You work is amazing. We’ve featured you on our account today.
Who do we contact to license your photography?
We’re writing an article about boudoir photography. Can we mention you?
I move down to the next message, but the preview makes me stop.
Do us all a favor and
I shouldn’t open it. I’m about to have a potentially stressful dinner of make-believe stories about how great Rich and I are doing. I don’t need anything to upset me, especially without Finn here to comfort me.
It’s a troll trying to get a reaction, Finn would say, and he’d be right. It’s stupid. I lock my phone.
Laughter comes from the next room. My dad will come get me any minute.
Whether I read the message or not, I’ll think about it all during dinner. Wondering if it’s bad. Or legitimate. Or justified. I can’t expect everyone to like what I write. Even the greats have critics.
I type in my passcode and pull up Finn’s inbox again.
Do us all a favor and stop posting this CRAP, you slut.
My throat closes. Crap. Slut. I don’t recognize the sender. But why would I? I read it again. I shouldn’t have opened it. The backs of my eyes begin to ache. Obviously, she doesn’t get what we’re doing. She doesn’t understand my poetry, not like the thousands of other people who follow our account. Why would I care what she thinks?
I hit reply to tell her that in so many words, to suggest she find someone a little less complex to follow. She’s too simple for us. My fingers shake so much that I type gibberish. I backspace to start over, but I just stare at the screen.
I hear Finn’s voice. Leave it. She’s not worth it. You’re the expert.
Some people will think my work is crap. It’s inevitable. And why shouldn’t they? I have no real experience. No degree in literature or journalism. I’m not a model. I can’t really take offense to somebody pointing out the truth: in many ways, I’m a fraud.
But what happens if Finn figures that out? If he realizes my journals are nothing more than the desperate words of a teenage girl in a woman’s body?
“Halston?” Rich asks from the doorway.
I swallow down the urge to cry and turn. “What?”
“George sent me to get you.” He puts his hands in his trouser pockets. His chocolate-colored hair is a little longer than normal, curling around his ears. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I put my phone in my pocket. “I’m fine.”
“Look . . .” Rich walks farther into the room, out of hearing distance of our parents. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t really want to do this, either.”
“Really? It seems to me like you’d enjoy the fact that I’m obligated to play along for a whole weekend.”
“Not really. It actually feels pretty shitty pretending everything’s great when I know we might be over soon.”
I blink away. I don’t want to make him feel that way, but I also can’t have any ambiguity between us. Finn’s made it clear he wouldn’t appreciate that. “It is over, Rich. I won’t change my mind.”
“It’s hard to believe you’re so certain when we were fine just a month ago.”
“We weren’t fine. I mean, we were, but we’ve never been a good match. My dad just needed someone to pawn me off on. With your upstanding family and career track, you were the guy for the job.”
“I still am. Why is it bad that I’m a good boyfriend to you?”
Rich looks handsome in the yellow light. Dean Martin croons about a marshmallow world. Rich is attractive and won’t have trouble finding a girl who’s gaga for him. “I’m not looking for a handler. I want a partner.”
“I can be that. Give me another chance. If not for me, then for yourself.”
“What does that even mean?”
He toes nothing on the ground. Just when I think he won’t respond, he says, “Look at you. I can see right now, and sometimes at work, that you’re sad. You were late yesterday for the third time this month.”
Finn and I had post-breakfast sex in the shower. “So?”
“So I’m worried.”
“Why?”
“Obviously, because I still love you. I’m not the one who ended this.” He sighs. “He’s not good for you.”
My dad? Well, that’s a plot twist I didn’t see coming. Rich has always been my dad’s champion, taking his side over mine nine times out of ten. Maybe some distance has made him see if he wants me, he has to support me. At least more than a ninth of the time. “We have our issues, but I wouldn’t say he’s bad for me.”
“No? If you ask me, that guy’s trouble.”
That guy?
“It concerns me whether or not you’re my girlfriend. I think I have that right since we were together two years.”
Rich sounds almost jealous—of my dad? There are a lot of words to describe George Fox, but trouble isn’t one of them. If he’s not referring to my dad, then who?
“How long have you been seeing him?” Rich asks.
Finn. Our private little world cracks open. It’s too soon for Rich to know about Finn, for my dad to come in and make changes. I curl my hands into fists and take a few steps toward Rich, my pumps solid on the wood floor. “You’ve been spying on me?”
His eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead. “No. If anything, it’s the other way around.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s the one who hunted me down. He brought me into this.”
“Finn?” I ask. “How? When?”
“At the office Wednesday.” Rich’s expression eases. “He didn’t tell you?”
What the . . .? Finn was at my office on Wednesday. But so was I. We were together the entire twenty minutes he was there . . . except when Finn went to the bathroom. “What’d he say to you?”
“He nearly threatened me, Halston.”
“Over what?”
“To stay away. He said he was your boyfriend.”
