Iris Blaire - Dark Frame

“It’s a huge story—I don’t have the time to explain it now. I really thought you knew. Just do me a favor—fire that fucker’s ass. And stay away from him, Brit. I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah okay. Hey, I gotta go. But thanks for the software… and you, know, getting me up to date on everything.”

“Love yah, kid.”

The second I hang up the phone, my eyes burn with tears of anger. I breathe deeply through my nose in attempt to calm myself.

Jaime fucked my family over years ago, and I never knew about it. How did I not know about it?

I feel so betrayed. Even though I shouldn’t. There wasn’t romance between us, not really. He initiated his usual game. It was me who decided to finally play along.

I wipe my eyes and straighten my dress, heading out into the foyer.

Dallas’s and Evan’s set is the foyer staircase. The other models find seats on the stone floor. I stand next to Jaime in the corner, trying to remain calm, like nothing’s wrong. The last thing I can handle right now is confronting him during this shoot. It’s like the atmosphere around me is seconds away from exploding.

“Who was that?” Jaime asks.

“Cameron,” I respond blatantly, waiting for his reaction. He says nothing, but his expression turns stiff.

Evan and Dallas stand on the staircase. They whisper feverishly back and forth to each other as the crew builds up the lighting around them, and the photographer adjusts his camera. Finally A.J. enters the room holding his iPad in front of him and carrying a loud conversation on his Bluetooth.

What a douche.

When he finishes, he waves his hand at Dallas and Evan. “Strip,” he says bluntly.

They both pull off their robes, dressed similarly to how they were earlier before our secret shoot.

“What are we doing?” Evan asks.

“All the way. Strip all the way, all clothes off.” A crew member opens a folding director’s chair for A.J., and he takes a seat.

Evan crosses her arms over her push-up bra. “What. Are. We. Doing?” she enunciates.

A.J. sighs impatiently. “Who’s in charge, here?”

“I don’t really care who’s in charge, Mr. Harrison,” Evan says dryly. “I have always known the agenda of my director and photographer. That’s how I prepare to model.”

“Fine!” A.J. barks. “You’re going to get on all fours on those stairs and spread your slutty little cheeks for Mr. Whitley. Is that enough of an agenda for you?”

Everyone in the entire hall falls silent, except for Jaime, who whispers, “Oh, fuck .”

My mouth falls open. Dallas’s expression instantly shifts from complacence to rage. In fact, the only unsurprised expression in the whole room belongs to Evan, who keeps her calm demeanor and her hand pressed to Dallas’s chest, like she’s urging him to do nothing drastic.

Like punch A.J. Harrison square in the jaw.

Evan sighs, “Well then, Mr. Harrison.” Slowly she bends over and picks her robe off the steps, tossing it over her shoulder. “I have an agenda for you as well.”

She struts her way right up to the director’s chair and leans in close to his face.

“Blow me.”

Evan

I’ve never fallen asleep in a library before. Then again, given all of last week’s distraction, I practically live here in order to get caught up in all my classes.

Well, here and the lab.

I wake to someone gently pushing on my shoulder. Before I open my eyes, I know where I am. I know I’ve fallen asleep on top of my cellular regulations textbook and drooled all over the open page.

My eyes flutter open. Dallas kneels next to me, biting his lip and looking like he’s about to bust up laughing.

“Eff off,” I mumble, pushing him away and sitting up. I look down at the wet page of my textbook and blink, my eyes finally focusing. “Eww.”

“You look kind of adorable when you’re drooling everywhere.”

I rub my eyes, glancing at my phone next to my book. Seven text messages. “How’d you find me?” I slur.

“Took me a few hours, but I finally managed. Luckily I got an early enough start.” His eyes sadden, and it dawns on me what he’s saying.

“You’re leaving,” I say.

He nods solemnly.

Our last conversation was an argument. There was no yelling involved, but a storm brewed between us as I refused to let him give up his research for me.

You’re going to Costa Rica. This isn’t a discussion.

I need to be with you, Evan. I can’t get over the fact that I almost lost you.

Fine, then. If it makes it easier, you don’t have me yet. You don’t have me until you go back and finish your work—what you love. You’re almost done. Don’t give up on your dream because of a girl.

You’re not just a girl.

You know what I mean.

And you’ll wait? You’ll swear on your life.

You know I will, Dallas.

He traces my hands as they rest in my lap. “I’m sorry that I came here and got you fired.”

I snort. “You can’t be serious. I would have gotten fired anyway. He would have tried to make me have sex with someone else. You know that. Plus, Britain said that nearly the entire team has dropped from the magazine. Everyone was thinking the same thing. It was destined to crumble.”

This doesn’t seem to comfort him. His eyes grow deeper—more intense. “That money, Evan. You needed it.”

“I’m going to be fine.” I reach out, my knuckles gently brushing his cheek. “Trust me. Don’t worry.”

When he leans in, I inhale. He smells like spice and rain. Before he can kiss me, I press a finger against his lips.

“Kiss me when you come home,” I tell him, even though it kills me. “Kiss me when there is nothing else keeping us apart.”

He defies me, gently kissing the side of my finger. He pulls back and tells me, “I’m not saying goodbye.”

“Don’t,” I say.

He stands, and as he leaves, he reaches down, hand brushing the back of my neck. A shiver trickles down my spine.

I don’t watch him leave the library.

Instead, with newly found determination, I turn the page of my textbook. I glance over at my planner. Thumbing through it, I find May 27 thof next year and write across the entire rectangle one word.

DALLAS.

And then I uncap my highlighter.

Evan

Seven Months Later

Waiting for Dallas at the airport is the most self-conscious I’ve ever been.

I realize now, standing right before security in jeans, my glasses, a zip-up Harvard sweatshirt, and the keys to our new Cambridge apartment tucked in my pocket, that over the past year and a half we’ve been separated more than we’ve been together.

This terrifies me.

It terrifies me because I might be more in love with him now than when he left back in October. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ve just built up a fantasy of the perfect man in my head because I’m delusional and can’t remember what it’s like to really be with him.

And maybe it’s not the same for him.

We’ve had a handful of Skype calls. Even fewer phone calls. His means of communicating with me in the field were next to nothing, and when I was able to talk with him when he was back in California, he sounded anxious, stressed, and overloaded with work. Maybe our time apart made him realize how trivial our romance is compared to a career. Maybe this is the last summer I’ll ever spend with him.

You’re thinking too much , Evan.

His flight is delayed. I go pee and get a coffee, realizing coffee is a terrible idea with my jitters, but I can’t help it because coffee reminds me too much of him, and I’m about to lose my mind before finally—finally—I see him at the end of the hall.