Accidental It Girl (24 page)

He puts his hands on either side of my face and kisses me.

I'm kissing Ethan Wyatt.

Ethan Wyatt is kissing me.

It's a kiss that comes from his whole body, every single cell concentrating on me—wanting me. It's the kind of kiss that forces my hands to clutch the strap of the bag on his shoulder, to dig my nails into the nylon and hold on. I suddenly feel like I'm falling.

I break away to catch my breath. “Why did you
do
that?” I ask, trying not to notice that the three Hassidic gentlemen in the window are now smiling and chuckling with one another.

“To shut you up?” Ethan replies sheepishly.

Well, it worked. I have no idea what to say. Especially since I think I might have liked it. I may, in fact, really want him to do that again. Soon.

“You're…you're a sellout!” I say, trying desperately to recapture the anger that was in my voice just seconds ago, and hoping to somehow banish the strange fluttering in my midsection that reminds me so much of the feeling I had when I first laid eyes on him at the airport.

“I know,” he says gently. “And so are you.”

Ethan adjusts his camera bag, and simply—far too simply—walks away.

I
'm not a sellout.
Am I?

No.

Yes?

No. How can you be a sellout when you were never really “in” in the first place?

Ethan Wyatt was in. He's the sellout.

I'm not ashamed of what I do…most of the time. I didn't abandon my artistic principles just for money. Well, I didn't exactly pursue them in spite of the
lack
of money either.

In a perfect world, I would have been able to make enough money to survive on my portraits alone. I would have gotten a gallery to show my work straight out of art school. I wouldn't have had my father's debt hanging around my neck like a millstone. I wouldn't have been petrified of poverty. In a perfect world, I would have been able to remind myself not to give up—or maybe there would have been somebody there to remind me. Anyway you look at it, though, this is not a perfect world.

And, even if I am a sellout, so what? Who am I selling out?
Me
. What business is it of Ethan's? Why does he care? Is he just trying to hurt me? One last stab at retribution?

I stagger into the apartment, not knowing exactly what to do. In the living room are Brooke, Luke, and Paige.

All three of their heads turn to me. Luke smiles, Brooke and Paige look concerned.

“What happened out there? You look upset,” asks Brooke, while pulling her chestnut mane into a taut ponytail.

“Are you all right, darling?” adds Paige.

Luke chimes in with “What'd you rent?”

“I just need…some time…alone,” I say, before shutting myself into the bedroom.

So, what did he mean by that kiss? Was it just another way to manipulate me? Does he plan on suckering me into thinking he likes me and then dumping on me as part of his revenge?

Could he possibly
feel
something for me?

There's a quiet tap on the door. Brooke pops her head in. “Did something happen? I knew we shouldn't let you go alone. Did he do something to you?” Brooke says—sounding more and more like my mother by the minute.

I nod my head yes.

She tiptoes into the room and gingerly closes the door behind her.

Brooke pulls my one little chair closer to the bed and sits down facing me. “Those celebrities are such assholes!” she spits. “What happened?”

“I think I have a little problem,” I tell her.

“Okay, what is it?” she asks, giving me her undivided attention.

“I think I might…like him.”

“Ethan?” she asks, bravely trying to mask the shock cascading down her face.

“Yeah,” I reply guiltily.

“Huh,” she says before taking a deep breath. “Do you like him, or do you
like
him like him?”

“What are we, in tenth grade?” I huff. I look to the Brown Box for support. “I think I might
like
him like him.” I am now reduced to speaking high school riddles with my best friend.

“Well,” Brooke says with finality, “that takes care of that.” She reaches into the back pocket of her pants and pulls out a very slim pink leather notebook. Its onionskin pages rustle as she grabs a pen off my dresser, flips some pages, and marks something down.

“What are you doing?”

“Crossing him off,” she says, returning the notebook to her pocket.

“You have an actual
list
?”

“Organization is not a hobby, Sadie. It's a lifestyle choice.”

“You're a little sick, you know that?” I kid.

