“Girls,” Casey announced and flopped down onto one of the beds in our adjoining hotel rooms. “I’m fucking exhausted. I don’t think I can move an inch for the rest of the night.”
We’d completed our last day of mandatory training, and to say we were tired as fuck of anything and everything related to RoyalAir was an understatement.
But two twelve-hour days of mostly boring meetings and presentations would do that to anyone, I guessed.
Nikki grinned. “Good thing we’re officially done with training, huh?”
“God, you have no idea,” he said on a groan. “I refuse to do anything but eat takeout and watch reruns of Friends.”
“My vote is for The Office,” I interjected, and he rolled his eyes.
“That’s only because you have a girl hard-on for Jim.”
“A girl hard-on?” I questioned on a laugh. “That sounds more gross than good.”
He shrugged. “Look, no offense to you ladies, but I’m not the biggest fan of the illustrious pussy. Nothing related to a vagina ever sounds appealing to me.”
“That’s because you’re into dicks instead of chicks,” I teased, and he winked at me from the bed.
“What are we going to eat?” Nikki asked as she slipped off her heels and threw her hair up into a messy bun. “I hope it’s something with fast delivery because if it takes more than thirty minutes to get here, I might start eating my arm.”
“How about,” I started with a teasing grin, “no one sacrifices any appendages in the name of food, and I’ll run downstairs to the little store in the lobby to grab some rations while you guys call in a pizza delivery.”
“As long as the rations include Doritos and Twizzlers, I’m down,” Casey announced, and I gave him a thumbs-up.
“You got it.”
“I swear to God you’re the only person I know who still uses the thumbs-up.”
I switched fingers and lifted my middle one instead. “What about this? Am I the only one who does this?”
He laughed. “Nope. I actually see that a lot more than you think. Especially when I’m working the late-night flight from Atlanta to JFK.”
Nikki giggled and groaned at the same time. “Good Lord, I hate that flight.”
“Preaching to the choir, sister.” Casey raised both arms in the air. “I swear I get stuck with that flight more than anyone.”
I just smiled and headed for the door, calling over my shoulder, “I’ll be back, you little complainers!”
As the door closed behind me, I received several shouts and requests for other things besides Doritos and Twizzlers.
I rolled my eyes as I walked toward the elevator. I wasn’t a delivery service. Those little bitches would be happy and thankful for anything I brought upstairs.
Lucky for me, the little hotel gift shop was still open and completely empty.
Like a vulture looking for its next meal, I scanned the aisles and pulled anything and everything that looked good into my arms. By the time I walked to the counter, both of my arms brimmed with junk of the sweet and salty variety.
“Hi,” I greeted the woman behind the counter as I carefully attempted to drop my snacks near the register. “How are you doing tonight?”
“I’m good,” she said as she shut the magazine she was discreetly reading behind the counter and stood up from her wooden stool. “How are—” She paused midsentence the instant her eyes met mine.
Her eyes went wide for a beat, and like a spectator at a tennis match, she glanced back and forth between me and something on the opposite end of the register.
I furrowed my brow at her odd reaction, even glancing down at my clothes to make sure I didn’t have something on my blouse, or God forbid, my uniform skirt tucked into my underwear.
Nope. All good.
Confused, I followed the path of her eyes until I found the source—a gossip magazine. On the cover, a candid picture of Quinn and me at the airport. But it wasn’t like the last cover; this was different. To an outsider, we were basically making out, and his hand was directly on my ass. And above the main cover photo was an up-close profile picture of me that had been taken when I’d gotten my employee badge from RoyalAir.
Oh God.
“Is…is that you?” she asked, and I didn’t know how to respond to her question. I was still trying to process the fact that my face was on another gossip rag.
“Uh…”
She lifted the magazine and held it directly next to my face. “That’s you!” she exclaimed. “You’re Quinn Bailey’s girlfriend!”
“Uh…”
“Can I get your autograph?” she blurted out.
“Uh…”
As the woman reached for a pen and paper, I did the only thing my brain would let me do in that moment, I fucking ran—out of the store, through the lobby, and into the women’s restroom near the entrance.
