Chapter 7
The door clanked shut behind me as I collapsed on the bottom step with my head in my hands. I didn’t think I could climb the stairs, so I fumbled for my phone and texted Zion.
Downstairs. Help.
I laid my head down on the filthy step and hoped Zion would come quickly. A door slam echoed down the stairwell. Steps boomed closer. Zion was taking them two at a time, jumping over the last few to get to the landing. Then he was there. He picked me up and carried me up to the apartment where he laid me on the sofa. He grabbed a bottle of grape juice from the fridge, opened it, and handed it to me.
“Have you eaten anything tonight?” he scolded me.
“Yes.” I sipped on the juice, ignoring his skeptical expression. “I did eat something, but it was earlier. Then I sort of lost track of time.”
“That’s not like you.” He shook his head. “You’re lucky I was here. What were you going to do if I was out? Pass out in the stairwell?”
“I saw the light on. I knew you were here.” I swallowed the juice and closed my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to subside. “But thanks for coming to my rescue.”
He bowed deep. “Prince fucking Charming. That’s me. So how did you manage to get home like this? Did you take a cab? Should I go pay a cab?” He handed me a cold, wet cloth, and I laid it across my neck.
“No. It came on all of a sudden. And I got a ride home from Micah Sinclair.” I grinned at him and waited for him to give me the envious glare I’d hoped for.
“You bitch,” he said. But his envy quickly turned to curiosity. “Tell me everything.”
“It was an interesting night.”
“I wouldn’t mind five minutes alone with that hot man.”
“I don’t think you’re his type.”
Zion huffed. “I might be. His type is generally anything that moves.” He stepped into the kitchen.
I called over the back of the sofa. “That’s just a rumor.”
“Hey, rumors are often based in truth. You might be too new to the gossip pages to realize how often he shows up with a new girl, right on the heels of ditching the last one.”
“But I think maybe the tabloids are creating that image of him.”
He returned holding my glucose meter out to me. “Why would you think that?”
I rubbed my thumb with an alcohol wipe and pricked it. The blood beaded, and I laid the test strip against it. “On the way over, Micah told me—off the record—that he’d rather take the rap for the breakups, but it’s usually him who gets dumped when girls tire of playing with him and move up the ladder.”
The meter still read below seventy, and Zion went to the kitchen and came back with a banana. “So Micah just happened to confide that to a girl who works in the gossip business? You don’t think he’s maybe trying to clean up his image through you?”
My stomach sank. “But it was off the record.”
“Yeah, but he has to know that information will color anything you write about him in the future.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
He peeled the banana and handed it to me. “Eat this.”
I concentrated on chewing and swallowing, more worried about getting my numbers up than about Micah for the moment. As soon as the banana was gone though, another thought occurred to me. “But then why did he—”
“Why did he what?” He dropped into the chair beside me, chin on his hands. He was a worse gossip than my mom. No wonder they got along so well. No wonder he was so much better at this job than me.
My face flushed with embarrassment at how easily I’d let Micah take me in. That kiss bamboozled me, and he’d known it would. “Nothing.”
“What happened?”
I flailed my arms. “I let him kiss me, okay? Oh, Lord. I’m such an idiot.”
He sat back, his budding afro snapping into place a microsecond later. “Way to bury the lede, Josie.” His eyes closed and then opened wide. “You aren’t serious.”
“Yeah.”
“You kissed Micah Sinclair.”
“Yeah.”
“Micah fucking Sinclair.”
“Yes.”
“Good God. How was it?” Now he leaned forward, looking at me like I might levitate at any moment.
“It was amazing. Up until I nearly passed out and abandoned him on the sidewalk.”
“What?” He jumped up and peered out the window, as if he could see the sidewalk from that angle. “Did you say anything to him?”
I looked at him through veiled lids. “I was kind of too busy trying not to drop into a coma at his feet.”
“You didn’t tell him anything?”
I crossed my arms. “Drop it. It’s probably for the best anyway. Can you imagine if I’d asked him to help me up here?”
His eyes rolled up to some invisible thought bubble over his head. “I’d like to imagine that.”
“Zion!” I laughed. “You’re the worst.”
He shrugged. “But yeah. It’s probably better that you don’t get involved with him. He’d end up breaking your heart. And he wouldn’t even mean to.”
“Yeah.” I stretched, and that caused Zion to yawn. “I should get some sleep. Why are you home, anyway? I figured you’d be at Robert’s.”
He fell into the sofa beside me and grimaced. “He’s ghosting me. I thought about going out anyway, but my heart wasn’t in it.”
I scooted over and lay my head on his chest, snuggling against him, drowsy. “I’m sorry. I wished I’d known you were here eating your heart out.”