“
I'm
sick? You're the one falling for a man who's stalking you.”

“You may have a point there.”

“What are you going to do?” Brooke asks.

“I have no idea. I don't know if he's still stalking me or what. I don't know…anything….”

“Wait, what happened, exactly?” asks Brooke.

“Well, he complimented me. And then he kissed me. And then, he called me a sellout—”

“He kissed you?” Brooke asks, startled.

“Yeah,” I say, looking to her with the hope that she'll have some idea what's going on.

“He
kissed
you?” she tries again, her eyes widening.

“Yeah…that's what I…just said.”

“Ethan Wyatt
kissed
you?” she says once more, while slamming her fists into her own thighs.

“Brooke—breathe.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, just a hair away from hyperventilation and anger rising in her voice. “Excuse me, he
kissed
you?” I don't think she's even talking to me. She seems to be talking to the Brown Box. All the muscles in her face are tensing up—simultaneously. Her eyes instantly become puffy. Her cheeks drain of color.

“Are you all right?” I ask, hoping not to set her off.

“Ethan Wyatt kisses you, the woman he supposedly hates. Meanwhile, I…I…” She struggles against a wave of tears.

“You what? Brooke—”

My mother flies into the room, no doubt drawn by the volume of Brooke's rant.

“What is going on in here?” Paige asks, worried.

“Well, let's see,” Brooke exclaims, recovering herself. “Ethan Wyatt kissed her. And Duncan Stoke doesn't remember me! God, and you were warning me about these guys,” she says, pointing at me.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I yell.

Paige shakes her head and then takes a deep breath. “Let's get this all sorted out. Sadie, what is this about Ethan Wyatt?”

“He kissed me,” I say matter-of-factly, staring at Brooke and wondering what the hell just happened here.

Paige looks away, trying to hide the self-satisfied, knowing sort of smile that is creeping out from under her Chanel lip gloss. “Well,” she says to me calmly, before pursing her lips, “that is a development.”

“Why do you say it like that?” I ask her.

Paige shakes her head at me, silently telling me to drop it, as she gently places a hand on Brooke's shoulder. “Now, Brooke. What is bothering you, sweetheart? Do you feel comfortable talking about it?”

Does she feel comfortable talking about it? She was just screaming about it.

Brooke closes her eyes and takes three deep harried breaths like a person preparing to dive into icy water. “When we met with Duncan Stoke…after Sadie went running off into Central Park…I was flirting—”

Excuse me? “You were
flirting
while I was hobbling through the streets—”

Paige gives me a stern glare. “Sadie, it's Brooke's turn.”

Brooke continues, “We flirted. I gave him my number and he said he would call….”

Well, I guess that explains the running and shushing and general mania of the last couple of weeks.

“But he didn't call.” My mother finishes Brooke's sentence.

Brooke shakes her head no. “And then I called him this afternoon. I finally tracked down his number. I had to pretend I was the sponsor of a charity softball tournament,” she says, the shame evident in her eyes. “And he didn't remember me.”

“Oh, Brooke.” I lay a hand on her knee. “I'm so sorry.”

“Are you really? You
kissed
Ethan Wyatt!” she shouts.

“I didn't mean to!” I shout back. “He kissed
me,
okay? I was just standing there!”

“But you kissed him back! And you liked it!” She points a finger at me. “Don't lie. I can see on your face that you liked it.”

My mouth drops open. I whisper, “My mother is in the room. Will you please—” I tell Paige, “He also called me a sellout.” As if somehow that will temper the “I can see on your face that you liked it” comment.

“Is everything okay in here?” asks Luke, darting into the room. He looks slightly like a man who's just been jolted out of a nap. He scratches his forehead and rubs at his cheeks.

“Well, let's see,” says Brooke again, “Sadie kissed Ethan Wyatt. And she liked it.
A lot
.”

“Really?” says Luke. “Cool. Do you think you could get him to sign a few dozen—”

“Luke!” shouts Brooke.

