Chapter X. Stream of Consciousness.
X.
STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS.
I should not have called Lorry. I was in such a good mood after dinner, even with all the weirdness with Bas.
And it was like two minutes in before he managed to kill my high.
I thought … HOPED … he was going to say that he’d thought about it more and to disregard everything he’d said in the letter—the bad stuff anyway.
But nope. He didn’t even bring it up. Like he’d completely forgotten, while I’m here bleeding out.
I love him so much, but at times he’s insufferable.
He was in a shitty mood because the two seminars he was most looking forward to taking this semester conflicted.
Plus, he’s trying to cram in six classes, which is insane, so he can graduate this summer.
Which won’t be with his class—because of the months he took off to find himself.
But at least he wouldn’t have to enroll again in September.
But I swear, the petulant moods … Like a little boy who thinks the world revolves around him.
Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing in this relationship.
For all his maturity and planet saving he can be so entitled.
But then I remember his legs and his ass and his height and his mouth and his dick and it’s like, Oh yeah …
Anyhoo … Here in Cabo shooting the new di Varenna campaign.
So far everyone is nice. I’m feeling less invisible than in the past. Less like the nameless black girl winding film in the corner.
Which, let’s face it, would be an upgrade from the nameless black girl sweeping the floor—which I definitely HAVE been in this job.
Like Cinderella of the fashion world. Minus the fairy godmother.
But I digress. Didier’s been in a good mood, which puts everyone else in a relatively good mood.
And the models are only moderately pretentious.
Well, not all. Some. Really mostly Jaya.
But she’s so beautiful, I kind of get it.
I can’t imagine what life would be like having the kind of face and body where everyone just did things for you and kowtowed to you and put you on a pedestal.
She’s like … art. They all kind of are. Like freaks of nature.
At times I think I’m so close to it, I forget.
Like they become normal to me. And they ARE …
normal. Regular people. But compared to the rest of us they’re aliens and I should not be torturing myself, I know. But it’s hard.
There’s this new girl, Anouk, whose bones are just exquisite.
Like this delicate, ethereal beauty. She’s smart.
Isn’t afraid to speak her mind. And I kind of love it.
Plus, she has that whole French thing that I so badly want to possess.
Like apathetic and unbothered. Oh, and she’s black.
Or at least, part, I think. Her mom’s from Martinique.
But she doesn’t really look it. And I wonder what that’s like, walking around in a skin, in a package that doesn’t truly reveal who you are.
The things she must hear. The conversations …
But I imagine it could be painful, as well.
Like passing, but not. And constantly having to remind people: “Oh, hi, I’m black. Try not to say anything too offensive.”
Anyway, early call time tomorrow. We’re on a boat.
All day. Fun. Also, I kind of have a crush on Bas van den Broeck.
I know, I know … who doesn’t? He totally reminds me of Michael Youngwood freshman year.
Just ridiculously sexy but knows it. And then oozes on the charm.
It’s a little discombobulating. Good thing I’m in love.
Okay, ciao.
Friday. 19 January. 1.04 AM. MST. Cabo.
So there’s this thing that’s happening, that is completely wild and unexpected.
Don’t even know that I want to discuss it here.
Fully. Not sure I can. As if just saying it would make it real.
Make it end. Whatever. Not that it’s a thing.
Really. Maybe. I don’t know. Marc thinks it is.
But Marc often offers up unsolicited advice, so I can’t rely on him.
Anyway, I feel like just writing it, saying it out loud, makes it real in a way that it may not be.
So out of respect for all the parties involved, I won’t.
But tonight, after all day on the boat and another drawn-out phone call with Lorry (Ugh.
My heart.) a bunch of us went for a spontaneous swim.
Meaning no real swimsuits. Just underwear.
Or not. Depending. Men are such exhibitionists.
But endlessly amusing. It’s just a really fun crew.
The Italians are insane and that’s kind of colored everything on this shoot.
And I laughed a lot. Which I so needed. And A was just really … attentive. And nice. Very, very nice.
Friday. 19 January. 7.47 PM. MST. CSL.
My heart is ripping apart. It feels like it’s literally coming out of my chest. Like he reached in and plucked it with his bare hands.
And is just squeezing it into a bloody pulp.
And I can’t fucking breathe. He’s ending it.
He won’t say it in so many words, but he’s ending it, and it’s killing me.
Why am I not enough? Why am I not enough? Why am I not enough?
Saturday. 20 January. 12.52 AM. Cabo, still.
Well. That was interesting.
Sunday. 21 January. 4.13 PM., in transit.
God, what a fucking week. I don’t know that I can do this for much more. There’s so much about it I absolutely love, and there’s so much that’s just … ugly. And I feel awful saying it, but it’s true. The manipulation, the competition, the deceit, the pettiness. It’s just gross. J’en ai marre!!
I didn’t get to say goodbye to A. I was hoping I could talk to her.
But she didn’t show up at dinner last night and this morning she rushed into the van, totally avoiding eye contact.
With me, anyway. Her face was swollen and puffy.
I heard her mention to Paola that it was probably the sun, but that’s not how it struck me.
And it just made me feel sick inside. Didier and Marc and the rest of them were being their typical nonchalant selves, and I just wanted to scream.
And Maren is so obvious, it’s gross. It’s so obvious he’s using her.
But maybe she’s using him, too. I don’t know.
And the Elliot and Rafaella stuff is just holy shit.
Who saw that coming, right? I mean, he went to Harrow and Oxford, for God’s sake!
But maybe I’m just na?ve and innocent and always assuming the best of people.
That shouldn’t be a fault, and yet.… En tout cas, everything just feels twisted and wrong.
Rafaella is married. She has kids. I hope I’m never in a marriage where I can convince myself it’s okay to screw a cute model just because I can.
Anyway, I’m still thinking about what happened yesterday.
And her face. Shattered. And that I left her. I left her.