Say the Word(37)

“Morning sunshine,” I called.

“Unggh.”

“Coffee?” I asked.

“Mmhh.”

I’d take that as a yes. I hopped down from the stool, bypassed Nate — who was frying an egg shirtless and, let me tell you, his abs were nothing to shake a stick at — and fetched a mug from one of the overhead cupboards. After pouring a cup for Fae, I navigated slowly across the loft to where she was sprawled on one half of the red sectional.

The loft had a modern-industrial feel, with exposed brick walls and a ceiling crossed by painted ducts and beams. Yet, despite the minimalist architecture, the space was bursting with color. None of the furniture matched, and several of Nate’s vibrant, 10x10 foot canvases leaned against each wall. The windows were huge, looking down at a street full of similar refurbished industrial warehouses, most of which housed artists and eccentrics. The amount of natural light that poured in from the large windows was incredible — a vast change from the one small pane my own apartment boasted — but always left the uninsulated loft chilly. Fae and I kept spare sweaters tucked away in Simon’s closet, though, in a pinch, we’d both been known to steal a sweatshirt from Shane or Nate.

Thankfully, each of the boys had their own room, so whenever Fae and I crashed here we made good use of their large sectional. When I approached, Fae perked up and immediately reached for her steaming cup.

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” she asked, after she’d taken her first sip and once again joined the world of the living.

“Nothing much,” I said with a shrug. “Cyber-stalking the ex-love of my life for a few hours. After that, my schedule’s pretty free.”

Fae snorted with laughter, sending a line of coffee dribbling down her chin.

“Nice,” Nate called from the stove. “Very ladylike.”

His comments only induced more laughter from Fae, and after a few seconds I joined in with her.

“I propose we ex-boyfriend-stalk as a team, and then hit the market as a reward,” Fae suggested.

“Done,” I agreed instantly. The Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market was a labyrinth of second-hand treasures, from furniture, to jewelry, to designer fashions that had been worn once by wealthy owners only to be cast away. We made it a habit to go every few weeks — more often in the summer months. Like a bloodhound on the trail, Fae somehow always managed to find the best deals. She’d once found a vintage Chanel jacket for a tenth of its original value. Another time, she’d bartered a Miu Miu handbag with a broken clasp down $500 from the seller’s starting price.

Fae grabbed Nate’s laptop off the coffee table. “Nate! Can we use your laptop?” she yelled, already powering it on.

“No!” Nate yelled back. “Last time you left about seventy-five Pinterest tabs open and you changed all my bookmarks to fashion websites.”

“Okay, thanks! You’re a peach!” she called, clicking the internet icon. Her fingers tapped the sides of the keyboard, impatiently waiting for the search bar to appear. I watched as she typed “Sebastian Covington” and my breath caught in my throat as her index finger hovered over the ENTER key. I had never — not once in seven years — allowed myself this weakness. Looking for him before would’ve been pointless and guaranteed nothing but pain and suffering on my part. And now, ironically, I was being forced into the one thing I’d never wanted to know about — how his life had turned out once I’d left him behind.

“Ready?” Fae asked, turning speculative eyes to me. I was clutching my coffee cup so tightly that my knuckles turned white and I was afraid the thin porcelain might crack beneath the strain. I swallowed roughly.

“As I’ll ever be,” I replied. “Just do it. Rip off the Band-Aid.”

For the first time ever, I cursed Google’s speediness. Within milliseconds, thousands of results poured across the screen. His personal website. Links to his most famous magazine covers. His online photo gallery. His credentials. The prestigious awards he’d won.

2009 IPA Photographer of the Year.

2011 L’Iris d’Or Award Winner.

2011 National Press Photographer of the Year.

2013 Pulitzer Prize Winner.

I wasn’t a photography buff by any means, but even I recognized some of those awards by name and knew that they were a big deal. Moreover, his client list boasted some of the biggest magazines in the industry, including National Geographic, TIME, Sports Illustrated, People, Maxim, Rolling Stone…

The list went on and on.

As if I hadn’t been intimidated enough whenever I was in his presence, now I knew I’d be sharing airspace with a photography god. Sebastian Covington had been hailed by even the toughest critics as a marvel. A creative genius. A breath of fresh air, who captured real human emotion with his lens.

Fae and I read in silence for nearly an hour, eyes skimming simultaneously over articles about his travels. He’d been everywhere we’d ever talked about going together as kids — and he’d done it without me.

Paris.

The Australian Outback.

Thailand.

Belize.

Cape Town.

Iceland.

Buenos Aires.

Fiji.

I felt my heart swell uncomfortably in my chest as jealousy warred with happiness. He’d done it — everything we ever wanted to do together. That made me feel overjoyed, because it meant walking away from him hadn’t all been for nothing. He’d had a great life without me.