Chapter 28 Christopher #2
Kelly falls silent. Images of the paramedics running past me in the hotel run through my mind as I pull the phone from my ear and fire up the news app, searching for Alexander Morgan. My heart is now beating so fast, it might actually qualify as a medical event.
The results load, and my heart stops cold:
Alexander Morgan Caught Kissing A GUY In London.
Alexander’s Stolen Moment With A Mystery Man.
Pop Star Alexander Morgan’s Secret Life Exposed.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” I scroll down to see even more headlines. The faint sound of Kelly’s voice comes from the phone, and I lift the phone back to my ear.
“Are you still there?”
“I’ll call you back.”
“But—” I hang up before she has a chance to say more.
I go back to the top of the feed and click on the first article.
Alexander Morgan caught on camera locking lips with a mystery man in a London hotel. The caption is under a picture of him kissing me. The back of my head conceals my identity, but Alexander’s face and hair are instantly recognizable, making it indisputable that it’s him.
My spine stiffens as I continue to read through the article, and it takes all my self-control not to scream. I swallow down the boulder-sized lump in my throat.
I close the app and try calling Alexander again, getting the same voicemail message. A boarding call plays out for my flight, but I ignore it.
There must be some way to get ahold of him.
To find out what happened.
Social media!
Surely there will be videos of him leaving the hotel that will help me piece everything together.
The algorithm must remember my search history because the first video that pops up as I open the app is of Alexander leaving the hotel.
He’s flanked by security as he gets into a car, head down with a hoodie on—my hoodie—as Rob gets in after him.
Surely that’s a sign? A signal that he’s sending to me?
I look at the time stamp on this video and subsequent videos of him leaving the hotel, and they all seem to be posted between six and seven hours ago, which must mean Alexander left the hotel around seven this morning.
But how the hell did I not hear him leave?
I’m such a light sleeper.
I continue doom scrolling, finally stopping on one of him walking through the airport.
The paparazzi are snapping away and yelling at him.
Are the rumors true, Alex? Are you gay? Alex keeps his focus locked on the ground as Rob does his best to protect him.
I swipe up one more time and stop on a video by Hollywood Exposed that already has thirty-five thousand likes.
Alexander Morgan finds himself embroiled in a new scandal this morning, just days after rumors of an alleged affair between him and Rita Watson. A video has emerged of Morgan kissing an unidentified man at his hotel last night in London.
Grainy video cuts in, showing Alexander and me dancing, Enrique’s Hero just about audible in the clip.
Another lump forms in my throat.
He was right.
That sound must have been someone sneaking in through the side room to record that video.
But who is this mystery man? Is Alexander Morgan gay? Bisexual? You know what to do, followers. Let’s solve this mystery!
The video loops back to the start and I click on the comments, immediately regretting it when I see a load of vile slurs and rampant speculation about who I could be.
Whoever he is, he needs to keep his hands off MY man.
It looks like Asher Angel.
No way it’s Asher, it’s probably some deadbeat guy.
I keep on scrolling, but pause when I come across one message.
It looks like that guy who walked in with his girlfriend the other day.
Fuck.
The comment only has a couple of likes, but it won’t take long for those keyboard warriors to track me down if anyone from the wedding tags me in a picture from last night.
I quickly go through all my social media profiles, double-checking that my accounts are set to private, and pull my baseball cap down even lower.
No one seems to have glanced my way. They’re all lost in their own conversations and digital devices, but I can’t be too cautious.
Surely, this can’t be happening. It must be a nightmare.
A quick pinch of my arm confirms it’s not, just as the last call goes out for my flight.
Fuck.
I pull the charger out from the socket, down the last of the Bloody Mary, and throw on my backpack as I head to the exit. I make my way through the terminal and toward the gate.
When I get to the top of the escalators, I’m greeted by a newspaper stand and an image of Alexander staring back at me from the front page. It’s the same picture I selected from the Men’s Health shoot. Underneath the photo are four simple words: Is Alexander Morgan Gay?
