Listening to him, it had occurred to me to say, “I’m honored that you find me more interesting than the Obamas,” but what came out of my mouth instead was “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in my entire life.” I raised my head to look at him. “And I don’t think it’s self-centered.”
“Oh, good.” He grinned.
“Just so you know,” I said, “you weren’t wrong about me being private and hating to have my picture taken, or at least by a random dude jumping out of the bushes.”
“I did know,” he said. “Because you threatened to stay at a hotel when I mentioned there might be paparazzi at that shopping center when you were arriving. If I’m not mistaken, you also once told me you were a goblin who’d never appeared onstage at TNO.”
“Oh, right.” I brought my hand up to my face in embarrassment. “I mean, there wasn’t a second when I actually wanted to stay at a hotel. I always wanted to stay with you. I just got anxious.”
“I like that you’re private. You realize that there are women who dated me in order to get their picture in magazines, don’t you?”
This was an aspect of the situation I hadn’t considered. “I bet that was more of a fringe benefit than the main reason,” I said. “I’m sure you being charming and adorable was the main reason.”
Dryly, he said, “You might be surprised.”
“I may have a flaw or two, but I solemnly swear that I’ll never use you to try to advance my modeling career. Or to get my cannabis-infused-jams-and-jellies small business off the ground.”
He laughed. “That reminds me there are two jokes I’ve thought about making when we’re”—he patted my bare hip—“like this. Should I try them out on you?”
“You definitely should.”
“The first one, the joke part isn’t the sentiment. It’s the callback.”
I was smiling as I said, “Not to discourage you, but preemptively explaining a joke rarely enhances it.”
“Okay,” he said. “Baby, you don’t know how beautiful you are. You’re so perfect, I never thought I’d find this, am I in heaven?” When I laughed, he said, “Do you know what that’s a reference to?”
“Yes.” I leaned in and kissed him. “And I do think it’s funny.”
“But you also get that it’s really how I feel? That’s why I think of it whenever we’re in bed.”
“Thank you for your delusionally generous view of me. What’s the other joke?”
“This one is a little crude.”
“Even better.”
“I’m so happy that I can’t wipe the smile off my penis.”
This time, I really, really laughed, and he said, “Seriously, the sound of you laughing—there’s nothing else like it.”
* * *
—
To my surprise, the first person to contact me about the photos wasn’t Henrietta; it was Danny. Yo Chuckles, read his text, which arrived that night just after 10 P.M. Pacific time. He’d included a link to an online tabloid with the headline “Noah Brewster Spotted on Hike with Mystery Woman.” Noah and I were watching a movie in the sitting area off the kitchen but had paused it while he got up to pee.
Danny’s next text was Aren’t u a dark horse
Weird huh? I replied. How are you doing?
From Danny: Trying to hide how much I dig the pandemic. This was followed by a photo of a placid, empty pool in the foreground, then some well-manicured hedges, then part of a vast white brick house that I assumed to be Nigel’s Hamptons mansion, an assumption confirmed when Danny added, Nigel likes to keep it at a sweet 81 degrees
The pool? I replied. Or all of the Hamptons?
From Danny: Are u and NB cuffed?
I replied with the shrugging brown-haired white woman emoji then added, Pretty sure Noah keeps his closer to a sweet 75 degrees
Danny: To each his/her own sugar daddy
I didn’t love this, nor was I convinced that the implication was unfair.
Btw he and Annabel never really dated back in 2018, I wrote.
Danny: Old news Chuckles
Danny: Good to see u enjoying yourself for once
The next text was indeed from Henrietta, after a screenshot taken of a different online gossip site: My fav hetero headline ever! This one was “Does Noah Brewster Have a New Girlfriend?”
I skimmed both articles. I could see that already there were many more, all regurgitating the same minimal information—Noah, debuting a newly shorn look, and the unidentified woman took a hike in the celeb-popular Temescal Canyon Park…Brewster, who was last linked with jewelry designer Louisiana Williams…Noah Brewster, almost unrecognizable without his signature long hair, and his brunette date were all smiles following the afternoon stroll…The photos, of which there seemed to be just three, were of us before we’d realized the paparazzo was there, when we were holding hands and both looking slightly downward at the path in front of us, except in one Noah was facing me and speaking. Though I’d been wearing what I thought of as my cutest and sleekest leggings, my thighs looked lumpier than they did in my mind’s eye. On the gossip site, some of the photos helpfully included superimposed bright green arrows pointing at the absence of Noah’s hair under his baseball cap.
I could hear Noah returning, and I had the impulse to toss my phone behind a cushion, but I hadn’t done so by the time he appeared. “Is everything okay?” he asked.
I hesitated then said, “I think the photos are online. I mean they are online.”
He looked displeased. “Can I make a suggestion? Ignore it completely, and let’s let my publicist deal with anything that needs to be dealt with tomorrow.”
I hesitated—I didn’t want to upset him, but it felt odd for him not to know—then said, “Are those the first photos since you shaved your head?”
He grimaced. “Is that what they’re making this about?”
“Partly. Is that also some of the reason you didn’t want your picture taken?” Had my essential mistake been the assumption that his displeasure in the parking lot was at all connected to me?
But he shook his head. “When I had Covid, I wondered if I was going to die. Or, I know I told you this, but if I was going to permanently lose my voice. And compared to either of those, if they’re going to mock me for a haircut”—he shrugged—“so be it.”
“They’re treating it more as breaking news than mocking it. But yeah.” He was still standing, and I held open my arms. “Fuck ’em,” I said. He sat and leaned into me, letting me enfold him from the side, and I hugged him tightly.
But my ability to keep things in perspective was short-lived. I’d placed my phone on the table in front of the couch, then after the movie ended, I glanced at it and recoiled; I had twelve new texts, which was a lot for me, especially at this hour. While Noah was brushing his teeth, I set my phone on the floor in the hall outside his bedroom and closed the door. We cuddled without having sex before he fell asleep （I guess the passion is gone forever, I thought）， then I lay awake for a solid two hours, fell asleep briefly, awakened, and scurried to the guest room to read every article and every comment. Among the comments, blatant insults such as Nhoa Brewster would never date a women who looks like that shes obvously his assitant and His music sucks he looks so old with no hair now no wonder he cant get hotties were interspersed with backhanded compliments along the lines of In our superficial times I respect Noah even more for not caring what his GF looks like! I also read every text and email I’d received overnight from about fifty people, including my college roommate, Denise; a childhood babysitter; and a co-worker from the credit card magazine. Also from my agent, manager, and the director of publicity for TNO; apparently, at some point, I’d been identified by name and occupation, and the online articles had been updated to reflect this information.