A Crazy Kind of Love

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  “Yeah.”

  “Micah fucking Sinclair.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good God. How was it?” Now he leaned forward, looking at me like I might levitate at any moment.

  “It was amazing. Up until I nearly passed out and abandoned him on the sidewalk.”

  “What?” He jumped up and peered out the window, as if he could see the sidewalk from that angle. “Did you say anything to him?”

  I looked at him through veiled lids. “I was kind of too busy trying not to drop into a coma at his feet.”

  “You didn’t tell him anything?”

  I crossed my arms. “Drop it. It’s probably for the best anyway. Can you imagine if I’d asked him to help me up here?”

  His eyes rolled up to some invisible thought bubble over his head. “I’d like to imagine that.”

  “Zion!” I laughed. “You’re the worst.”

  He shrugged. “But yeah. It’s probably better that you don’t get involved with him. He’d end up breaking your heart. And he wouldn’t even mean to.”

  “Yeah.” I stretched, and that caused Zion to yawn. “I should get some sleep. Why are you home, anyway? I figured you’d be at Robert’s.”

  He fell into the sofa beside me and grimaced. “He’s ghosting me. I thought about going out anyway, but my heart wasn’t in it.”

  I scooted over and lay my head on his chest, snuggling against him, drowsy. “I’m sorry. I wished I’d known you were here eating your heart out.”

  He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and squeezed. “No worries. Plenty more fish in the sea. At least one of us got some action.” He dialed his Southern accent to eleven and said, “After all, tomorrow IS another day.”

  * * *

  I woke up to the sounds of sizzling in the kitchen. I gravitated to the living room, dropped on the sofa, and checked my glucose. Over the months I’d lived with Zion, he’d become part-time roommate and full-time best friend. We’d been close in college, but since we worked and lived together, our relationship had morphed into one of family. And I suspected he’d made some kind of deal with my mom to keep an eye on me. Once in a while, he hovered—especially when he thought I was overdoing things. I didn’t mind so much. I knew he cared about me as much as I cared about him.

  He fluttered around, fixing breakfast, so I got up to straighten, but he told me to sit and relax until after I ate. Since I’d moved in, I hadn’t had a serious hypoglycemic episode, but he’d been there in college when I’d landed in the hospital after a particularly stressful finals week. He obviously still wore a cloud of worry about the night before.

  It was a good thing it was Saturday morning. If we’d been at work, his behavior would have irritated Andy. Andy only grudgingly put up with extra accommodations, like allowing me to keep juice and insulin in his minifridge. Andy told me his college roommate had been able to control his diabetes through diet and exercise as if my precautionary syringes were further proof of a character weakness. No use explaining to him that my body did not actually produce insulin.

  I felt fine, but I’d never convince Zion of that. So I sat down to read a book, but my mind wandered as I daydreamed about the night before. Or more accurately, fretted about what Micah must be thinking after I’d left him standing on the sidewalk without an explanation. Did he think I was still angry at him for insulting me? (I was.) Or offended by him for kissing me? (I wasn’t.) Or repulsed by him physically. (Definitely wasn’t.) I had no way to reach him to apologize and tell him I’d loved every second of that kiss. (I had.)

  Did he feel like an idiot? I did.

  In addition to worrying I was putting him off, I couldn’t shake the idea he was putting me on. Was he serious about why he invited me into the party? Surely, he just charmed his way through everything. Did girls ever say no to Micah Sinclair? How many questions had he silenced with those lips?

  Zion was right though. If I let myself fall for Micah Sinclair, he’d break my heart without even knowing it. Better to acknowledge he was having a bit of fun and let it go.

  When my phone rang, Zion was handing me a plate of something yellow and orange—either cheese eggs or undercooked eggs—and I didn’t bother to check the incoming contact before hitting Answer.

  “Josephine, what the hell?” I pulled the phone away from my face and stared at the screen. I kicked the leg of the coffee table.

  “Morning, Andy. What’s up?’ For him to call on a Saturday morning did not bode well.

