34. Brent
34
Brent
S omething has upset Joey. I wish I could say I know that because I’m a sensitive guy, but the misery on her face is a pretty obvious sign. Did Caitlyn already get to her?
Fuck, I hope that’s not it. It’s only been a few hours since her call, and I still haven’t wrapped my head around it. When I got home, I turned on my Xbox and just tuned out. I didn’t want to think about anything at all.
I leave Joey be for now and text Charlie, hoping she knows what’s going on.
ME: Do you know why Joey would be upset?
CHARLIE: Shit. I was hoping she hadn’t seen it. Is she OK?
ME: Seen what?
CHARLIE: People are assholes.
ME: What happened?!
Charlie sends a link that I click on. I breathe a sigh of relief that it has nothing to do with Caitlyn. But as I read on, my blood starts to boil. People are assholes. What gives them the right to say shit about someone they’ve never met? I wish they’d say it to my face so I could beat the fucking crap out of them. Fucking cowards.
But I know better than to engage in a war of words on the Internet. I forward Charlie’s link and fire off a text to Scott: Find out who took this photo and posted it.
Scott replies almost immediately: I was afraid you’d say that. I’ll get on it, but there’s not much you can do about it.
Probably not, but if it’s a paparazzo, I’ll do what I can to make his life miserable.
I read some more comments, then close out the page in disgust when a new message pops up from Charlie: Have her call me if she wants to talk.
Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her, I reply.
But how? I’ll be lucky if she ever steps foot outside with me again. It’s not fair that she has become a public target because of me. It pained me to learn how deep her self-esteem issues went. This is a huge blow to her budding confidence and a setback to the progress she’s made.
I’ve been in awe watching her become more comfortable in her own skin. I’d like to think I have something to do with that.
I sigh. All I can do is assure her she is the most beautiful woman in the world to me and what anyone else thinks doesn’t matter. They’re just jealous, vindictive assholes who’d give anything to be in a photo—no matter how they look—alongside a celebrity.
When Joey comes out of the bedroom, she is subdued but makes an effort to act normal. Giving me a kiss, she goes into the kitchen to start dinner but stops when she sees the food containers and plates already set up on the bar. She turns to me. “What’s this?”
“Since I had an early day, I made dinner.” I grin at her. “That is, I made it appear. But I would have made it if I knew how.”
I pour the wine and keep the conversation light while we eat, though I notice she barely touches her food. When we finish, I tell her to put her feet up while I clean the kitchen. She goes without argument and turns on the TV but doesn’t actually watch anything. She browses endlessly through the options.
When I’m done cleaning, I come sit next to her, one arm around her in silent comfort while she continues to channel surf.
Deciding on the best way to convey how beautiful I think she is, I get to work. I connect the speakers to my phone and play the first song, “Shape of You” by Ed Sheeran. Songs are much better at expressing what I’d never be able to say on my own. I find more and add them to a new playlist. When I finish selecting the songs, I give her a kiss, then go into the bedroom to make some preparations.
A few minutes later I come back out and turn up the speaker volume. She looks at me, startled, when I take the remote from her and turn the TV off. I pull her up from the sofa and hold her close, keeping her hand in mine and encouraging her to move with me as Roy Orbison sings about a pretty woman.
“What are you doing?”
“I feel like dancing,” I answer, spinning her around. “Come on, let me see that sexy body move. I know you can. I couldn’t take my eyes off you when I saw you dance at the club.”
Joey resists, but I persist, twirling her again. She eventually moves, stiffly at first, then slowly warming up, and starts dancing with me, laughing when I tip her over my arm.
“Pretty Woman” transitions into “What Makes You Beautiful,” and Joey stops suddenly, at the first line. I’m caught. Subtle, I am not.
“You know.” Her smile is gone, and she stands stiffly in front of me, her arms crossing in front of her, her shoulders hunching. It’s killing me to see her like this, trying to crawl inside herself.
I put my hands on her hips and hold her to me, providing what comfort I can.
“I saw. Charlie told me. Why didn’t you?”
She hitches one shoulder up. “It’s humiliating. And embarrassing for you to—”
“What the fuck? You have no reason to be humiliated. And as for me…why would—” And then it hits me and I’m flabbergasted. “You think I’m embarrassed to be seen with you?”
It’s an understatement to say I’m shocked when she looks down instead of voicing a denial.
“Jesus, you did. How could you think that when I’ve been telling you, showing you all this time how beautiful and sexy you are? How much I like you and admire you for everything you’ve accomplished. Instead you believe the crap some losers post online?”