“Well…” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Now, Brooke,” interjects my mother. “You know how hard relationships are for Sadie—”

“Mother!”

“It's true, darling,” she says, way too easily for my liking, then turns back to Brooke. “As I was saying, Brooke…if she enjoyed this kiss…”

Oh, my God. Shoot me. Somebody shoot me.

“…we should be happy for her. Don't you think? I think she would be happy for you, if the shoe were on the other foot. Wouldn't you?” my mother asks me.

“How the hell am I supposed to—” Paige cuts me off by giving me a look so filled with motherly admonishing that I suddenly feel like I'm about to be grounded. I say, “Sure. Absolutely, I'd be happy for her.”

Paige coos, “See there, Brooke.”

“Oh, God, you're right. Of course, you're right,” she whimpers to Paige. “I'm sorry, Sadie.”

“Okay…” I reply.

“All right, then,” Paige declares. “Now come on, Brooke. I'll make you a cup of tea.”

Paige takes Brooke by the arm and leads her out of the bedroom. Luke trudges out behind them.

What the hell just happened here?

“Hello?” I yell to my bedroom door. “Girl with a problem here! Anyone?”

Luke opens the door. “What's the problem?” he asks dumbly.

“Um, let me recap. Kissed the man who's stalking me. Might have liked it. Not sure what to do next. Any ideas?”

Luke tugs on the bottom of his T-shirt, twists the fabric around his index finger, and stares at the floor.

Finally, he looks up. “Uh, no. I got nothing.” Luke turns right back around and walks out.

Well, that makes two of us.

T
he bright sunshine of early morning streams through the windows of the living room. I tiptoe past Luke, who is sacked out on the sofa, his long limbs knotted up at odd angles so that every part of his body is covered by one little throw blanket. I shut the curtains to improve his sleeping conditions, then move to the kitchen to make some coffee.

The phone rings, loud and jarring.

But I am not going to answer. And on second thought, I'm going out to get myself a coffee and an egg sandwich—without bodyguards. I turn off the ringer so Luke and Brooke can sleep, then head out of the apartment.

I don't know what to think about Ethan Wyatt. I don't know what to think of the things he said to me, and the way I reacted. I don't know what to think about anything anymore. So, I'm going to stick with what I do know. I'm hungry, it's a gorgeous New York day, and for whatever reason, the memory of Ethan Wyatt kissing me makes me happy.

Bounding out of the lobby door, I'm immediately engulfed by warm, refreshing, sweet city air. Tainted as it is with exhaust fumes and a hint of rotting garbage, it's still the smell of a fresh summer morning.

I stroll three blocks toward my favorite deli.

The sharp pounding of feet on pavement is my first indication that something is not quite right. It's a stampede, the unpleasant sound of many rubber soles slapping down on concrete. My heart leaps into my throat as the slapping gives way to a strange rumbling noise, braying. A vaguely human prattle. It's muffled, though—harsh and dissonant, incomprehensible. I think it could be that my ears are ringing and distorting the sound.

I can't count them all…the wide black eyes in my face. Ten, fifteen maybe. Maybe more. I hardly recognize my reflection in their convex glass. I think that's my mouth that is hanging agape, my stunned blue eyes, my nose made to appear three times too big for my face by the curve of the lens.

The light, bubbly, summer-induced sensation from just moments ago is replaced by a surge of fear and anger swelling up from somewhere in my midsection.

I turn to go back to the apartment, but there are too many bodies in my way. I look up the street and my feet begin moving toward the deli. Egg sandwich. It's the last place my legs were told to go. They haven't yet received the message that I'm under attack.

The swell of anger quickly crests. It smooths out over my entire body, not hot and violent, but tepid like bathwater. It feels almost like calm—born of recognition and understanding. I don't know why I didn't see this coming.

Voices erupt behind me as my feet move more quickly.

“Sadie! Wait up!”

“Where you going?”

“Come on, you know me!”

“Stop running,
bitch
!”

