Famous (17 page)

“She calls a cab, goes to the airport, and catches the next plane home,” Dad said.

“And there's Avy,” I said.

“Your friend the runaway?” Mom scoffed. “Now that's a reassuring thought.”

“That's so unfair!” I said. “His parents are totally supportive of what he's doing.” What I didn't mention was the distance I felt growing between Avy and me. But I still believed that the next time we saw each other we'd pick up exactly where we'd left off as if we'd never stopped communicating at all.

Dad cleared his throat. “Do you realize that Jamie has stuck to her photography for almost three years? And in that time she's achieved things that many photographers never achieve in their entire lifetimes? Now, maybe it's still just a fad she'll someday outgrow—”

“Dad!” I gasped, feeling hurt by what he was implying.

He held up his hand. “Let me finish, honey. Maybe it's a fad, but maybe it isn't. None of us really knows. But what I do know is that, after all she's accomplished, it would be unfair of us to stop her from taking this assignment. Yes, for the first time in her life, she'll be far away and on her own. But she's been navigating around New York on her own for years. Frankly, that seems a lot more challenging than LA. I think she's probably ready for it.” He turned to me. “We'll hear from you every day, right?”

“Hourly texts, if it makes you happy.” I felt my spirits start to soar. This had to be the final volley of cannon fire that would win the war for my side.

In the den Alex made a sound that meant he wanted someone. Mom and Dad locked eyes for a moment. “I'll see what he wants,” Dad said, and got up.

Mom waited until he left the room, then turned to me. I was surprised to see her eyes looking red rimmed and teary. She took my hand in hers. “Promise me you won't do the same thing?”

I gazed at her uncertainly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, go out there and not come back. Like Avy.”

The idea had never occurred to me. “No, Mom. No way. I promise.”

A single tear spilled out of her eyes and ran down her cheek. “You're sure?”

“Yes, Mom. I promise. I swear.”

When people find out what I do, the first question they ask is, what famous people have I met? Have I met this one or that one? What was she like? Truth is, they're pretty much like everyone else. Some are nasty, some are nice. Some treat you like dirt. Some can't thank you enough for just doing your job. Big surprise, right?

When I get home at night, my wife and daughters know not to ask. They know I'll tell them if I met someone interesting or something happened that I think they'd like to hear about. But that doesn't stop them from reading all the magazines and watching all the TV shows. We'll sit at the dinner table and they'll talk
about what this star did or that one said. I don't even know who they're talking about half the time because they only use first names. Like, “Did you see how much weight Rebecca gained?” And I'm like, “Rebecca who? We don't know any Rebeccas.” And one of them will say, “Shut up and eat your dinner, Dad.”

They talk about these famous people like they're our friends and neighbors. But maybe it's just natural. In the old days when we all lived in little villages, everybody saw everybody every day and knew everybody's business. So there was plenty to talk about. Now we go home at night and stare at the TV. Those are the people we see, so those are the ones we talk about, right? I mean, when you get right down to it, what's the difference between my wife and daughters arguing about some star's new diet and me and my friends arguing about Barry Bonds's home run record?

But I don't mean to say that things are the same as they've always been. When I was a kid and we talked about what we wanted to be when we grew up, we wanted to be things like firemen and astronauts and baseball players. Last week I read an article in
USA Today
where they asked kids what they wanted to be when they grew up. Eighty percent—four out of every five kids—said they wanted to be rich and famous. When did that become an occupation?

THE NIGHT BEFORE I WAS TO LEAVE FOR LA FOR THE WILLOW ASSIGNMENT,
Shelby had another party, but this time I didn't want to go.

“We'll just make an appearance,” Nasim said on the phone when I told him I wanted it to be only the two of us that night.

“Do we
have
to?” I groaned.

“It would be impolite to accept the invitation and then not show up.”

We agreed to meet at the party. Around ten thirty, the text came and I took a cab to a club in Chelsea. A woman in a dark coat standing at the door checked my name off
a clipboard. The party was downstairs in a private room with a DJ playing loud dance music, a nonalcoholic bar, and a couple of waiters circulating through the crowd with trays of hors d'oeuvres.

I spotted Nasim talking to Shelby. Unlike most of the guys at the party, Nasim was wearing a blazer. The collar of his white shirt contrasted against his olive skin. I felt proud of how elegant he looked. While many of the girls wore jeans, Shelby wore a red dress.

“I'm so glad you could come,” she said, kissing me on the cheek in a way that made me wonder if this was practice for the grand parties she would someday throw for her banker or lawyer or politician husband.

I turned to Nasim to kiss him hello, but somehow my lips hit his cheek and not his lips. While I was wearing jeans, I also had on my favorite fancy silk blouse and had been extra careful with my makeup and hair. I hoped he would notice and say something nice, but he didn't. Shelby went off to welcome her other guests. Feeling the music's loud, infectious beat, I slid my arms around Nasim's waist and began to sway.

He placed his hands on my shoulders, not around my waist, and said, “I thought you didn't want to come tonight.”