Joey gazes at me, her eyes wet. “It’s stupid to be upset but…”
I sigh at her tears and soften my voice. “It’s not stupid to have feelings.” I cup her face and kiss her tenderly, brushing away the tear that overflows. “But don’t let other people—strangers—get to you like this. And I don’t mean to make light of what you’re feeling, baby, but does what those fuckers think mean more to you than what I do?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that. It’s…Well, you…”
“Tell me, baby.”
She takes a deep breath and meets my gaze, reminding me of when she screwed up her courage to ask me to be her first lover.
“We kept our…our arrangement quiet because I was working for the team,” she says. “But you’re still telling reporters that we’re…that I work for you and we’re just friends.”
I try to see the situation from her point of view, and I don’t like what I’m seeing.
“I did that for you! I thought…” I blow out a breath, raking my fingers through my hair. “You’d be in the spotlight if they knew the truth about us, Josie. You’d have people following you —reporters, fans, crazies. I thought you’d hate that.”
“You’re right. I would.”
She gives me a shaky smile and leans into me, her cheek against my chest. I enfold her in my arms and hold her, providing whatever comfort I can. After a few moments, I pull back and push a tendril of hair off her face.
“Here, let me show you something.” I grab my phone and open my social media feed. As expected, I see a bunch of my teammates have posted their own caught-at-the-wrong-moment photos. I’d posted one of mine using #RealLifeUnfiltered and messaged my friends to do the same. As athletes, we’re always making faces while playing, so we have lots of unflattering candids to choose from. But I’m shocked to see how viral the hashtag has gone. Smiling, I turn my screen so Joey can see it.
“I’d rather not be shown any more social media today,” she says, her voice hitching.
“No, look. It’s all good.”
She takes the phone with trembling fingers and scrolls over the images. Not only did my friends post their photos of themselves caught at the worst possible time, but so did thousands of other people, including celebrities.
The captions were self-deprecating and the comments were humorous in a good-natured way. I don’t show her all the positive comments left by people who know Joey under the photo of us. It’s still littered with asshole comments from earlier. So I take my phone and read some of them to her.
After reading a bunch of them, I close out the social media app, causing the playlist to resume. Joe Cocker croons “You Are So Beautiful.” I remember my parents dancing to this when I was a kid. I take her in my arms, and we slow dance for the short song.
I mouth the last line and Joey smiles tentatively, making me feel like I’ve won the Super Bowl single-handedly. I kiss her, then lift her into my arms just as Bruno Mars’ “Just the Way You Are” comes on.
“Brent, what are you doing?” She gasps when I enter the bedroom. I’ve taken candles from the bathroom, the only items she’s added to the penthouse besides her clothes and bathroom items.
It makes me realize that she’s put very little of herself into the place even though this is now her home too. Obviously she doesn’t feel the same way since she hasn’t been comfortable enough to change anything around. But that is a conversation for another day—soon.
I put her down and kiss her while I slowly undress her, touching my lips to each patch of skin I uncover until she’s standing naked in front of me. The candlelight flickers over her tall, beautiful body, and I wish I’d added “Venus” to my playlist. Because that’s what she looks like, a goddess.
But “Your Body Is a Wonderland,” which comes up next, is pretty apt too. I lay her on the bed and touch her tenderly, letting my hands and mouth show her how perfect I think she is. I stroke my palms over her golden skin, followed by my lips, until she’s lifting into my touch and begging me to make love to her.
And I do, my movements slow, tender, endless while Christina Aguilera croons about being beautiful.
We lie wrapped around each other afterward, listening to the last notes of Prince’s “Most Beautiful Girl in the World.” I feel Joey softly kiss my shoulder, and a breath of air stirs against my skin as she whispers a barely audible, “I love you.”
It takes everything I have to keep my breath even, despite my heart tripping into a galloping beat. I pretend to be asleep, but there’s no way she can’t feel the pounding in my chest with her palm right over it. I’m filled with a jumbled mass of emotions, and I don’t like it.
A part of me is ashamed to get angry at her avowal of love. It’s there, between us now, and can never be taken back. Whatever I say or don’t say will be remembered forever as my immediate response to her words.
Another part of me is elated that this woman loves me. It means she won’t leave me on a whim or if something better comes along.
And, of course, the biggest emotion is fear. What will this mean for our future? What are her expectations? And most importantly, how do I feel in return?