine.” Vere’s turning more and more pages. “This article is longer than the after Oscars party feature. Longer than the best and worst dressed from any awards show. No wonder we were mobbed at the airport by people recognizing you. You’re famous now Robin!”

“People were recognizing Royce. Not me.” I protest, dropping my voice and pointing at Clara and motioning one finger over my lips to remind Vere to keep it quiet. Clara and her mother, Jennie, are in the two first class fancy seats facing across from us. They’ve been reclining and I think, sleeping like that for at least an hour.

Vere opens the Notes App on her phone and types: They’re only pretending to sleep, you know that right? It’s how Clara eavesdrops.

I shake my head again, almost laughing out loud as I take the phone from her to type my own answer: I thought they were such seasoned travelers. Are you sure? I nod in their direction again, and Vere and I take in how they’re both wearing those silky black eye covers with cold-gel packs inside of them.

I add: I saw Jennie take a sleeping pill. I’m sure she went right to sleep.

Vere takes the phone back, answering: By the way Jennie’s got her mouth hanging open maybe she is out, but Clara’s frowning every time I gush about how famous and awesome your boobs are. Ha. She’s not sleeping one bit. I swear that girl has so many jealousy issues these days. For no reason.

I type: Right? Considering she’s so beautiful, has the best summer job in the world, she always looks so put together and sophisticated. I know she could get any guy she wanted. I’ve never known anyone who could be an actual real model before, and I think she could, right?

Vere frowns at what I’ve typed adding: Totally. But the problem with Clara is that she can any guy EXCEPT for Royce Devlin. Which, I guess, is who she was really hoping for? Talk about unrealistic goals, huh?”

I bite back and laugh under my breath, stopping it by biting my bottom lip. “Well…why shouldn’t she have those. Royce married me, didn’t he and that’s the must unrealistic and incredible thing ever.”

Vere shakes her head making this bug-out incredulous expression while typing more: Yeah. Maybe. But you weren’t trying to hunt him down. It just…happened. I swear before all of this she used to be normal. Kind of nice even. I’m sure soon she will get over your marriage to her dream man. She has to. She types a winky-face, then: For the rest of the flight, though…watch what you say just in case.

I type back: How about for the rest of…always.

Vere rolls her eyes and agrees with an exaggerated nod.

* * *

Neither of us want to slip up and talk about the fake parts of my wedding, my relationship, or any of the very successful interviews we’d had after the courts had granted me full custody of Sage.

In the days after our wedding and we had permission to leave Florida, the press seemed to get attached to following the story about me and Sage. We became part of the American nightly news. People loved the story of our wedding, but the media attention reached a peak when we’d had to return to North Carolina and go to court in order to gain legal custody as well as clear me because of how I ran away.

The judge who saw to my case was x-military, and he, thankfully took my side in the story. Understood my motivations were sincere, and told me I was lucky as hell Royce, Mrs. Felix and Gregory had stepped up to offer their combined support. We only have to check in with our case worker once a month and file an annual report including Sage’s grades and a psychological evaluation until he’s eighteen like me. Or, until my father comes home.

After all of that news exposure, it was like people were sort of addicted to checking in with what was happening with Sage and I. To keep the story alive, because we were told this exposure would speed up the search for our father, we took full advantage of that attention and did any and every interview people asked us to do.

When Royce and I had gone directly with Gregory and Mrs. Felix to New York City, those interviews were even easier to access because all of the big morning news shows and talk shows are based out of NYC.

I even had to bring a film crew into our apartment after Royce had left on the Asian part of his world tour so they could check out our four bedroom, newlywed’s apartment. One that was being refurbished to add in Royce’s, amazingly kind, too-thoughtful, wedding present to me.

An art studio—built along the windows of his living room.

Although, I’m supposed to be calling it our living room now, but it’s been sort of difficult to remember that, considering it is just not my living room. Not my penthouse apartment. Because people like me don’t really live on the second highest floor of the Manhattan Orb Hotel in a sky rise home that feels bigger than half of my high school, that is also located just below Mrs. Felix’s amazing penthouse apartment. Royce Devlin rockstar lives there. Mrs. Felix, hotel maven, she lives there, but Sage and I? It’s not ours.

I swallow again, trying to make the stomach churning stop. We’re just…visiting. Just how we’re about to visit Europe.

As for the art studio Royce had ordered built for me?

For me, the visitor? It was over the top.

The first time I’d been able to see it not taped off, was during this big, staged reveal. I had to go in with Mrs. Felix and an architect along with the morning show crew to see it in person. I was so choked up I’d teared up. It had work tables, and beautiful distressed wood storage shelves built all on the back of these cool, moveable dividers that would allow us to keep the art and work space open. Or, I’d told them, after I’d pulled myself together, that Royce and I also wanted the option to close it off completely. You know…should we have a dinner party or something after Royce’s world tour.

My stomach pinches even more at the memory of me uttering those words with a straight face right on live TV.

Royce had seen the footage and had called to tell me it was my best performance to date. And when he’d asked me how I liked the studio, really liked it? I told him the truth. That it was too much, that it was simply the most perfect art studio anyone could dream up. Then, I told him how I was really happy that he’d designed it so it would be easy to disassemble the sliding dividers and return everything back to normal after all of this was…over.

