Page 3 of The Photo
Rowan Hudson:
Although such perfection must be flawed. Perhaps he has weird shaped toes, all gnarly and claw like, or he’s got smelly belly button fluff, or hates seahorses. There has to be something unlikeable beneath the hotness that is Noah. I could settle for fluff and messed up toes as long as his nails are trimmed, and he has a good soul. Anyway, have a great week. I’m so happy he finally saw you.
“There,” I say triumphantly, hitting send. “That leaves it open for Lucy to replyandgives her a little extra to think about.”
Chelsea scrunches the snack wrapper and sniggers. “You’re bonkers, Rowan.” She motions to the bar girl for another two pints and we settle back. “Do you like him that much?”
“I’ve been following him for a year. Every day without fail. It’s weird; it’s like we’re kindred spirits, even though he doesn't give too much away. The bits I’ve learned so far would make him the perfect date for me. I think we’d get on like a house on fire, like really get on.” I ignore Chelsea’s blow job mime, with her tongue pushing out her cheek and her curled fist bobbing back and forth.
“You’re disgusting.” I smirk.
“Oh, come on, Hudson. Let’s be honest here, you’ve added all his photos to your…” Two sets of fingers curl in the air. “Wank bank.”
My cheeks flash, not with a delicate pink blush, but with a fiery blazing red that screams, ‘caught’. “Don’t be silly. Who does that?”
Chelsea’s brows lift with a comical height, and she stabs a thumb to her chest. “This chick does—and do not pretend you don’t.”
I swiftly change the subject under the duress of heat tingling over my skin. “He’s a super-rich model who spends vacations in South America, and I’m a student who has to save just to buy a train ticket to the north coast of Ireland.” The bar girl carries our drinks over on a tray and sets them down. I welcome the new cider with a mini hand clap. “Sometimes he recommends songs and books. I loved everything on his hit list.”
“Oh, a match made in Heaven,” she mocks, this time directing two fingers to her mouth to fake a gag. “He is gorgeous. I’ll give him that.” Her phone beeps, and she glances at the message. “Guys like him have the choice of any woman they want. He only has to think of the perfect woman, and she’ll saunter into his life.”
“I wonder what his ideal woman looks like?” I think of my own physical appearance. Petite, short, hobbit-esqse, with pale green eyes and copper hair falling below my shoulder blades. There are threads of gold woven through the lengths left in the aftermath of a hair coloring experiment that went wrong. I make them sound more magical than they are. They’re simply dry and unfashionable. My clothing style is carefree and casual, mixing flat boots with dainty dresses.
“I bet he likes Cuban women, with curves and attitude, who prance around the room with mega confidence and killer heels. The kind of women who are stuffed into a bikini with only a scrap of material covering nipples the size of bullets. Apparently, that’s what female models wear on set. Oh, and a seductive purring accent that’s raspy and breathless.” Chelsea drifts off with a dreamy look in her eyes. She’s putting way too much detail on the table.
“Who doesn’t like Cuban women?” My forehead wrinkles. I’m not super sexy, and my broad accent is like nails scratching a blackboard, but I am cute and quirky, if those are appealing qualities to a hot male model.
I’m also an idiot for being so mentally involved with an unattainable public figure. He’s my secret addiction. A sexy stranger who calls to me from the depths of social media. When I try to rationalize my constant profile checking, I sound desperate. Perhaps the remedy is to get laid for once.
From the cylindrical cider surface, my somber reflection stares back at me, oddly disfigured and misshapen. That's the face of rejection. That's why he chose Lucy over me.
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t in his league.” Chelsea opens her second packet of snacks. “I’m sure he likes small women with rusty hair.”
What a compliment. “Chelsea, you have such a way with words.” I stick out my tongue.
“Ugh! Put that slug away. If a bird flies by it will pinch it right from your mouth.” Chelsea stops chewing and pretends to duck from a low flying imaginary bird.
“We’re indoors.” I point out.
Chelsea laughs, shaking her head. “Jonah used to fall for that all the time. He’s shit scared of crows now.”
My attention falls to my phone. A message alert blinks. ‘N Adams has sent a message.’ Hold on! Wait a minute. What? Stop the bus—I’ve got on the wrong one.
I inhale in so fast I almost choke on cheesy debris. “Chelsea. What the hell?” My eyes are so wide they dry quickly. “Does that say what I think it does.”
Chelsea peers over the rim of her pint glass and squints. “N Adams sent you a message?” She sounds just as confused as I do. “What did you do?” she asks in a rush.
“I replied to the story - like a personal message.”
“Whose story.”
“The one I showed you.”
“Noah's story, with her repost?”
Oh shit, shit, shit, shit. “Did I message him directly?”
“You must have—” Her words are hidden behind the palm trying to hide her nervous titter.