I told Finn I’d handle Rich. That was my way of saying butt out. This is the kind of thing my dad would do, talking on my behalf, trying to protect me from things that could or might happen instead of letting me handle it on my own. Finn abused my trust, at my office of all places, when he’s the one who’s encouraged me to take back control over my life. I try to muster the anger I should feel, but I’m just as annoyed with Rich, and he’s here. “He is my boyfriend,” I say.
“How can that be?” Rich asks. “We just barely split up.”
This explains the roses and Finn’s surprise visit to my office. He has a possessive streak. I don’t know what to think about the fact that I’m not angry with him. I’ve proven the last few weeks—I’m not all that unhappy about being possessed by him. “When you know, you know.”
“How can you know anything? You’re not yourself right now.”
“Maybe I am.” I touch my chest. “I need to figure out who I am without my meds. You obviously can’t respect that, but you don’t have to.”
“It’s not about respect. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret, to make a . . .”
“Mistake?” I finish.
Rich closes his mouth. He looks surprised by what he just said, but I’m not.
“You don’t have to bite your tongue around me anymore,” I say. “You can blame me. My dad does.”
His face falls. “Jesus, Halston. You act like you and I are on different sides. What you can’t seem to understand is that I care about you. That’s why I want you to be well.”
“You want me to be easy. Calm. That’s what you care about.”
“Is that so bad? Being stable? Not drinking too much wine or beating yourself up over what happened ten years ago or making bad decisions.”
Bad decisions. Rich would think this life I’m building with Finn is bad. Posing half-nude for a man I met earlier less than a month ago and putting the pictures online—it sounds bad, but it doesn’t feel that way. “You have no idea what I’m like without them. I don’t know what I’m like wit
hout them. I’ve never had the chance to find out.”
“Yes you did, and to be blunt, Halston, it was a shit-show. Do I have to remind you how we nearly lost a big account because of that dinner?”
I cross my arms. I’m ready to be done with this conversation. “No.”
“You can be reckless, which is why someone has to look out for you. Someone who knows your past.” He runs a hand over his face. “Why do you think your dad has done all this? It’s for your mom.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Maybe it bothers you that we didn’t meet some other way. Or that I’m not some bad boy who wants to help you over the edge. But I’m good for you, and I can give you a good life. That’s what your dad wants, if you not himself or you, then for her . . .”
I stop listening. My dad orchestrated all this for her. Setting me up with Rich, letting me create my own position at work, handing us the reins. Maybe it was a conscious choice, maybe it wasn’t, but he’s trying to give me a life that would’ve made my mom happy. And I’m rejecting it.
On some level, I suppose I knew. I played along, because it meant we could keep sweeping things under the rug. It meant neither of us had to say what we truly believed.
If it weren’t for me, she’d still be alive.
And if she were, what would she think of the choices I’ve been making?
Would she be proud that I’m taking back the reins? Or, like Rich, would she think I’m in the midst of another giant mistake?
22
I dash down the hall to Finn’s room, squealing as champagne erupts from the bottle in my hands. “It’s spilling everywhere,” I cry over my shoulder.
“That’s because you’re running,” he calls after me.
I get to his bathroom sink, holding it over the drain. “Bring the glasses.”
“Got ’em.” He comes in behind me and takes the bottle. Once he pours two glasses, he kisses me on the mouth. “Drink up. It’s almost midnight.”
“Should we have stayed at the bar?” I ask, pouting. “Are we old farts for coming home before the ball dropped?”
“I don’t know about you, but I had my fill of twenty-dollar cocktails and sweaty bodies. You are, without a doubt, the only person I’d brave New Year’s Eve in the city for.”
“Aww.” I rise to the tips of my toes for another kiss, but I sway and spill champagne down the front of my multi-colored sequined dress.
“Perfect. I’ve been looking for an excuse to get you out of that,” Finn says, laughing. “Did you I tell you how jaw-droppingly beautiful you looked tonight?”
“You might have.” I hold onto his arm for support as he lifts my dress by its hem. “I’m very sparkly.”
“Yes, you are.” Sequins scrape my tummy as he pulls it over my head. “And very beautiful.”
“You said that already.” I wrinkle my nose with a smile. “You’re drunk.”
“I might’ve had a couple tumblers of Scotch. It is a special occasion.”
“New Year’s.”
“New Year’s with you.” My dress is flimsy in his hands, no more than a scrap of fabric. He takes it with him. “Bring the glasses.”
In my bra, panties, and heels, I follow him to the studio with the drinks. “Are we taking a picture?”
“Yep. A New Year’s post.” He lays the dress on the ground, shifting it around. He points to a spot right next to it. “Heels. Take them off here. One standing, the other on its side.”
I do as he says without question. He’s in work mode, and his serious side turns me on. “What else?”
“Champagne flutes. Fill them up and set them on the corner of my desk.” He looks back. “Actually, take a sip from one and leave a lipstick mark.”
“Yes, sir.” I get to work, leaving my lips on the glass before pouring the champagne so it’ll be nice and bubbly for the picture. “Now what?”
“Panties.”
I peel off my black lace thong, hand it over, and sit in his desk chair. He repositions the articles of clothing. I’m getting wet just watching him. On the leather. But I’m certain Finn will be more interested in my arousal than the condition of his chair.