  “I waited last night for your pictures. I finally gave up and went to bed only to discover you uploaded everything in the middle of the night.”

  “I know but—”

  “And then all the pictures are completely useless.” I held the phone out so Zion could hear the tinny insults barreling out my speaker. “People standing around mugging for the camera. Who wants to see that?”

  “I know, but everyone was hyper aware of the camera, Andy.”

  “So that’s when you turn it off and mingle. Did you get any story at all?”

  I thought about Eden and her secret. “No, Andy.”

  “The really funny part is, the biggest scoop of the night was captured outside the townhouse by another paper.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Well, I could have sworn I saw a picture of you leaving the party and getting into a car with Micah Sinclair. I must be looking at some other Josephine Wilder on Page Six of the New York Post.”

  I mouthed “Oh, shit!” at Zion. I pointed frantically at the laptop, rolling my hand in a circular fishing motion. He opened it up and slid it to me.

  “What do you mean?” I was stalling. I knew I was dead, but I had to see. I pulled up the website and clicked the links to get to the gossip page. And there I was, right beside Micah Sinclair. I should have expected that. A dozen flashing cameras had surrounded us as I’d climbed into that town car with Micah. The caption did me in: Micah Sinclair leaves party with paparazzi photog Anika Jo Wilder, daughter of famed photographer Chandra Namputiri.

  “Oh.” I felt the blood drain from my face. It was worse than I could have imagined. I hated that they’d printed my name like that and felt the cruel irony of getting pissed at a tabloid journalist for digging into my life. “I can explain.”

  “Did you at least get any kind of statement from Micah?”

  “Andy, he went off the record.”

  “And so what? Am I paying you to party with these people?”

  “He was just giving me a ride home. It wasn’t like that.”

  “Listen, Scout. You’ve given me nothing I can work with all week. Do I have to remind you what your job is?”

  “No.”

  “Then understand that you can’t befriend these people. You have to make a choice between work and play. If I see you hanging out with celebrities, I’m going to expect something I can actually print. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Andy.” It wasn’t like I’d be hobnobbing at another party any time soon.

  “You take great photos, Jo, but we’re not in the business of flattering people. And I need you to step up your game.” His tone relaxed, and I knew the storm had blown over. “You know, I do hear the complaints from human resources, so I am well aware you guys think I’m too hard on my staff.” I held my breath. I didn’t know how to respond to that. “But it’s only because I want you to be your best, right?”

  I gave a noncommittal grunt.

  He paused as though waiting for a vindication that would never come. After a beat, he went on. “Okay, then. I’m going to comb through these pictures. Maybe I’ll find something I can use. Maybe someone brought a date instead of a wife to the party.” He hung up.

  My eggs were cold, now. I pushed them away and said to Zion, “How have you managed to work for him for so long?”

  The notification ringtone dinged on my phone, reminding me I needed to get on my computer and catch up with emails and social media. Since my mom had discovered Facebook, it was the only way she commun
icated. If she did call, she’d say, “Did you see what I posted on Facebook?” I’d have to log in and read it even though she had me on the phone. And then she’d ask to talk to Zion because he’d actually tell her what was going on with me.

  Today’s ding resulted from a mention when my mom posted a link to the article about me. My daughter Josie Wilder out on the town with a celebrity!

  She was the worst name dropper. She still bragged about knowing that guy who hosted all those reality competitions because they went to the same high school. Didn’t matter that she was eight years older than him and would have already graduated by the time he even started. And this despite her connections to an artist whose name meant something in some circles. They say familiarity breeds contempt. Apparently, so does emotional desertion.

  I typed, Mom, I was just working, and then surfed the rest of my usual points of contact. Why everyone couldn’t agree to reach me the same way, I couldn’t understand. Mom Face-booked, Zion texted, and my dad still emailed.

  Speaking of Dad, an unread message from him sat in my queue.

  “Oh, no.”

  Zion snuck up behind me and leaned over the sofa. “What?”