He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and squeezed. “No worries. Plenty more fish in the sea. At least one of us got some action.” He dialed his Southern accent to eleven and said, “After all, tomorrow IS another day.”
* * *
I woke up to the sounds of sizzling in the kitchen. I gravitated to the living room, dropped on the sofa, and checked my glucose. Over the months I’d lived with Zion, he’d become part-time roommate and full-time best friend. We’d been close in college, but since we worked and lived together, our relationship had morphed into one of family. And I suspected he’d made some kind of deal with my mom to keep an eye on me. Once in a while, he hovered—especially when he thought I was overdoing things. I didn’t mind so much. I knew he cared about me as much as I cared about him.
He fluttered around, fixing breakfast, so I got up to straighten, but he told me to sit and relax until after I ate. Since I’d moved in, I hadn’t had a serious hypoglycemic episode, but he’d been there in college when I’d landed in the hospital after a particularly stressful finals week. He obviously still wore a cloud of worry about the night before.
It was a good thing it was Saturday morning. If we’d been at work, his behavior would have irritated Andy. Andy only grudgingly put up with extra accommodations, like allowing me to keep juice and insulin in his minifridge. Andy told me his college roommate had been able to control his diabetes through diet and exercise as if my precautionary syringes were further proof of a character weakness. No use explaining to him that my body did not actually produce insulin.
I felt fine, but I’d never convince Zion of that. So I sat down to read a book, but my mind wandered as I daydreamed about the night before. Or more accurately, fretted about what Micah must be thinking after I’d left him standing on the sidewalk without an explanation. Did he think I was still angry at him for insulting me? (I was.) Or offended by him for kissing me? (I wasn’t.) Or repulsed by him physically. (Definitely wasn’t.) I had no way to reach him to apologize and tell him I’d loved every second of that kiss. (I had.)
Did he feel like an idiot? I did.
In addition to worrying I was putting him off, I couldn’t shake the idea he was putting me on. Was he serious about why he invited me into the party? Surely, he just charmed his way through everything. Did girls ever say no to Micah Sinclair? How many questions had he silenced with those lips?
Zion was right though. If I let myself fall for Micah Sinclair, he’d break my heart without even knowing it. Better to acknowledge he was having a bit of fun and let it go.
When my phone rang, Zion was handing me a plate of something yellow and orange—either cheese eggs or undercooked eggs—and I didn’t bother to check the incoming contact before hitting Answer.
“Josephine, what the hell?” I pulled the phone away from my face and stared at the screen. I kicked the leg of the coffee table.
“Morning, Andy. What’s up?’ For him to call on a Saturday morning did not bode well.
“I waited last night for your pictures. I finally gave up and went to bed only to discover you uploaded everything in the middle of the night.”
“I know but—”
“And then all the pictures are completely useless.” I held the phone out so Zion could hear the tinny insults barreling out my speaker. “People standing around mugging for the camera. Who wants to see that?”
“I know, but everyone was hyper aware of the camera, Andy.”
“So that’s when you turn it off and mingle. Did you get any story at all?”
I thought about Eden and her secret. “No, Andy.”
“The really funny part is, the biggest scoop of the night was captured outside the townhouse by another paper.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Well, I could have sworn I saw a picture of you leaving the party and getting into a car with Micah Sinclair. I must be looking at some other Josephine Wilder on Page Six of the New York Post.”
I mouthed “Oh, shit!” at Zion. I pointed frantically at the laptop, rolling my hand in a circular fishing motion. He opened it up and slid it to me.
“What do you mean?” I was stalling. I knew I was dead, but I had to see. I pulled up the website and clicked the links to get to the gossip page. And there I was, right beside Micah Sinclair. I should have expected that. A dozen flashing cameras had surrounded us as I’d climbed into that town car with Micah. The caption did me in: Micah Sinclair leaves party with paparazzi photog Anika Jo Wilder, daughter of famed photographer Chandra Namputiri.
“Oh.” I felt the blood drain from my face. It was worse than I could have imagined. I hated that they’d printed my name like that and felt the cruel irony of getting pissed at a tabloid journalist for digging into my life. “I can explain.”
“Did you at least get any kind of statement from Micah?”
“Andy, he went off the record.”
“And so what? Am I paying you to party with these people?”
“He was just giving me a ride home. It wasn’t like that.”
“Listen, Scout. You’ve given me nothing I can work with all week. Do I have to remind you what your job is?”
“No.”
“Then understand that you can’t befriend these people. You have to make a choice between work and play. If I see you hanging out with celebrities, I’m going to expect something I can actually print. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Andy.” It wasn’t like I’d be hobnobbing at another party any time soon.