My head turns on that last one, much to the delight of the clicking, mashing crowd of photographers. Behind one of the lenses I see the suspiciously slimy head of Phil Grambs. He looks at me with a nauseating kind of grin—it's not even self-satisfied, just joyous. Absolute bliss.

I slip into the deli and race toward a man who looks to be in charge, an older guy with a thick five-o'clock shadow and black horn-rimmed glasses. When I see “Manager” printed on his name tag, I tell him that the photographers will try to come in unless he tells them not to. He takes one look outside at the disruption, the many legs, feet, and arms tangled up with one another. He then surveys his tiny shop with all of its odd angles, precarious food displays, and freshly mopped floor. He barely bats an eyelash before running to the entrance and peeking his head out.

“Get outta my doorway!” he shouts. “Stay on the freakin' sidewalk!”

“Thank you,” I say breathlessly.

“Are you all right?” the manager asks kindly.

“Yeah, I—” I stop short when I notice the manager's staff of two looking back and forth between the newsstand and me.

When I turn around, my heart sinks and a heavy knot forms in my throat.

On the cover of
Celeb
is an enormous picture of Ethan and me kissing on the sidewalk yesterday. There's a smaller inset picture of Duncan Stoke, probably taken years ago, looking distressed. On the other side of that is Ethan's picture of Duncan with his hands on my shoulders. The headline reads: “Steamy Love Triangle Has Stoke Heartbroken.” The subhead: “Wyatt Strikes Again!”

Similar layouts appear on
Star, Us Weekly,
and
People
.

To recap, I am on the cover of
Celeb, Star, Us Weekly,
and
People.

“I just wanted an egg sandwich” comes out of my mouth before I have the sense to stop it.

The manager snaps his fingers at one of his employees, and she instantly begins cracking eggs and frying bacon.

What am I going to do now? I'm trapped in a deli. I guess the good news is I could gorge myself on salami for at least three weeks. But then what?

“Do you have a back door?” I ask the manager, who has just picked up a copy of
Celeb
and is reading the article inside.

He glances up. “Nope. That's it,” he says, pointing to the front door.

My cell phone rings—Todd.

“Todd, I—”

Todd's voice rings out, sort of. He sounds out of breath. “It's huge, Sadie. Stopped the presses. Went back to design. Cover was supposed to be Oprah, more weight loss. Then you with Wyatt—”

“Trust me, I know.”

“You're bigger than Bennifer.”

Please, God, don't let that be true.

Looking out the front window of the deli, I say, “Todd, uh…I don't think I'll be able to work today.”

The animals are getting restless. Two photographers are arguing over a position near the window. A small cluster of onlookers has gathered around the fringes of the photographers. I see heads bobbing and weaving over the commotion, trying to get a look inside the deli.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. The manager hands me my egg sandwich, wrapped in a plastic bag. “On the house,” he says uncomfortably—as though this is the first time those words have ever passed his lips. He looks at me sheepishly. “Well…uh, look, lady. We like celebrities here, same as anybody else and all, but we shoulda had about fifteen customers by now. My regulars can't get in.”

I guess that means I shouldn't be blowing up the air mattress? I take a deep breath. “Okay…”

“Todd, I have to go,” I say into my phone.

“Where are you?”

“That deli I like—off First Avenue, but I'm going home.”

“No!” he shouts. “Wait for me. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

“No, Todd. I'm fine. I'll be fine.”

I hang up the phone and take a deep breath.

No. Okay. Right. I can do this. I've been in packs like this before. I've done it a million times. Of course, I've been on the other side, but it couldn't be too bad, right? A few moments of discomfort, a few assholes yelling my name. If I can put up with Ethan Wyatt on my tail for a couple of weeks, how much harder could this be? I just have to block out the noise and the struggle and walk home. I just have to walk home. It's just walking. Easy.

Turning to the deli manager, I point to
Celeb
and ask, “Can I see that?”

Just as I thought. The photo credit for the layout says “Phil Grambs.”