He hadn’t been able to call me after that. And I didn’t try much to call him because as I got wrapped up into more interviews and the hundreds of photo that were taken of me and Sage non-stop every time we left the apartment. Then I got sort of too tired, or so much time had passed that it felt awkward to call him which is about when I practically became a recluse in our apartment or hiding upstairs with Mrs. Felix in her penthouse.

I started telling Mrs. Felix that I didn’t want to go out. Vowing that I only had two weeks to get settled in with Sage before leaving with him to go to Europe.

I’d assured her that I was tired. That I and wanted to sit around and just read, watch TV, and paint. It was partly true. With the amazing art studio they’d made for me…well…why would I want to spend one moment outside of that beautiful space? I’d become addicted to the floor to ceiling windows and my million dollar view of New York City. It even included a small glimpse of the Hudson river in the background.

I think she knew that I wasn’t tired, but that I was simply afraid to have public appearances without Royce. Because…heck yeah, it’s scary when people recognize you, then rush you and take photos, ask to have a selfie, or call out random comments to you while you’re just walking down the street.

I also tried not to miss the guy, but I did.

While alone in the studio, I wound up having endless conversations with myself about why? Royce and I still hardly knew each other. After all, our total time spent together was one week before the wedding and about two weeks after.

Three weeks and a few days, that’s it. No reason to miss him.

Only…during that time we’d been inseparable.

He’d been holding my hand every day, laughing with me, sitting by me, and hardly ever once leaving my side which had made all of this fake marriage stuff seem easy. We’d goofed off and spent countless hours on coming up with daily strategies on how to do our relationship better. How to make it easier. More real.

Like the sleeping-plan. We’d agreed that outside of our Orb apartment residence, like when we had to stay in hotels, where there was a bunch of staff that would gossip, for example, we would sleep in the same bed, fully clothed with the pillow towers in place, of course.

While at his apartment in NYC, we could lock ourselves in the master bedroom. It has this massive living-room area inside the bedroom. One with a huge leather couch placed facing the windows. While he was at home, we’d slept together with Royce on that couch and me in the bed, but after he left to go on tour, the room and the massive apartment had seemed so empty so I’d started sleeping upstairs with Mrs. Felix in a guest room next to Sage’s.

Once I’d stopped leaving the apartment, Mrs. Felix took it upon herself to help me figure out how to navigate some of the things that will come with my future jet-set life in Europe. Daily, she’d give me funny lessons like, how to eat crab legs with odd shaped metal crab crackers. We’d watch YouTube videos about the UK Royals so I would know who is who, who lived where and how many babies people were having, in case any of us crossed paths—something that was apparently a huge possibility.

When I worried over the foods of France, she showed what this grey-paste looking stuff called foie-gras (pronounced fwaa graaa) which is essentially sliceable meat-goo. Think fancy SPAM that is often served in fancy restaurants in France. It is to be spread on crackers or old bits of baguette. Often, it’s served at the same time the French would bring out caviar. Which, by the way is full-on, tiny jars or cans stuffed full of creepy, tiny, salt-popping-watery, tastes like saltwater-air-poo, supposedly edible (but not to me) real fish eggs!

After my initial reaction, the poor lady tried to show me how to eat both of those things without endless dry-heaving, which is what happened every time I tried to lift my fork toward my face and caught the scent of either of these two rare delicacies.

Then, because I could not stop the dry-heaves (which is a good-manners-no-no) Mrs. Felix considered making me a pretend vegetarian, but that’s where I put my foot down.

I had this horrible, embarrassing tantrum.

Over meat.

Maybe because I was exhausted, or frustrated or disappointed in myself for not having the strength to swallow down the fancy food even though I really wanted to be able to do it, I’d nearly shouted at the sweet old lady.

It went something like: “After Paris, we go to Berlin, then Venice and I’m not giving up salami, prosciutto or any other of my Euro-meat-dreams. And believe me, I have a ton. I’m going to need some sausage with a side of bratwurst and extra Kassler on the side, the minute we hit Germany. And—and—just because the French have stinky, grey-paste, snails, fish eggs and frog legs for meat? Meat that makes me want to barf, that should not force me into becoming a vegetarian for the summer!”

It was a low moment. For me and for Mrs. Felix.

I did apologize, and Mrs. Felix recovered from my outburst by, as usual, remaining calm and classy and not holding it against me.

She’d said I was ‘hilarious and so ‘refreshing’ even though, this time it wasn’t true. In the end, she let me remain a carnivore and told me to pretend I had a food allergy should I be presented with a plate that I could not eat.

I was also ordered while in France, I should carry a perfume laced or linen handkerchief in my purse or hidden into my dress sleeve. Apparently, this is how the true-proper-ladies of the past handled smells. But it only works only should I have a dress with accommodating sleeves, which I do not. I didn’t tell her that I don’t even carry a purse, nor did I bring up how girls from my generation do not own handkerchiefs of any sort, because that information might freak her out even more than my dry heaves.

On that topic, I was also directed to act carefully. If my stomach started swirling and I felt even one little burp coming up my throat, I’m to exit the table quickly, and under no circumstances should I let myself dry-heave in front of anyone how I’d been doing.

According to her, I sounded like an elephant who’d swallowed a vacuum cleaner and, “In a girl as tiny as yourself, Robin. The effect is both shocking and rather disturbing. While in Europe, or with cameras rolling, we do not want you to be that, darling. No. No. Not ever. Am I right?”

No. No I do not want that. Ever.