Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
It takes them five days to figure out my name, but when they do, it comes along with everything else they could find. Even my horrific prom pictures.
It’s Friday morning. My phone’s going ballistic again, like it’s been the tendency lately.
My social media is now overflowing with comments from strangers. I change my profile picture to a nice sunset drop I’d taken a few years back and make everything private.
My heart is pounding.
Oh no.
I scramble out of bed and rush to the window, peering through the blinds.
Still. Quiet. Normal. Thank God.
I exhale, only then realizing I’d been holding my breath.
These are going to be an interesting couple of weeks, I think to myself.
I send Harrison a quick text while I’m getting ready.
I’m no longer a mystery woman. They know so much about me they almost had enough to write a biography.
He calls me almost instantly.
“You’re stressing about it,” he states, no greeting necessary.
In my defense, I’m trying not to.
“How bad is it going to get?” I ask honestly.
“It’s a lot now, but it will pass,” Harrison answers, setting me down on his kitchen counter before walking off-screen. “These stories? They burn out fast. In a couple of weeks, when they realize you’re not going anywhere, they’ll move on.”
I groan. That seems like years away. “And in the meantime?”
“You ignore,” he says. “If you spot them anywhere, don’t engage. They keep enough distance.”
“I’m not going to lie—this sounds a little scary,” I admit. “I’m not sure that I’ll be able to handle it.”
He comes back into the frame. “Stop. You’re always cutting yourself short, and yet, you’re one of the strongest, most determined individuals I’ve ever met,” he encourages. “You’ve got this.”
The walk to work feels different. I’m constantly feeling eyes on me, and I can’t tell if people are recognizing me or if it’s all in my head. I think about taking a taxi, thus avoiding morning rush hour, but that would be giving in. And I’m not ready to be a coward.
Harrison and being in the spotlight are attached at the hip. There’s no way around it. If I want to give him a real try, I’ll have to face the scrutiny sooner or later.
And I do want him.
So damn badly.
But still, I haven’t been able to get rid of this nagging feeling that my life is turning into a circus.
That thought sharpens when I notice a group of men loitering across the street from Maverick’s entrance.
It’s not raining, but I open my umbrella and duck behind it until I’m safely inside. I hear one of them yell my name just as the glass door shuts. I don’t look back.
“Oh my goodness,” Claire says, in peak British concern. “It’s madness out there. I thought you weren’t going to make it.”
“I sort of expected them today after I realized my name was out in the open.”
“Do you think they’ll be out there all day?” Lucy asks from her corner.
I shrug. “They know I’m in here… so probably.”
“They’ve sent over the portfolio,” Claire says, shifting gears with a tight smile. “You have an eye for this, Julia. They’re incredible.”
I blush, still stunned that my work is going to be official. “All thanks to you.”
I try to stay focused, but my mind keeps spinning off to the paparazzi outside. What is the world thinking about me now? The uncertainty eats away at me the whole morning.
I keep it at bay until everyone’s gone for lunch. Then it’s just me. And the enemy.
I know I shouldn’t. I know checking will only make things worse, but it seems like my hands have a life of their own. I look up my name.
The list to pick from is endless. Some are still gushing about the event. Most are trying to build a montage of what my life was like before meeting Harrison.
And then I find it.
Her photo—red dress, killer lighting, the one I saw her in the other night—side by side with a picture of myself. The title stands out like a lighthouse in a sea of shadows.
Old or new? Who does it better—Joshua Harrison’s love life edition
From the moment I read the first line, I realize the mistake I’ve made.
For at least what would be a two-page feature in a printout magazine, this author named Violet Paulsen goes into depth comparing everything about us. She’s obviously biased. It hurts nonetheless.
Emily is portrayed as a beauty queen—your typical popular girl who has everything she could ever want. Perfect smile and years of a successful Hollywood career.
Even if she slept her way through most of it, I think, petty and defensive.
All her pictures are professionally taken, unlike mine, which seem to have been hand-picked to make me look my worst. Ms. Paulsen must be an intimate friend of hers because she’s made it easy for anyone to pick.
The verdict is clear: I’m out of my league. She’s almost hinting that I’m not worthy.
What’s funny is that, as one-sided as that article may be, the comments are the worst part. To think that anyone is believing this crap without questioning it—without even knowing me—is infuriating.