It was an irrational reaction, but I blamed it on the culmination of everything that had occurred over the past few days. It felt like I’d just hit the rock bottom of the situation.
Could this get any worse?
Like a coward, I locked myself into one of the empty stalls and rested my back against the door.
My heart pounded wildly inside my chest, and I felt like someone had reached their hands inside my throat and closed a vise-like grip around my lungs.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and did my best to breathe through the panic. I wasn’t sure why I was freaking the fuck out, but that wasn’t a question I could reason through in that moment.
Anxiety had taken the wheel, and all I could do was grip the “oh shit” handle and endure the ride.
Once my breathing had slowed and my heart rate had calmed down to a more normal pace, I stood up straight and pulled my cell phone out of my jacket pocket. Even though I knew it was probably the very last thing I should’ve done, I clicked open my Safari icon and typed Quinn’s name into the Google search bar.
Instantly, the most recent articles populated on the screen, and I clicked the one that had the word girlfriend connected to it.
My screen filled with that candid, invasive picture of the two of us kissing. We were in the Birmingham airport, and I knew it had occurred the day he’d surprised me and taken me to his parents’ house.
I hadn’t even known there were paparazzi in the airport, much less that they were snapping photos of us.
The headline of the article: Quinn Bailey’s New Girlfriend: We’ve got the scoop, and it looks like our favorite quarterback isn’t going for his usual taste in women…
And the subheading: Could this be why his game is off?
What in the fuck was that supposed to mean?
I flicked my finger down the screen, scrolling past the headline and photo of us, until I reached more photos, but this time, they were of Quinn’s girlfriends of yore.
Models. Actresses. Pop singers. It was a plethora of the same three variations: blond, famous, and white.
Wow. Now, I understood what they meant by that whole not his usual taste comment.
Is this why his parents don’t like me? Because I’m not white?
I cringed at those thoughts. I didn’t want to think that was their reasoning, but my gut instinct told me otherwise. And now, after seeing this article, it appeared his parents had never seen him with anyone besides blond, white women.
I tried to read through it, but I had to stop when I was forced to come to the hard realization that the paparazzi knew a lot more about me than any sane human being who wasn’t in the limelight would want. They knew my name, my age, where I grew up, my work schedule, even details about my family and Caterpillar & Co.
This spread was much different from that initial article. It was like they’d hired a private investigator to find out everything about my life. Not to mention, the overall tone wasn’t exactly positive since they were questioning if I was the reason Quinn’s game was off and comparing the skin color of his other girlfriends to mine.
It was all too much to process.
As I tapped the screen to close out of the page, an Instagram notification popped up on the screen, and my finger managed to hit that instead. The screen redirected, moving from the article to my Instagram account at a rapid pace.
And that was where things got ugly.
Hundreds, probably even thousands, of notifications appeared. It was too many to count, and included new followers, likes and comments on my photos, and requests for direct messages.
Morbid curiosity running the show, I tapped on one of the notifications, and instantly, one of my photos from last Christmas appeared. It was a photo of my mother and me, wearing our favorite Christmas sweaters and smiling toward the camera.
What originally had all of a handful of comments was so cluttered with new responses that I couldn’t even view them all. It was pages upon pages of comments from random strangers that I’d never met in my entire life.
Some were nice.
Some were there to just tag their friends to come stalk my photos with them.
And a lot of them were really fucking mean.
All related to one thing: the recent news of my relationship with Quinn Bailey.
His superfans, his haters, and even people who just enjoyed following celebrity gossip had made their way on to my Instagram profile and sifted through my photos like my personal life was there for them to dissect and comment on.
It was awful. I’d never felt so violated in my life.
Too overwhelmed, I shut my phone off completely.
And by the time I made my way back to the hotel room, Casey and Nikki had apparently already heard the news.
It was no surprise. Casey followed BuzzFeed and Cosmo like his life depended on it.
“Are you okay?” Nikki asked as Casey stood up from the bed and pulled me into a tight hug.