  “My dad.”

  “Has he contacted you once since you’ve been here?”

  “Once.” I swallowed hard before I answered completely. “On May twenty-third. Two days after my birthday.”

  “Do you think he saw the article?”

  He’d left the subject line blank, so I couldn’t predict. I braced myself for whatever he’d have to say.

  Anika,

  I have received a forwarded article today with my name below a gossip rag photo of you. I am disappointed to find this. Please remember that my name is forever yoked to yours, and your actions reflect on your family. I expect better from you, Anushka.

  Papa

  By “my family,” he meant himself. His wife didn’t acknowledge I existed, and my mom was clearly delighted by my antics. That’s what I had to deal with. One parent I never disappointed and one parent I always let down. I put my laptop on the coffee table and curled up on the sofa, hugging a pillow.

  “Bad?” Zion could ask invasive-as-hell questions, but he wouldn’t read over my shoulder.

  “No.” I covered up the warble with a nervous laugh. I sat up and took a drink of water. I would not cry. He wasn’t worth it. He didn’t have the power to upset me.

  Zion didn’t seem to notice. “So what did he want? Did he see the article?”

  “Yeah. He’s just irritated.” I laughed again, even though I’d said nothing funny. “He used my pet name, so he’s going with shame instead of threats.” That was kind of hilarious.

  “What can he do, Josie? Tirovanillapooram is eight thousand miles away. And you’re an adult.”

  I corrected his pitiful attempt to say the name of the city where my dad lived. “Thiruvananthapuram.”

  “Right. What I said. But seriously, what can he do from there?”

  “He can still make me feel like I’ll never measure up.”

  Once upon a time, my dad sat me on his knee while he dismantled his camera or picked through slides to find photos to submit to magazines. He would talk to me with an accent he never lost and tell me about exciting treks into Nepal or a chance to meet a traveling dignitary. I always associated those memories with the smells of the beedi he smoked and the Robusta coffee he imported from Kerala.

  Back then his name held no special recognition. But he had to work, and among his future prizewinning shots of exotic peoples, less artistic photos of run-of-the-mill celebrities mixed in. And I still recalled his pride and joy when his image appeared in the local newspaper in black-and-white, catching him speaking to the actor Mohinder Khan. But he conveniently forgot that he’d had to start out somewhere. In his mind, he’d always been the Chandra Namputiri, world-class photographer—no longer “world’s greatest dad.”

  I could live without his hypocritical condescension. I deleted the email.

  In the inbox, another email caught my attention. “Oh, Eden wrote me.”

  Zion had settled on a chair with his feet propped on the coffee table. “Seriously? Look at you moving up the social ladder. What’s she want?”

  I read the email. “She wants me to come photograph her performance at some club in Lower Manhattan. And she said my three favorite words.”

  “Micah loves you?”

  I threw my pillow at him. “She said: I’ll pay you.”

  Chapter 8

  Since Eden had said I could bring a friend, Zion insisted on escorting me to her show. I couldn’t tell if he was hoping I’d get to hang out with Micah again or if he was actually concerned for my health. But either motive was invalid. He had no reason to expect Micah to show up for his sister’s show. And I could take care of myself. I wasn’t likely to forget to eat again after last night. My pocketbook held sandwich bags filled with emergency snacks.

  The entrance to the club hid under scaffolding, but even without the obstruction, the door was nondescript, dark. A neon sign lit the window behind a curtain of advertisements and posters. Zion pushed the door open, and I followed him through, unsure whether I should hold my breath. The room was so murky, I assumed there would be smoke, but the delicious aroma of coffee and food hit me. Underneath that, I could detect a slight underlying stink of cigarettes and body odor—the smell of dark places.

  Several feet in, we approached a podium where an Asian woman leaned on her elbows watching us. “Tickets?” she asked.

  “No, uh, we—”

  “This is a private show. Tickets required in advance.”

  Zion spoke for me. “We’re on the guest list?”

