“I don’t like saying this… But I told you so.”
“Well, you’re used to it! You have a
ll the attention, and people love you! You lost that game, and I’m the one being blamed for it!” Okay, fuck, what is this? Are we actually fighting? We've never had a fight before, and I can’t believe that our first fight is about the fucking media. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Okay, Fiona, I don’t know what's got into you, but you have to forget about --”
“Forget, forget! That’s all you know how to say. I can’t forget; I can’t walk around as if this isn’t happening. No matter what they say about you, you still have your career, your contract… Everything! And what do I have? I’m just another overworked twenty-something being massacred by the news because I dare to exist!”
Well, fuck, I don’t even know what to say. I try and reach for her, but she swats my hand away. Before I think of anything to say, she gets up, tears welling up in her eyes and walks upstairs to the bedroom. I go after her, but by the time I’m walking up the stairs, she’s already coming down, her purse against her chest.
“Fiona, I--” Without allowing me to say a fucking thing, she walks past me and goes straight for the door. She bolts out, slamming the door on her way out and leaving me alone in the apartment.
I stand there, looking around completely dumbfounded. I just got home, for fuck’s sake. I drove here as fast as I could, anxious to be with her, to feel her naked body against mine… And now this! I feel angry, but I don’t even know to whom I should direct that anger—if to her, to me, or to the media. Forget about money, fame, or even the Super Bowl. I just want things to work out with Fiona.
Is that too much to ask?
155
Fiona
THE END IS COMING.
Four words, and they are written with such confidence that they sound like the truth. I’m standing outside a newsstand, holding the latest New York Daily Journal in my hands, and that’s the headline over a picture of me running out of Trump Tower. That was yesterday, right after my fight with Danny. Somehow, there must've been some paparazzi waiting around for something to happen, and I guess they got what they wanted.
I left the house for a walk, thinking that it’d help me clear my head, but now I wish I had just stayed home. I read the article, my fingers trembling with each sentence.
Twenty-two-year-old Fiona Barnett was seen yesterday leaving Trump Tower in a hurried state. Judging by the way she left, completely alone, it seems that her fiery romance with the Nailers’ quarterback star is coming to an end.
An intern at Price Coopers, Fiona saw her chance to climb the social ladder when Daniel Manning asked for her number on live TV, minutes after accidentally crashing into her. What started as an invitation made out of pity for a young girl, turned into a nightmare for Daniel Manning. After somehow dazzling the Nailers’ quarterback over dinner, Fiona Barnett soon started taking credit for his success, and even moved to his high-rise condo at Trump Tower.
Still, there’s hope for Nailers’ fans. It seems that Daniel Manning finally came to his senses, and a separation seems to be imminent.
The article goes on and on, blaming Danny’s faltering performance and, somehow, putting me as the main culprit behind the rise of a vain society. Like, seriously? I don’t even know if they’re really talking about me, because this is total garbage. They went as far as digging into my personal life, and a few passages are particularly vicious.
Friends with some of New York’s crème de lá crème such as the wife of the notorious St. Alban’s prince, Connor d’Avington, and the wife of billionaire Apollo Kane, it seems that Miss Fiona will stop at nothing to achieve the same thing her friends have: a high-status marriage.
I feel like killing someone right now. Or crying. I’m not sure which. Feeling lightheaded, I place the newspaper back on the rack and start walking back home. People are staring at me in the same way they used to do when I started dating Danny, but now… Now it’s different. New York feels hostile. Maybe it’s all in my head, but it seems that when people look at me, they’re not smiling.
There she goes, that gold digger, I can almost hear them think. And maybe it’s true. Maybe I let myself be swooned by the media because I wanted to be something I’m not. I mean, look at all my friends… They've all found their Prince Charming, and they’re living in mansions and palaces. And I’m just fighting trying to survive my internship while trying to scrape enough money to pay the rent of the apartment I share with Becca.
Maybe my romance with Danny was just an illusion. And maybe the newspapers are right too; maybe I’m hindering him, distracting him while he should be focusing on the playoffs. God, I feel so worthless right now.
I start walking faster, desperate to get home as soon as I can. I think I’ll just sit down in front of the TV, put on some Grey’s Anatomy and forget about the whole world while drowning in ice cream. Sure, go right ahead and add walking cliché to the horrible list of things people are calling me. See if I care.
I’m so distracted that I don’t even notice there’s someone blocking the way to my building, so I just bump against him.
“Sorry,” I cry out, taking a step back and realizing that the person I bumped against is Danny himself. My heart sinks inside my chest; after yesterday’s fight, what other reason is there for him to drive here? He’s breaking up with me, oh God. This day is quickly going downhill.
“Fiona,” he says, his eyes locked on mine, and a sad smile on his lips. “I had to see you.”
Before I can let him break up with me, I just take one step forward and wrap my arms around him. I press my face against his chest, closing my eyes as I feel the tears making their way to my eyes.
“I should've listened to you,” I whisper, making one tremendous effort to choke down a violent sob. “I’m so sorry… I really am. I let the press come between us and now… I’m sorry, Danny.”
He just holds me without saying a word, placing one hand on the back of my neck and holding me against his chest. I try not to cry, but it’s getting harder; just thinking that this might be the last time he holds me against him hurts too much.
“I let myself be seduced by the fame… I know. I should've listened to you,” I say, almost desperate. Now that he’s here, I know the truth; I was a fool, yes, but I love him. And not because he’s rich or famous, but just because of the kind of man he is.