Lovegame(15)

“I may or may not own numerous props from the different Harry Potter movies.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the flying car and the pensieve. Hypothetically, of course.”

“Of course.” He replaces the book and moves on to another shelf where he picks out a copy of the collected poems of Allen Ginsberg in one hand and a copy of Alice in Wonderland in the other. “Your reading tastes are eclectic.”

“Yes. But those two fit together better than you might think. Especially”—I pull out a copy of The Bell Jar and hand it to him—“if you look at Sylvia Plath as a bridge between the two.”

“Is that what this feels like to you sometimes? Like you’re in the bell jar?”

“More like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. I have a couple of the props from that movie as well out in my garden.”

“So you are a collector.”

“Only of things that matter to me.” I take the books from him, set them gently back on the shelf.

He watches my every move, head tilted and eyes narrowed. I expect him to reach for another book, but instead he asks, “What does matter to you?”

“World peace. Climate change. Immunizations and healthcare in developing nations.”

“You sound flippant when you say that, like it’s a pat answer. But the truth is, you fund and speak on behalf of organizations all the time that are working to combat those problems.”

“They’re important issues. Children die every day from conditions that are completely treatable. I’m not okay with that.”

“Is that why you started the Salvatore Romero Memorial Foundation?”

“Ending childhood hunger—in both developing and developed nations—was a cause close to my father’s heart. I started the foundation to continue his work, and to add to it.”

“You do a nice job of it.”

“Thank you.” I shift away from him, suddenly nervous with all this talk of philanthropy. I give back because I can, and because the world we live in needs as much help as it can get. And yes, sometimes I do use my name and my face to raise awareness and open doors for whatever cause I’m championing. But to be singled out for it in an interview…that’s not why I do it and I really, really wish he could just drop it.

Before I can say anything else or attempt to drive the conversation in a different direction, my phone beeps with a series of texts. I pull it out, barely succeed in not wincing when I see my mother’s name slide across the screen.

Fuck. She is the last thing I need to have to deal with right now.

Still, I open messages and read the seven texts she’s sent in quick succession.

How is the photo shoot going?

Are you okay?

I know how much these things bother you, but you have to just keep your head up.

Don’t let the photographer get to you. Remember you’re beautiful and that’s what matters.

And don’t worry about that article in OK. Nobody believes that trash. Focus on wowing them at the shoot. Awards season is getting ready to kick off.

Did you take a tranquilizer this morning like I suggested?

Do you need me to come over?



It’s a lot, but then my mother always is. I ignore most of the texts—including the one about the article in OK, whatever it was. I wish I could ignore them all, but it’s the last text that alarms me, that takes me from weary to worried in the blink of an eye. She is more than capable of crashing my interview and frankly, that’s the last thing I want right now.

I’m fine

Don’t worry

Don’t come over. I’ll call you later



The phone beeps with her answering texts, but this time I ignore them. Instead, I shove the phone deep into my pocket and try to get her well-meaning words out of my head. She’s not subtle—doesn’t know how to be—but her concern is genuine and that’s what matters. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

As long as she doesn’t come over here and start babbling to Ian about whatever is running through her head, everything will be fine.

But the threat of her imminent appearance still hangs over me and I decide it might be best to hurry this along. Just in case she disregards my instructions not to come. After all, I can’t very well leave my mother standing on the front porch of the house that had once been hers, banging on the door to get in as I rush Ian out the back.

Vanity Fair would not be impressed.

“Is there anything else you want to see in here?” I ask him even as I move toward the door.

He puts down the book he’d picked up when I’d been texting—The Lover by Marguerite Duras—and says, “Actually, yes.”

I wait for the inevitable request to see my bedroom, for the inevitable innuendos and the lust he doesn’t even try to hide.

They don’t come. Instead he turns slowly, examining every nook and cranny of my over-the-top sitting room. His gaze lingers at the watercolors on the wall above the couch, and on the guitar resting drunkenly in the corner.

He’s so quiet in those moments, so self-possessed and reflective and not what I was expecting at all, that I can’t help wondering…can’t help thinking…what it would be like to be with him.

The soft touch of his hands on my skin.

The wet press of his mouth to my neck.