Josh is definitely downgrading.
Pretty enough for a rebound; let’s call it what it is.
And my favorite one:
I give him a month before he goes back to Emily. Now that they’ve seen each other again, it’s only a matter of time. He literally fought for her #Lawson.
I want to believe that it’s not true. That people don’t know what they’re talking about.
Then, I think about Emma and just how much she knew about him from keeping up to date with those gossip columns. Sure, it’s part of her job, but it all starts here. Online.
What’s Lawson?
I ask her over text. She replies instantly—like she knew I was going to go down the rabbit hole.
Emma
I suggest you stay clear from ever searching that up.
It’s their couple name. All you’ll find is Harrison with her.
Of course it is. Glad I asked.
Why are you up at five a.m.?
Emma
Too busy worrying about you to get any sleep.
Same. I feel like I haven’t gotten any proper rest in days.
Emma
Maybe all you need is to sleep with Harrison.
I roll my eyes.
I’ll give it a try. His place is much nicer than mine anyway.
She doesn’t answer. Probably asleep mid-episode of whatever show she’s bingeing this week. For once, I take her advice. No more Googling. No more spiraling.
I make it through the rest of the day, not without thinking, Is she better? with every second that passes.
At five sharp, Daniel confirms the worst. Not only are the same paparazzi still outside, but they’ve brought backup.
“We could get her some kind of costume?” Henry suggests. “Does anyone have a food delivery bag? Or… what about a mustache?”
Everyone laughs—and despite the stress, so do I.
“For some reason,” Claire says dryly, “I don’t think a mustache pairs well with her heels.”
“If we can get you through the lobby to the side door, you can slip out that way,” Daniel adds. “We’re not technically supposed to use it, but I go down there when I want a smoke.”
“That’ll work. Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched. “I’ve got a couple of things to do before I head home, anyway.”
We make our way down, more in sync than a team of synchronized swimmers. They form a human wall, and I tuck myself behind it like I’m the world’s most anxious celebrity.
Once I’m safely out of view, I thank them and merge into the busy streets as casually as possible.
I’m almost at The Anchor when Harrison calls.
“Hey, love,” Harrison says. “Homemade dinner and a movie at mine tonight. You in?”
“I’m on my way to see Tony for a bit,” I tell him.
“Ah,” he answers. “Should I be jealous?”
“Maybe,” I joke. “I thought I’d wait around until the cameras cleared out.”
“How about I send the car over to get you?” he asks. “I’ll start dinner in the meantime.”
“Okay. Just text me the details,” I say, slipping inside.
It’s not too crowded yet. Tony’s behind the bar, pouring whiskey for a cluster of suited men. I take the corner where Harrison usually sits. It’s not long before he excuses himself and comes over to me.
“Oh, no,” he says, eyebrows raised. “You’ve got an ‘I’ve done something I shouldn’t have’ face.”
“I gave in and read the articles,” I groan. “It’s nasty.”
He nods like he’s seen this happen a hundred times.
“Rookie mistake,” he agrees. “You learn, after a while, that the only way to make it anywhere near that industry is to stay far, far away from that stuff.”
He pours me a whiskey without asking.
“It’s stupid, but it got to me. Hence me thinking—am I even cut out for this?”
Tony studies me for a second, like he’s flipping through his old-man knowledge.
“Let me ask you something,” he says. “Are you upset about what you read—or because you’re scared of what happens when it’s time to go back home?”
I blink. That one hits closer than I’d like.
“According to Josh, you’ve got about a month,” he adds. “And knowing what I know about you—that you don’t back down from a challenge—I’m wondering if this is less about the press… and more about your future with him.”
I swallow hard. I probably look like a deer caught in headlights, because his tone softens.
“I’ll leave you with this,” he says. “The media? It’s temporary. Whatever happens between you both is up to you. They don’t get to break your life unless you let them.”
He goes back to serving, and I sit there, letting his words really sink in.
I’m not exactly sure what part of it stuck—but something did. A little weight lifts off my chest. Those comments are no longer taking up space in my mind.
By the time I get to Harrison’s, I feel better. Not fine, but more grounded.
My focus has shifted. We need to make this decision without considering outside factors.
A life-changing decision.
In just four weeks.