Oh?
Kip
Is it wrong that I'm relieved Sky didn't tell Darby anything about me?
Probably, yeah.
It's not that I've got anything to hide, it's just that for all the doors they opened, my modeling days messed me up in a lot of ways, too.
At forty-three, I'm finally sober. Running a business that I own outright. Financially stable. Settled in who I am. And completely and totally done with men using me for one thing and one thing only.
I may not be in the public eye anymore, or lead a glamorous lifestyle, or hang out with celebs, but I'm happier than I've ever been with the small, peaceful life I've carved out for myself.
"Your turn," I say, lifting my chin. "Give me the two-minute Darby insert-last-name-here overview."
A light chuckle comes through the door. "My last name is Adams."
Darby Adams.
Smiling, I reply, "That's a good name."
"Thanks. I kind of hate it though."
"Oh?"
A heavy sigh.
"It ties me to my family, and I'm not particularly close to them.
I've tried to be, and I'd like to be because family is important, but…
" Another sigh. "They've always been conservative, especially Dad, but these past few years, with everything that's going on in this country, it's like it's given them license to tap into the very worst aspects of themselves. It's become unbearable."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Darby."
He exhales again. "I did my best to look past it.
Made sure to steer clear of topics that could possibly lead to disagreement or an argument.
But when I went back for Thanksgiving, the awful things they were saying.
About women. About immigrants. About LGBTQIA people.
" Another exhalation. "Something snapped in me, and I couldn't excuse or look past it anymore. "
"That's a tough one."
"It's going to be my first Christmas alone, and as much as I'm dreading it, I also know I'm making the right decision."
Christmas is hard for anyone not close to their family or who might not have a large network of people around them.
I've been blessed on that front. My family is super close-knit and loves me unconditionally, and my group of close friends have always had my back.
They're true friends who have seen me at my worst and championed me to be my best. They're a big part of the reason why I'm here, clean, sober, happy, and not six feet under.
"What are your plans for tomorrow?" I ask, and if the next word out of his mouth is Nothing, I know I'll be inviting this almost complete-stranger to my house for Christmas dinner.
"Baking," he replies.
"You're a baker?"
"I'm actually a TV writer. Or, hoping to become one some day. If television shows still exist in the future. But baking has become a huge passion of mine."
"Become? Does that mean it's a recent thing?"
"Kind of. During lockdown, while everyone was locked inside and bored out of their brains, I discovered a TV show called The Great British Bake off and was hooked immediately."
I smile and settle into a more comfortable position on the floor. I could grab the desk chair from my office, but I don't want to leave Darby alone. "I actually contributed some pieces to the American version of the show."
"There's an American version?"
"There is. It's not as popular as the UK one, but everyone I've dealt with from the fashion department was super nice."
"Was, uh, Paul Hollywood involved?"
I don't miss the way his tone turns a little husky.
"He was with the earlier seasons, but not anymore." I rest my elbows over my knees. "Why do you ask?"
He lets out another breath and mutters, "This is embarrassing, but since I'm already locked in a fitting room, and I've let slip that I'm a loser with no Christmas plans—"
"You are not a loser, Darby," I cut in. "You prioritized your needs and your mental health. That makes you strong and brave and a winner in my book. Just like how you're dealing with this situation. You're calm and not freaking out."
"Only because you're here."
"No. It's because you're strong and brave," I reiterate. "Maybe stronger and braver than you give yourself credit for."
"Thanks," he says, then after a brief pause, I hear a shaky exhale. "I have a crush on Paul Hollywood. I—I kind of have a thing for older guys."
A gentle current flows over my arms making the hairs stand on end. "There's nothing embarrassing about that. Paul's a very attractive guy."
"Are, uh, you guys around the same age?"
My ability to swallow has left the building.
Is Darby fishing?
Could he be…interested?
Surely not.
He doesn't know anything about me. He hasn't even seen me.
Which, in turn, makes me very interested in him. If the circumstances were better, this could be like a date version of the blind auditions on The Voice.
"I don't know how old he is," I finally answer. "But I think he's in his fifties. I'm forty-three."
"Right."
Testing the waters to see whether or not my hunch is correct, I supply, "I also believe he's married. And I'm not."
He coughs. "Right."
I can't help but smile. "What about you? Age and relationship status please?"
"Twenty-seven. And single."
"I see."
"Just need to clarify one thing real quick."
"Sure."
"When I said I liked older guys, I didn't mean daddies. That's not what I'm into. I'm happy for people who are, but that isn't my thing, and it's usually the first thing people think of."
I didn't think that. "What is your thing, then? If you don't mind me asking."
He doesn't reply, and I'm worried I may have overstepped.
"I want to be with an older man," he finally says.
"But I want the relationship dynamic to be fifty-fifty.
I'm attracted to older guys because of their experience and obviously their appearance, but I don't want to be someone's boy.
Or toyboy. Or boytoy. Or anything that's lower than.
I want to be equal in all ways. Well…" He chuckles to himself.
"I'm prepared to give up some control in the bedroom. "
I catch the distinct sound of a palm striking flesh.
"Did you just slap yourself?" I ask.
"Ugh, yes."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because normally I have a filter and know what is and isn't socially acceptable to say to a stranger. Something about being locked in here has messed with my abilities in that department. I swear I'm not usually like this."
"Well, that's disappointing. I'm finding you to be quite charming and intriguing and funny."
Nothing.
"You are?" Darby asks.
"I sure am. One of the reasons I get along so well with Sky is because he's a no-bullshit type of guy. I get the impression you're the same. I like that. So no more slapping." I chew on my lip before adding, "You should let someone else do that."
More nothing.
Okay, that was too much.
"I'm sorry," I say at the same time he asks, "Are you flirting with me?"
I tug at the ends of my hair and scream on the inside.
You'd think at forty-three I'd be better versed at this than I am.
When it comes to fending off unwanted advances, I'm a pro.
But a little innocent flirting? I'm like a penguin trying to climb a tree.
This is so far outside my wheelhouse it's not even funny.
"Yes," I admit. "And it's really fucking hard when all I see is a door, and I am sorely out of practice. I'll stop now."
"Well, that's disappointing," he says, and somehow I can tell he's smiling. In fact, I'd bet my bungalow he's smiling. "I'm finding you to be quite interesting and smart and sexy."
A warm laugh spills out of me. "Well played, Mr. Adams. Well played."
"Why, thank you." He sounds genuinely pleased with himself, and I would love to see him right now, hating that I only caught a glimpse of him across the crowded store.
What color are his eyes?
Does he have dimples when he smiles?
Is he blushing right now?
"And since I've divulged way too much about myself," he says. "I think you should even out the score and tell me something about you."
I've got no problem with that. I like to consider myself an open book. "Ask me anything. What would you like to know?"
He takes his time thinking about it, and then he comes out with the one topic I've spent close to the last two decades trying to put behind me.
"Why did you give up modeling?"