There are seven pictures, a perfectly captured sequence of events. Ethan saying something to me, wildly gesturing, his face still so very handsome and striking even when contorted a bit in frustration. Ethan putting his hands on my face. Ethan moving in. Ethan kissing me. Me standing there dumbstruck, and yet with a slightly elated look on my face. Ethan walking away, his sooty black hair flopping into his eyes. Then, me standing there, confused and watching him get in a cab.

My heart thumps like a drum in my chest as I look at the sequence over and over again.

I feel…violated, like something personal and private has been taken away. Like all the meaning and significance that I'm just now beginning to understand has suddenly been completely stripped away. It hurts, and fills me with a profound sort of sadness for the loss of it. Those seven moments were important to me, they were special.

I sling the bag with my egg sandwich over my arm and hike up my pants—seems the sort of thing I should do.

With three strong, defiant strides, I step out of the deli and into the fray.

Assholes, I silently repeat to myself, you can have that piece of time, but you're not going to beat me here.

The second my feet hit pavement, I'm swallowed by the pack. Elbows and hands fly this way and that. I duck to avoid being decapitated by a wayward camera.

The voices around me are loud and belligerent. “Look here, damnit!” “Sadie, why Wyatt?” “Are you going to his place now?”

I wait for the adrenaline to kick in, for its smooth warm glow to wash over me. I wait, but it doesn't come.

My feet won't move on their own; I have to will them forward. I tussle and push just to get past the deli's windows. People keep randomly careening into me as I try to press my way through the crowd. I end up elbowing a French guy and a Swede to try and reach fresh air—to spot a slice of the street up ahead so I know where I'm going.

The air around me suddenly feels heavy, too many people exhaling. I feel like I can't breathe.

I feel a sharp jab to my back, then my rib cage, as the pack begins to stagger farther down the sidewalk. I'm pinned between a morbidly obese photographer and the wall of a copy shop. My face just inches from the glass, I startle a woman inside who looks to be preparing a photocopier for the day ahead. She looks stunned, then smiles when she notices the camera flashes and general mayhem. I put my head down and plow forward as best I can, guided only by the grooves of the sidewalk.

I try to craft my facial features into the very incarnation of defiance, but my shoulders are beginning to slump under the weight of the task ahead. How many blocks did I walk? Should I go left at the next street, or go forward? What on earth am I doing here?

The shouting around me increases, causing all the cries of “This way” and “Slow down” to run into one another and sound like the indecipherable barking of wild dogs.

After a half block, we do a complex formation turn and head uptown. As the walkway widens, the tight knot of the pack dissolves. I can finally see uninterrupted daylight.

Photographers stagger and stumble over one another, getting ahead of me to resume shooting. They perform that famed paparazzi dance—blindly walking backward down the sidewalk with cameras to their eyes.

The screaming quiets. Most of my cohorts can't walk and chew gum simultaneously, let alone speak while walking
backward
. A few of them, I imagine, are simply out of shape and out of breath.

My heart leaps as I feel a brief opportunity for escape.

I hustle to the edge of the street and stick my arm out for a cab. Several groans of “Come on!” and “You're not getting away that easy!” pierce my ears before the pack, unwilling to see me go, springs to action and surrounds me.

Excellent. I think I've just managed to piss them off.

Using only my egg sandwich and my forearms, I push my way free of the pack. I do the only thing I can think to do—keep marching as briskly as I can without it seeming like an all-out sprint. In no time, the pack is back in front of me, their worn-out Vans and Nikes tapping out a feverish rhythm, in slight discord to the clicking of their shutters.

Did I comb my hair this morning? Did I brush my teeth? Why didn't I change my T-shirt?

Phil moves up to the front of the crowd. I can hear his wheezing and the labored shuffling of his feet on the uneven pavement.

“Look up, you. For fuck's sake, girl,” a man shouts in a thick French accent somewhere ahead of me.

“Give us your face—we go away,” chimes another.