I fight for breath, the force of seeing the image crushing my chest, and debate whether or not to pick up a copy of the paper in the time it takes me to blink.
I grab a copy and shove it under my arm before turning and heading to the gate. The last few people are lining up by the desk, handing over their boarding passes.
I suddenly feel a shooting pain from my bladder, desperate to be relieved, but I take a deep breath and ignore it. I just want to get on the plane. Get back to Los Angeles and get ahold of Alexander.
“Ticket please,” the man at the desk asks when I get there.
I reach into the pocket of my sweatpants to retrieve my passport, but it’s not there. My other pocket, holding my wallet and the earbuds that Alexander gave me, doesn’t contain my passport either.
The earbuds.
The fucking earbuds!
Did he give them to me knowing they would stop me from hearing him leave?
“One moment,” I say, stepping aside.
Be calm. Think. You had it at the lounge, and you also had it when you left for the gate. It can’t have gone far.
“Looking for this?”
I turn to see Connie holding my passport up in her hand.
She wears the same look of disdain on her face as when I called her Bonnie.
“Thank you,” I say, stretching out my hand to take it as she hands it over. “Are you on this flight too?”
“I am,” she says, motioning me forward to the desk.
My shoulders relax at her two-word response. Finally, someone who can help fill in the blanks. She may not have the answers to all my questions, but at least she’ll know the answers to most.
I hand my ticket over to the man at the desk, who quickly tears off the stub, hands it back and points me to the bridge to board the plane.
“Where are you sitting?” I ask, turning back to Connie as we walk down.
“I’m in 12A,” she says sharply.
“That’s next to me,” I say as we get to the airplane door. The stewardess greets us with a warm smile, checking my ticket and pointing me to the left.
“I know.” Her tone is darker now, causing my muscles to tighten.
How does she know? And come to think of it, how come she’s on this flight and not with Alexander and the rest of his team?
I empty the flight essentials from my bag onto my seat, charger, sleeping mask, ibuprofen, and stow my bag in the compartment above my head. Connie does the same, offloading her laptop, reading glasses, headphones, and a folder. The same color folder as the one Paul used for the MNDA.
“Could I offer you a glass of champagne, sir?” a steward asks, tapping me on the shoulder.
“You don’t happen to have a Bloody Mary, do you?” The effects of the previous one and the two ibuprofen are quickly wearing off.
“Certainly, and for you, ma’am?” He turns his attention to Connie.
“I’m good, thanks.”
The steward walks away as the rest of the passengers settle into their seats, and I turn to Connie. There’s a plethora of questions running through my head.
I want to ask the most burning question, but I’m mindful of prying ears and opt to speak in code, going for a low-hanging fruit.
“How come you’re on this flight? I thought you’d have left with everyone else.”
“That was the plan, yes.” Connie takes out her reading glasses from her case and puts them on. “But then things changed this morning, as I’m sure you are well aware.”
Her veiled swipe of passive-aggressiveness, coming as she slams her glasses case shut, makes me feel like I’m responsible for this, rather than a victim.
Cabin crew, boarding is complete. Close the doors and cross check.
Connie glares at me and reaches for the folder. I start to ask another question, one of the dozen I still have, but decide against it. Instead, I start to take my seat, but she reaches for my arm and stops me.
“Before you get off this flight, I’m going to need you to read through what’s inside, sign the documents, and hand it back to me.” Connie passes me the folder.
Her jaw clenches so hard as I take it that I can hear her teeth grinding.
I want to speak, but my voice cracks. Like I’ve lost all ability to voice my thoughts.
Connie shakes her head at me, turns, and slides into her chair. She grabs her headphones and slides them on.
Point taken.
“Here you go, sir.” The steward returns with the Bloody Mary. “I’m going to need you to take your seat for takeoff.” He points to my place.
I nod and sit down, placing the folder to the side along with the drink, and fasten my seatbelt.
I take a deep breath. Then another. And another. And then reach for the folder.
Resting it on my lap, I slowly open it to the documents inside. My jaw drops as I take in the first line.