Jack Garrington. Why didn’t his name ring a bell? As he waited for me in the main area, I went to freshen up in the bathroom. Instead, I spent most of my three minutes gliding through my phone to get a feel for just who this man was. Immediately, his photograph flashed up, alongside a gorgeous, curly-haired blonde woman. The Internet told me she was Kelsey Bonner, his ex-wife—with whom he had one child. I scrunched my nose, blasting through the images, with no recollection of him at all. The movies could have been foreign, for all I knew. In the end, I had to accept that I’d been living under a rock all my life. As if I didn’t know that already.

When I appeared back in the main area, he was standing at the glass door, tall and in the shadows, his wide shoulders large and dominating and his teeth flashing with his smile. My heart leapt. Because I didn’t have a basis for knowing him, for understanding if he meant anything at all, I allowed myself to forget his celebrity and just think of him as…a casual man I’d met at a Brooklyn bar.

Ha. As if that made it any better, given my experience—or lack thereof.

As I approached, I tried to imagine myself out of the situation. What could I say, or do, or pretend in order to get out of this? I hadn’t a friend in the city, but I could pretend—saying that a girlfriend was having a rough time with a boy, that my roommate needed me to clean (at 3 a.m.?) or that actually, a boy I’d been dating wanted to hook up, instead.

But soon, I found myself striding alongside him, chasing him into another bar far down the road. It was brick-laden, with candles flickering on all the tables, and with bright-eyed hipsters, speaking drunkenly to one another about movies and books. I was grateful that only one or two of them gave Jack a second-glance. I didn’t want to deal with his “paparazzi” although that might be a unique experience, one that would be interesting to pass around at parties. If I was ever invited to one.

Jack ordered us a couple drinks. Two beers—very Midwestern of him, I thought, and then sat across from me. As the bar was crowded, the intimacy we’d had at my job had fallen away, if only slightly, making us unable to know where to start. I stuttered, hunting for words, wishing I had even a base-level experience of dating. But he was easy, jovial, falling into conversation about my life in Michigan, about what I’d majored in at college, about my dreams and ideals. I found myself laughing frequently, my face feeling tight from the unfamiliarity of it.

“What about you?” I finally asked him, after another laughing outburst. “What was your dream? To be an actor? To be this famous?”

I shook my head, frowning. “To be honest, nobody’s asked me that since before it all happened,” I said. “Before my face was everywhere and everyone knew my name—besides you, of course. When I was first signed, I think I would have told you that was my dream. That everything was coming true. But now that I’m older, I think I wanted a more idealized version of my life. I wanted the artistry of being an actor. I didn’t want to do silly rom coms. I didn’t want to be in the tabloids. And I wanted a family, more than anything, which is probably why I settled down so soon.”

The woman in the photograph. Kelsey Bonner. “What happened between you guys?” I asked.

“Ask any gossip magazine, and you’ll discover something different. Something false,” he sighed. “In reality, she cheated on me. And, to get back at her, I cheated on her. It was a messy affair. And our daughter was only four at the time. Disgusting, really. I can’t imagine what kind of sad fools would do that to a little girl.”

“You were human,” I murmured. I’d heard my friends from home—many of whom already had kids, say absolutely horrendous things about their partner. No matter who you were, famous or not, you were a pretty bad person, when the chips fell. “It’s just how things go.”

“You must be the most understanding person I’ve ever met,” he said.

After another drink, I found myself far too attached to him to make any excuse to leave. I was addicted to the mix of his cologne and his sweat emanating off him. I was addicted to the way I could make him laugh, with only a simple joke. After a few minutes of walking away from the bar, he held my hand in his tightly, not wanting to let me go, either. The streets were dark and cleared out, with the streetlights casting their glow, drawing long shadows behind us. I hadn’t been awake this late in New York yet. I could feel the energy pulsing off the ground.

He stopped at a particular corner, gazing into my eyes. When he said the words, “Do you want to see where I live?” I couldn’t imagine what he meant. Did he want to sleep with me? Kiss me? Just talk some more? He’d said I was the only person he felt he could talk to in years. Perhaps he just wanted more of that?

I was an optimistic, ignorant child. I followed him into the sparkling foyer of the high-rise, giving a small wave to the doorman, and then ducked into the elevator. Jack placed his hand along the small of my back, clinging me closer to him. I felt his heart hammering against my breast. I yearned to gaze up at him, to bring his face into my hands.

I had never felt that way before. Had never allowed myself to grow close to any man. I was surprised at the excitement it created within me. At the incredible way I felt almost more than myself, more than the small girl who’d grown up in Michigan, all alone.

We reached the top floor. I was impressed, but didn’t want to show it. Didn’t want to tell him that my apartment in Brooklyn consisted of a broken dishwasher and two roommates that hadn’t even asked me my last name. The bed was broken, busted, the mattress having barely a spring left to it. This was a new world, one I’d never been privy to. I didn’t want to mess up.

The elevator doors opened, sending a shock down my spine. I’d never seen such a gorgeous, swirling view of the city. Twinkling lights met my eyes, making me shiver with joy. I pressed forward, wanting to swallow it whole. Dropping my shoes at the front door, I crept across the Persian rugs, down a small set of steps, and stood at the floor to ceiling windows. They were so clean; you didn’t have the sense that anything was separating you with the air. A gasp came from my throat.

Behind me, Jack chuckled. “I always forget how amazing it is. I only remember when I see it through someone else’s eyes. And so often, they pretend it’s normal to them. Thank you for reminding me.”

