“I’m not anybody.”
But her gaze stays locked on my face, recognition dawning in her eyes. I’m newly aware of the sweat stains on my dress, the moldy scent of the holding cell in my clothes and hair, the blotches on my skin from crying. “I’m a hungry customer.” I try a smile. “That’s who I am.”
She gives me a weak smile back, her pale cheeks flushing red. She leaves quickly with our order.
I look at Luke. “I don’t like being more famous than you.” Out of the corner of my eye I can see her raising her phone to take a picture.
Luke spots her too. “Oh shit,” he says. “We should leave.”
But I’m already up and heading toward this girl.
“Camille,” Luke says. “Camille, wait.”
Within seconds I’m inches away from the waitress, glaring into the lens of her phone. “You want a close-up?”
“Uh . . . I . . .”
I swipe the phone out of her hand. Her mouth drops open, and she looks like Lisette, then Harris, then a combination of the two. I clutch the phone so tightly, my hand hurts. I want to smash it to the floor, but I don’t. I don’t. I can’t. You can’t do things like that. I stare at the screen—at my own face in the picture she’s taken, gaunt and unfamiliar. She’s about to text it to someone. It’s her, the waitress has typed, along with a goggle-eyed emoji and a half-dozen exclamation points. The crazy bitch from the Brayburn Club!!!!!!
I delete the text. Hand her back the phone. My voice is calm and quiet and feels as though it’s coming from somewhere else. “You know crazy when you see it, huh? You can diagnose these things?”
Her mouth is still open, her eyes aimed at the floor like a chastised kid.
“Look at me.”
She does. Her eyes are hard and defiant—at least they seem that way to me.
There’s part of me that understands. This girl is eighteen years old. Nineteen tops, meaning that she was around thirteen years old when Emily was killed, and likely didn’t follow the news. In other words, like most of the teenagers snapping and GIFing and spreading the video around, she has no idea of the backstory. But that doesn’t make me any less angry.
I can feel Luke behind me, his weight shifting. “I’m a human being,” I tell the waitress quietly. “I am not your entertainment.”
There may be a change in those eyes, a softening. But I’m not sure. It’s probably my imagination. Luke hands me my purse and phone, which is still powered off. I may never turn it on again.
I head out the door with him close behind me. For the length of the cab ride back to his apartment, we barely say a word.
LUKE’S APARTMENT IS in a Brooklyn Heights brownstone—a lovely place, but small and with thin walls. He bought it a couple of years after graduating NYU and, despite his success, has never thought of upsizing. （“I like it here,” he says. “It’s home.”） So while it goes unsaid that I’ll be crashing on Luke’s couch tonight, it also goes unsaid that I need to be very quiet about it. His girlfriend, Nora, who spends most nights here, is an attorney with a morning commute. She needs her sleep. I get that. What I’m not quite prepared for is that he’s already made up the couch for me, sheets tucked neatly over the cushions, two fluffy pillows resting on a pale blue comforter. My throat clenches up and my vision blurs a little. When I thank him, it comes out the thinnest of whispers. “You’re so good to me.”
Luke waves it off. “I’m out of pancake mix, but I do have eggs and toast,” he whispers. “I can make it for you now. Or do you want to sleep first? Have breakfast in the morning, which is, of course, in about five minutes . . .” He turns to look at me, but I’m already on the couch. “I guess you want to sleep,” he says.