I rest my elbow on the desk and bump the computer mouse. The screen wakes up to reveal Finn’s inbox. “Is this your work e-mail?” I ask.
“Yep.”
He doesn’t say anything else, so I nose around a little, reading the subject lines. Since my work is his work, it should be our account anyway. “What’s this one about an article?” I ask.
“That came in this afternoon. A reporter from Gotham magazine asking if he could include us in an online feature.”
“Really?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” He looks back at me. “I responded to ask if you can remain anonymous. Otherwise we aren’t interested. Read it.”
I open the e-mail. Finn’s right. The reporter mentions Finn’s photos and my captions. A real, legitimate publication. I pitter-patter my feet on the carpet, bouncing in the chair. “I can’t believe it.”
“I can.” He’s smiling, I can tell, even though he’s turned away from me.
“Did you know we have over six thousand followers now?” I ask. “The Christmas post was such a hit. How long do you think it’ll take us to get to ten?”
Finn comes over to the chair and squats, aiming his iPhone at the clothing. He usually uses his camera, but I think the alcohol’s made his head as fuzzy as mine since he rarely drinks. “Probably much faster than it took us to get to six.”
“I looked into sponsored posts a little. That offer from Butter Boudoir was pretty high.”
He checks his work, swiping through photos.
“Finn?”
“Hmm?”
“I said that offer we got—it was sort of out of the ordinary.”
“The article?”
“No, the lingerie.”
He frowns at me. “I thought we decided against that.”
We did. Well, he did. I don’t want to tell him that in my head, I’ve fantasized about accepting their offer, slipping into their beautiful things, playing for Finn and his camera. I just know he’d made me look good; he always does. And we’d get even more followers, both from the nature of the pictures and from Butter Boudoir themselves. Nobody’s ever made me an offer like that. I’ve hardly ever been noticed like that, not by anyone but Finn. But I don’t want to ruin our night, so I just say, “I was using them as an example. If we can get a few more thousand followers, offers like that would be standard.” I bring my knees up under my chin. “I think we should try to hit ten by mid-January.”
He returns to his session. “Sounds good to me.”
I swivel back to the inbox. The browser refreshes and bolded e-mails from the past few hours appear. The subject line on top snags my attention.
The stockings
I move closer to the screen. Stockings? My stockings? The sender’s name is Jack Guthrie. Doesn’t sound familiar.
“Got it,” Finn says as I’m about to click on the e-mail. “I’m just going to run it through an editing app instead of doing the whole thing. It’s almost midnight.”
“You should share it at midnight on the dot.”
“But that’s when I’m supposed to kiss you.” He winks, thumbing around his screen.
“Post it, then kiss me.”
“Too late.” He shows me the photo, two champagne glasses in the foreground, a trail of my out-of-focus clothing behind them. It’s muted, the sequins as matte as the gold fizz. My lipstick stain is a deep, sultry crimson because of the low-contrast filter. “What do you think?”
It’s the first time he’s ever not asked me for a caption, but when I see why, I smile. He’s turned it into a joke, also a first. “From us to you,” I read. “Make your New Year’s extra special—the poor bastard only comes once a year.”
He hands me my glass and holds out his, but before we can cheers, there’s commotion in the
street. People yell out the countdown. “Twenty . . . nineteen . . .”
“Shit.” Finn puts down the champagne and tosses me my underwear. “Come on. We’re going to miss it.”
I look back at the e-mail, my fizzing drink in one hand, a ball of black lace in the other. I have fifteen seconds, which means I either open it or go to Finn. I should do the latter. But if I don’t read it, I’ll be wondering what it says while the ball drops, and that’s no way to bring in the new year, wondering about another man. I click on it.
I can’t stop looking at them. Where are they from so I can buy my girlfriend a pair.
I swallow. He’s just admitted to staring at my crotch. A man named Jack is looking at me, fantasizing. And he has a girlfriend. He has a real live woman, but I’m the one he’s thinking about. It seems so wrong, and yet . . .
“Halston!” Finn calls. “You’re missing it.”
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
I hit reply.
Intermix on 5th & 19th
In case he thinks I’m Finn, I also sign the e-mail.
—Anonymous.
“Four . . . three . . .”
I hit send and abandon the drink and underwear to sprint into the living room. Horns blare in the street. The TV is a blur of confetti and beaming B-list celebrities with microphones. Finn turns and laughs at me in just my bra. He grabs a cream, faux fur throw we picked out together and opens it to me. “Happy New Year, babe,” he says, wrapping me up and tying me off with a kiss. “So far, it’s turning out to be pretty great.”
I smile against his mouth. “It’s only been five seconds.”
“And isn’t it pretty great?”
I nod. “Extremely. We forgot our drinks.”
He rubs my back. “I’m good.”
“I’ll get mine, then.” I pull out of his embrace and return to the studio. Before I even reach the computer, I see the subject line bolded at the top. It’s 12:01 and Jack already responded.
Yours to Bare Page 22