  She scanned the page. “One minute. You stay here.” She left us and dropped farther into the club. We probably could have simply walked in, but it seemed bad form. And I would have rather been admitted properly. After all, we were invited.

  The woman returned, trailing a man wearing a Pussycat Dolls T-shirt and sporting well-groomed facial hair. He put his hand out to me. “Hi, I’m Tobin. You must be Jo?”

  I nodded. “And this is my friend, Zion. Eden said I could bring a guest.”

  Zion put his hand out in the way he did like he was at a debutante ball and he’d been asked to dance. Or like he was the Pope, and he expected someone to kiss his ring. It always made me blush, but I’d long since stopped trying to cajole him into normalcy. He told me it was like a white cane for a blind man. It was one way to test out the world.

  Tobin took Zion’s proffered hand, and to my surprise, he leaned forward and planted a kiss right on the tops of Zion’s fingers. Zion flashed me a satisfied side-eye. You see? Tobin looked up into Zion’s eyes for the first time, and the two appraised one another. I felt distinctly invisible. And with the darkness of the club, I practically was. Tobin led us toward the stage.

  An alcove held several tables with merchandise for sale—T-shirts, CDs. I saw Eden’s album and stopped for a minute to pick it up and flip it over. A woman behind the table asked if she could help me, but I didn’t want to buy anything.

  I caught up with Zion, who’d found a seat close to the stage. The club provided tables or stools along the bar, but the stage area held nothing but rows of chairs. I threw my camera over the back of one. “Do you think I should look for Eden?”

  He shrugged. “I wish you’d let me bring my camera. I bet there will be some interesting people here tonight.”

  I shot him a warning glance. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. And I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t asked to do this privately.”

  He craned his neck around. “Hey, isn’t that Adrianna LaRue?”

  Sure enough, on the other side of the room, the pop singer preened on a chair no different than the one I sat in. But somehow she made it look like a throne. Her enormous hair eclipsed the entire row to her right. She was the definition of larger than life. Something struck her funny, and when she giggled, she covered her face with both hands and
leaned back. And then I saw him sitting beside her. Micah Sinclair twenty feet away from me, breathing the same air.

  Zion saw Micah at the same time as me and pulled at my sleeve. “Come on. You have to introduce me.”

  I swatted his hand away. “You’ve interviewed him before, Zion. You’ve talked to him countless times I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve always been a nameless face, a reporter. I’ve never just sat and talked to any of these people. And Adrianna. Oh, shit. You should be shooting pictures.” He sat back into his chair and pushed my camera bag at me.

  Despite my earlier protestations to the contrary, I gratefully wrapped my hand around the strap and unlatched the clasp. “I totally shouldn’t be doing this.”

  Once I had my camera poised, I cut a glance over to where Micah sat, but his chair was now empty. Before I had a chance to spin my head around, surreptitiously of course, to relocate him, I felt a hand kneading the muscle between my neck and shoulder like the start of a massage. I dropped my head back and looked straight up at the bottom of Micah’s chin. His face was upside down. His smile was a frown.

  “I saw you over here. Why don’t you come sit with me and Ade?” He gestured toward the other side, and Zion was already up and moving.

  “Micah, this is my friend Zion. Zion, Micah.”

  Micah put his hand out to Zion, and Zion forgot to offer his dainty handshake. He clasped Micah’s hand and said, “It’s great to meet you.”

  Adrianna stood as we came over. I couldn’t make my brain process that she was a real person, hanging out in this dingy club, wearing a massive boa with a blond afro teased out about a foot in every direction. She was like a living Barbie doll, a freaky living Barbie doll. Zion was about to bow down before her.

  Micah intervened to make introductions. “Ade, this is my friend Jo-Jo from Georgia. Or should I call you Anika?”

  I knew he teased, but he couldn’t know the depths of my anger toward that name. “Please don’t. That’s what my dad calls me. I go by my middle name.”

  “You have many names, Jo Jo.” He turned to Adrianna. “And this is her friend Zion.... Where are you from, Zion?”