It wasn't the most welcoming thing he could have said, but I decided to ignore it. “I'm happy as long as I'm with you.” I kept swaying, hoping he'd slide his arms around
me, but when I looked up at him, he was gazing off at the crowd. To get his attention, I said the first thing that came to mind: “I'm going to miss you.”

“When do you leave?” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Shouldn't you be home, resting up for the trip?”

I stopped moving with the music and stared up at him, wondering why he'd said that. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No,” he answered without a smile or any other gesture to indicate that he found the thought silly.

“Are you sure?”

“Why would I want to get rid of you?”

“I don't know. Maybe because you think I've been a jerk with my obsession about being a celebrity photographer?”

“You know I think it's admirable,” he said.

Was he being sincere or just saying what he thought I wanted to hear? And why wouldn't he put his arms around me? Was he afraid people might see? Ever since that afternoon when he'd been practicing piano and I'd taken the call from Carla, I felt like things had been different between us. As if Nasim had erected a wall where before there'd been a well-worn path. Feeling insecure, I pulled him closer. “You're not just saying that, are you?”

Waiting for his reassurance, I closed my eyes and pressed the side of my head against his shoulder. But
when he didn't reply I opened my eyes and looked up at him. He was staring across the room . . . at Shelby.

A chill spread through me. Had I missed something major? Something between him and Shelby? Suddenly I didn't want to be at the party. “Can we go?”

Nasim scowled. “Where?”

“I don't care,” I said, growing upset. “Anywhere. You said all we had to do was make an appearance.”

“But where will we go?”

“I said I don't care. I just want to go.” I know I sounded immature and bratty, but I was feeling unsure and scared and jealous. I didn't want him looking at Shelby. I wanted us to be alone, somewhere warm and cozy, secure in the knowledge that he was thinking of me and only me.

We wound up at a Starbucks with two cups of untouched tea on the small table between us. Nasim tapped a plastic stirrer against the tabletop.

“Is something going on with you and Shelby?” I asked.

He blinked and looked surprised. “No . . .”

“Are you sure?”

“I think I'd know. Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. The way you were both dressed tonight. And the way you looked at her. And the way you've been acting. I feel like you're still angry at me because I took that call from Carla at your house.” I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I'm sorry I did that, really. I just . . . I don't know . . . ever
since this whole photography thing started I feel like I've been so incredibly lucky, but I also feel like if I don't take advantage of this opportunity, I may never get a second chance. Sometimes it's really hard to know what's important and what's not.”

I guess I was hoping that Nasim would squeeze my hand back, but he didn't. He stared down at the table, and I got the feeling there was something on his mind he was struggling with.

“What, Nasim?”

He pursed his lips. “You know, so much of our relationship is about you. And I know it's partly my fault because I just go along with it.”

I didn't quite see it that way, but I knew if I argued, he would just withdraw into silence, so I tried, “You mean, like the photography?”

He nodded. “We spend so much time talking about you and what you are doing and what you are thinking about.”

I told myself not to get defensive. Instead of letting it become an argument, I wanted to turn it into something positive. “I'd love to know more about what you're thinking,” I said. “But you never want to talk about yourself.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “So I think maybe I have to do more of that. It's just not something I'm used to.”

I squeezed his hand again. “But you still like me, right? You're not going to dump me and fall in love with Shelby while I'm gone?”

He frowned. “Do you think you're just nervous about this trip?”

“Are you kidding? Not
just
nervous. Totally stressed. And I'd feel a lot better if I knew my boyfriend still cared about me.”

His hold on my hand stayed firm. “I do.”

“Are you
sure
?” I knew it wasn't cool to let all my insecurities spill out, but I really I needed to know the truth.

But instead of reassuring me again, Nasim stiffened and withdrew his hand. “I just told you I did.”

Just when it felt like things were warming up between us, they went cold again. I could feel my emotions getting the better of me. “No, you didn't. All you've told me tonight was that I should go home and rest up for the trip.”

“What's wrong with that?” he asked.

“I told you, I feel like you're trying to get rid of me. And I'm still wondering if it's because you'd rather be with Shelby.”

Nasim glanced up at the ceiling as if he was getting impatient with my continued neediness. I felt stung by his insensitivity.

“I'm not up there,” I snapped. “I'm here.” I'd never snapped at him before and was as surprised as Nasim. I'd hardly ever snapped at
anyone
before. The harshness of my voice drew the attention of some of those seated around
us. Nasim glanced at them, and then his eyes returned to mine. They were clear and direct, and maybe a little hard. He stood up. “I'll get you a cab.”

“I can get my own cab,” I said.

We went outside. I stood silently on the curb with my arms crossed while Nasim flagged a taxi. There was no way he'd let me get one on my own. He was much too much of a gentleman. And too much of a gentleman to get involved in a scene with his girlfriend in a Starbucks. Meanwhile, I tried to hold myself together on the outside, even though my insides were on wash cycle, churning and twisting.