“You take great photos, Jo, but we’re not in the business of flattering people. And I need you to step up your game.” His tone relaxed, and I knew the storm had blown over. “You know, I do hear the complaints from human resources, so I am well aware you guys think I’m too hard on my staff.” I held my breath. I didn’t know how to respond to that. “But it’s only because I want you to be your best, right?”
I gave a noncommittal grunt.
He paused as though waiting for a vindication that would never come. After a beat, he went on. “Okay, then. I’m going to comb through these pictures. Maybe I’ll find something I can use. Maybe someone brought a date instead of a wife to the party.” He hung up.
My eggs were cold, now. I pushed them away and said to Zion, “How have you managed to work for him for so long?”
The notification ringtone dinged on my phone, reminding me I needed to get on my computer and catch up with emails and social media. Since my mom had discovered Facebook, it was the only way she communicated. If she did call, she’d say, “Did you see what I posted on Facebook?” I’d have to log in and read it even though she had me on the phone. And then she’d ask to talk to Zion because he’d actually tell her what was going on with me.
Today’s ding resulted from a mention when my mom posted a link to the article about me. My daughter Josie Wilder out on the town with a celebrity!
She was the worst name dropper. She still bragged about knowing that guy who hosted all those reality competitions because they went to the same high school. Didn’t matter that she was eight years older than him and would have already graduated by the time he even started. And this despite her connections to an artist whose name meant something in some circles. They say familiarity breeds contempt. Apparently, so does emotional desertion.
I typed, Mom, I was just working, and then surfed the rest of my usual points of contact. Why everyone couldn’t agree to reach me the same way, I couldn’t understand. Mom Face-booked, Zion texted, and my dad still emailed.
Speaking of Dad, an unread message from him sat in my queue.
“Oh, no.”
Zion snuck up behind me and leaned over the sofa. “What?”
“My dad.”
“Has he contacted you once since you’ve been here?”
“Once.” I swallowed hard before I answered completely. “On May twenty-third. Two days after my birthday.”
“Do you think he saw the article?”
He’d left the subject line blank, so I couldn’t predict. I braced myself for whatever he’d have to say.
Anika,
I have received a forwarded article today with my name below a gossip rag photo of you. I am disappointed to find this. Please remember that my name is forever yoked to yours, and your actions reflect on your family. I expect better from you, Anushka.
Papa
By “my family,” he meant himself. His wife didn’t acknowledge I existed, and my mom was clearly delighted by my antics. That’s what I had to deal with. One parent I never disappointed and one parent I always let down. I put my laptop on the coffee table and curled up on the sofa, hugging a pillow.
“Bad?” Zion could ask invasive-as-hell questions, but he wouldn’t read over my shoulder.
“No.” I covered up the warble with a nervous laugh. I sat up and took a drink of water. I would not cry. He wasn’t worth it. He didn’t have the power to upset me.
Zion didn’t seem to notice. “So what did he want? Did he see the article?”
“Yeah. He’s just irritated.” I laughed again, even though I’d said nothing funny. “He used my pet name, so he’s going with shame instead of threats.” That was kind of hilarious.
“What can he do, Josie? Tirovanillapooram is eight thousand miles away. And you’re an adult.”
I corrected his pitiful attempt to say the name of the city where my dad lived. “Thiruvananthapuram.”
“Right. What I said. But seriously, what can he do from there?”
“He can still make me feel like I’ll never measure up.”
Once upon a time, my dad sat me on his knee while he dismantled his camera or picked through slides to find photos to submit to magazines. He would talk to me with an accent he never lost and tell me about exciting treks into Nepal or a chance to meet a traveling dignitary. I always associated those memories with the smells of the beedi he smoked and the Robusta coffee he imported from Kerala.
Back then his name held no special recognition. But he had to work, and among his future prizewinning shots of exotic peoples, less artistic photos of run-of-the-mill celebrities mixed in. And I still recalled his pride and joy when his image appeared in the local newspaper in black-and-white, catching him speaking to the actor Mohinder Khan. But he conveniently forgot that he’d had to start out somewhere. In his mind, he’d always been the Chandra Namputiri, world-class photographer—no longer “world’s greatest dad.”
I could live without his hypocritical condescension. I deleted the email.
In the inbox, another email caught my attention. “Oh, Eden wrote me.”
Zion had settled on a chair with his feet propped on the coffee table. “Seriously? Look at you moving up the social ladder. What’s she want?”
I read the email. “She wants me to come photograph her performance at some club in Lower Manhattan. And she said my three favorite words.”
“Micah loves you?”
I threw my pillow at him. “She said: I’ll pay you.”