“I’m not sure,” I whispered. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
I’d had all intentions of calling Quinn tonight, once things had settled down and I’d managed to eat some dinner. I’d seen his missed calls over the past two days, and my avoidance wasn’t because I didn’t want to talk to him. I did. I just didn’t know what to say. Honestly, deep down, I think it had more to do with the fear of hearing him say the one thing I didn’t want to hear: We can’t make this work.
But now, I wasn’t so sure that was just a fear.
It felt more like a reality.
I stared out of the window, watching the wings of the plane slice through the sky.
After spending an entire night crying into Casey’s and Nikki’s arms, and not sleeping for shit, I was ready to get home and attempt a full night’s rest in my bed.
The fact that I was on a tabloid wasn’t the main thing that had upset me.
It had been the headline, the content of the article, and the fact that paparazzi had managed to sneak pictures of us at the airport and I hadn’t even realized it. Not to mention, the thousands of horrible, mean comments on my Instagram photos from random strangers.
No matter how confident, how self-assured you thought you were, it wasn’t easy seeing people say cruel things about your appearance, your life, your social-class status, your skin color, and pretty much anything else they could find.
Sure, some people had said nice things, but that wasn’t what my brain focused on.
No. Only the negative things stuck in my mind.
Between the media shitstorm and the way things had been left between Quinn and me, I felt like I’d reached a new low of insecurity.
With a deep inhale, I stopped scrolling through the Cosmopolitan magazine in my lap and shut my eyes, resting my head against my seat.
“You okay?” Casey whispered into my ear, and I opened my eyes to find him looking at me with concern in his eyes.
I nodded. “I’m just tired.”
I hated that both he and Nikki had to deal with my quiet, reflective, moody ass.
I knew I’d basically been mute the entire flight, but I just couldn’t help it.
I couldn’t seem to snap myself out of it.
C’mon, Cat. Stop fixating on the negative. Think of the good things. Focus on the positives…
I couldn’t deny that, despite the whole tabloid debacle, my trip to Cincinnati had been much-needed. I’d spent time with my two best friends, laughing and having fun in our hotel room when we weren’t training, and even when we were training, we still found time to dick around and be goofy.
And my parents. God, I’d missed them.
I’d managed one dinner, several hours of catching up, and a fun, exciting work session with my dad, talking anything and everything Caterpillar & Co. And, I had to be honest, I was excited for all of the things happening for our tiny company.
What had started out as a little hobby my dad and I had shared when I was a kid had turned into something viable and had the potential to have huge success. I was thankful he had managed to keep the ship sailing while I’d been busy jet-setting and starting my flight attendant career.
Fingers and toes crossed that more good things came for Caterpillar & Co.
I sure as hell would start making it a priority and already had plans of setting time aside on a weekly basis to work on more sketches and cutesy tag lines.
The pilot announced our nearing departure, and by the time our bird safely fell from the sky and executed a smooth and steady landing at JFK, I’d packed up my snacks and phone and magazines, sliding them safely into my purse.
Nikki and Casey were the first two out into the aisle, and I followed their lead.
We walked out of our gate, through the terminal, and by the time we reached baggage claim, flashes of light filled my view until it became blinding.
“Catharine! Catharine! Over here!”
“What’s it like dating Quinn Bailey?”
“Are you going to his game in Minneapolis?”
Questions and more flashes came from what felt like every angle.
I couldn’t even blink past the assaulting lights from their cameras to put actual faces to the paparazzi who were asking the questions and snapping the pictures.
“Cat.” Nikki’s voice startled me out of my shock. “C’mon, girl. My husband is just outside. He’ll drive us home.” She grabbed my hand and led me through the obnoxious crowd and out of the airport.
Once she spotted Mr. Miller, we ran over to his car at a jog, and it was only then that I realized Casey had kindly retrieved our bags from baggage claim and was tossing them in the trunk.
The three of us slid into the car, and the instant my ears were hit with the silence and safety of the car, I looked toward Nikki in the front passenger seat and asked, “Nik, can I stay at your house tonight?”
“Of course.”
“I just don’t think I can go home right now.”
I didn’t want to go to my house for fear there’d be cameras waiting for me.
I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to talk to Quinn in that moment.
I didn’t know what I wanted.