When I turned back around, feeling befuddled, lost, I found myself face-to-face with Jack Garrington. He did evoke something “celebrity,” something more than I would ever be. In his shadow, he completely obliterated me. I was content to be forgotten.

Placing his hand on my cheek, he grew closer. I closed my eyes, sensing his lips mere inches away. It was going to happen. A kiss. His lips were firm, latching onto my bottom one and inhaling me. His tongue glided over mine hungrily, causing me to moan long and low.

Moments later, he placed his hand at the small of my back, yanking me closer. I whimpered, breaking the kiss and blinking up at him fearfully. I was such a complete idiot. Of course he wanted to sleep with me. I felt tears spring up in my eyes, giving my fear away. He grinned in response, trying to make it better.

“What’s wrong?” he asked me, sliding a strand of hair around my ears. “Don’t you like kissing?”

I nodded, unable to form words. I imagined the “act of sex,” as I referred to it in my head, trying to piece together what would happen next based on television and movies. Would he lay me into a bed of pillows and sheets, kiss my body, strip me bare? Or would it be more insistent, fiery, like the movies my mother watched with my dad?

“I just don’t know if I should,” I whispered, my voice quivering. “And I’m so sorry.”

His face fell. His eyes were heavy, filled with understanding. He removed his hands from my lower back and held mine, kissing the top of one with a delicate touch. I shivered, sensing I was making a huge mistake.

“I’m so sorry,” I said again. “I’m about as inexperienced as they come. Like a complete idiot, when it comes to this stuff…”

“Margot,” Jack said, laughing now. “I just had one of the best nights of my life. Certainly one of the best in a long time. I don’t want you to worry yourself at all, okay? Seriously.” He leaned forward, kissing the tip of my nose. “Just being around someone who wanted to get to know me, rather than put me in their tabloid, made me think the world was a better place.”

I giggled, glancing at the door. It seemed impossible that I would take the elevator alone, that I would march all the way across Brooklyn alone at five in the morning. I swallowed sharply, waiting for him to tell me what to do.

“But I’m sure this is the first time someone hasn’t been able to—erm—carry through,” I said.

“It’s the first time I’ve been refused,” Jack said, correcting me. “And it feels better than you could ever know.”

He gestured toward the couch, where I sat while he retrieved some water and crackers for me to nibble on. As I did, he leaned back, his brain looking like it was a million miles away.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked him. Already, sunlight had begun to peak in through the windows, igniting the white of the couch.

“Paris,” he said, his voice low. “Escaping to Paris with my daughter. Getting the fuck out of New York. I’m so tired of this place. So tired of what it makes me do to myself. I’m trying to destroy myself, Margot.”

I sat sullenly, not sure what to say. After a long, still moment, he got up and led me toward the back hallway, where a guest bedroom awaited: clean sheets, towels, a bright window toward the east, which he then blacked out with blinds. I sat at the edge of the bed, still holding onto a cracker and feeling child-like. He leaned his head against the doorframe, chuckling slightly.

“I’m glad you stopped me,” he said. “Because I’d rather convince you to come work for me, in Paris. You’re too good to be a one-night stand. It’s good that you respect yourself as much.”

“Paris?” I said, shaking my head softly. “You must live in a dream world.”

“And I’m inviting you to come live in that dream world with me,” he returned. As he crept back down the hall, he said, “Gigi and I will leave in a few days. Think about it hard, Miss Margot. There’s nothing for you here in New York except escapism. And it will swallow you whole, if you let it.”

The moment he disappeared down the hall, I clicked the door closed and stood, frozen, in the dark bedroom. I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. In these first moments of being alone, I felt the weight of it coming down upon me. I’d just nearly slept with one of the biggest celebrities on the planet. I’d spent the night out with him, after he’d successfully saved me from losing my job. And now, he was asking me to move to Paris with him, to watch his kid?

It felt like I’d fallen into another dimension.

I was ordinary, I told myself, slipping beneath the sheets. I’d grown up in a middle class family, gone to Sunday school, babysat on the weekends to make enough money to go to the high school football games…

When I’d imagined a “bigger life,” I hadn’t been able to comprehend this. I’d envisioned just myself, poised on a New York street corner, with the cars whipping around me. I’d only imagined up to that point. The after part—the stress of finding an apartment, of everyone seeming to hate me, of having the worst job in the world—had caught up to me in the worst way.

Perhaps Jack was right.

I could hardy sleep the next few hours, tossing and turning with excitement. When my eyes opened, they were filled with images of Paris. Stripping from the bed, I opened the blinds and found New York in full swing: unaccepting, and revoking me. With my lips pressed together, I dressed again in my work uniform and entered the large penthouse, taking tentative steps on the hardwood floor. Somehow, I felt lighter than ever.

On the top of the dining room table, I found a newspaper, with the article he’d spoken about. The injured girl—an ankle, nothing more—had said truly horrible things about Jack. I read them with a ravenous hunger, wanting to understand what the world saw in this man. Before I’d finished the article, I knew Jack was right: he needed to escape New York as quickly as possible.

Perhaps I was the only one who could help him.

Tearing out a piece of paper from a notepad in my purse, I wrote out a single word: PARIS, along with my phone number. I placed the piece of paper near the coffee maker, and spun toward the door. If I was going to be prepared to leave the country in just a few days, I had some things to do.

Who was I kidding? Packing would take five minutes, maybe ten. Saying goodbye to my friends would consist of me waving goodbye to the fat squirrels I’d grown accustomed to watching outside my window. Feeling like air, I strode down the streets of brownstones, knowing my life was about to change. The machine was running. I couldn’t stop it.