Never Enough(15)
He's famous. He's rich. He's ridiculously handsome.
I'm sure his sexual past is more interesting than mine, and even though it doesn't matter, I don't want him to think I'm a prude or something.
"Don't make fun of me," I say. "Please?"
"Cross my heart."
"He wanted to put a mirror in his bedroom so we could watch ourselves have sex and I wasn't into it," I say quickly, looking away.
Gavin laughs, and I shoot him a glare.
"You promised!"
"I thought you were going to say you wouldn't let him see you topless or touch you without rubber gloves on or something," he says.
"Rubber gloves?" I ask.
I start laughing as well.
"I don't know," he protests. We start walking, still hand in hand, on the part of the beach where the sand is still wet but the waves are gone.
"Is that how I seem?" I ask, half teasing and half really wanting to know. "Like I require rubber gloves before someone touches me?"
"No, not that, specifically," he says. "You're just quite cautious is all I was getting at."
That's hard to argue with, honestly.
For a moment I consider firing back at him, asking Gavin if he's got a sex tape or something, but I don't want to know.
Because if he does, and he tells me, I'm going to look it up. I won't be able to stop myself, and then I'll have to watch him have sex with some other girl, and even though this relationship is completely fake, I don't want to.
I'm just being respectful, that's all. Really.
"When did you break up?" he asks.
I glance over at the houses. We've walked past five or six already, and I'm hoping we can remember where the exit back up to the road is.
"A little over a year ago," I say.
"Was it because of the gloves?" he says, very seriously.
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling.
"It was a really boring breakup," I admit. "We just sort of... stopped making time to see each other until one day I called him and said, hey, I think we're broken up now."
"That's incredibly boring," Gavin agrees. "At least tell me he cried and begged you to take him back or something."
"I think his exact response was, 'Huh, you're right.'"
"Disappointing."
"I was relieved," I say. "There's not much worse than listening to someone cry because you don't want to see them anymore."
"There's being the crying bloke who's had his heart stomped on," Gavin points out.
"Oh, right," I say. "That's true."
He looks down at me.
"You've never been dumped."
"Yes I have," I say defensively. "I've been dumped twice. Once in college and once right after."
"But you've never had someone tear your heart from your chest and set fire to it," he says.
"I was upset," I say, but he's right. Both times I got dumped I was sad for a little while, but I got over it pretty quickly. I didn't feel like I'd lost the love of my life or something.
"You should see some of the things I wrote after my first girlfriend dumped me when I was sixteen. Maudlin rubbish," he says.
"You kept a diary?" I ask.
"Worse," he says. "I wrote poetry."
I laugh.
"I'm an artist, we're very dramatic."
"Then I expect at least a song about me when we break up," I say.
Gavin doesn't answer for a moment. He shifts his hand in mine, just slightly.
"The problem there is 'Marisol' doesn't rhyme with much," he says, his voice just a little different somehow, like there's a hint of edge that wasn't there before.
"What about very tall," I say.
"Rather small is a bit more accurate," he points out. "In the fall."
"Climb a wall," I offer.
"How am I to use that in a song?" he teases.
We keep walking, slowly, barefoot and holding hands. After a while, the houses end and to our right is a sheer cliff leading back up to the coastal highway, headlights streaking up and down as cars go past. We stop there and turn back, our footsteps still visible in the sand.
In his car, Gavin turns the heater on full blast and directs all the vents at me.
"Sorry I don't have a jacket," he says. "I'd give it to you."
"Thanks," I say. "I wasn't even cold until I got in the car, honestly."
"Your hand was freezing," he says.
I flex my fingers in front of the heater vent. They're pretty stiff.
"That was fun," Gavin says. "I liked our long walk on the beach."
"Too bad there were no cameras, it would have been good press for you," I say. "'Famous rock star enjoys long, romantic walk on beach with new girlfriend.'"
There's a pause.
"Yeah, it would have been," he says, and puts the car into gear.
The next afternoon, I'm studying for my Political Crimes and Legal Systems class when I get an email from Valerie.
From: Valerie Derian (vcderianfirstplacepr)
To: mgomezlaw.ula.edu; gl3553email
Subject: PERFORMANCE NOTES ON YESTERDAY'S DATE
Good afternoon Gavin and Marisol,
You got a brief mention on TMZ and RockGossip today though not much buzz yet.
Next date needs physical affection. Recommend hand-holding, arm around Marisol, affectionate glances.
Marisol, good job looking nervous about the camera. Very natural, normal, girl-next-door but you can back off a little. The camera is your friend!!!
Next steps: touching, cheek kissing. Goal is lip-on-lip (no tongue) within the next week or two.
You're gonna go VIRAL!!!!!!
Warmly and Respectfully,
Valerie
She also includes links to the two posts about us, so I take a deep breath and click on the first one. Thank God, it's pretty tame: the headline is just "New arm candy for Dirtshine frontman Gavin Lockwood?!" with a picture of us, taken from the side, walking into Noru together. The other is basically the same thing with an extra line added about how they don't know who I am.
It could be way, way worse but it still makes my stomach flutter. Now there's no turning back - my face is out there, publicly linked with Gavin's. There's no chance of getting out of it quietly.
I scan Valerie's exclamation point-laden email one more time. There's something very weird about seeing a pattern of physical affection laid out like this, and something weirder about her telling me that being nervous about cameras is "very natural," as though I did a good job acting, but I can take that all in stride.
Besides, the weirdest is definitely "goal is lip-on-lip (no tongue)." I don't think I've ever heard kissing on the lips described in a less-sexy way, almost like it's mouth-to-mouth. And the last time kissing was a stated goal of mine was the "What I Plan To Accomplish This School Year" entry in my eleventh-grade diary.
I succeeded, by the way. Robert Azucena, in the movie theater. Underwhelming.
After a few more minutes with Legal Systems, my phone buzzes again.
Gavin: Good job looking normal.
Me: Thanks. Never been described as arm candy before.
Gavin: Just wait until they find out you're Latina. Then you'll be 'spicy' arm candy.
Me: Great. Can't wait to go VIRAL.
Gavin: I'm not sure Valerie knows what that means.
Gavin: Still on for lunch Tuesday?
Me: Still on!
I don't mention lip-on-lip, and neither does he. But I spend most of the next few hours trying not to think about it.
It's more or less like that for two weeks. We go on dates, mostly to fancy places with lots of paparazzi. They figure out my name and that I'm a law student, but they're not that interested in me.
We hold hands in front of the cameras and the most interesting thing either of us is recorded saying is, "Just eating dinner."
Valerie sends us a performance evaluation every time. Sometimes Gavin looks too tentative for her liking, sometimes she thinks we're holding hands wrong, once she excoriates him for not holding the door for me properly.
After a few emails informing us that she "really needs a CHEEK KISS," we plan one. Gavin doesn't think we need to orchestrate something that simple, but I'm nervous, so we do.
It's a Saturday night, and we have dinner at La Rosette, a super-trendy French "fusion" place with $16 cocktails and a whole squadron of photographers lurking just outside. I have a glass of wine, the first time I've drunk anything since the night at Poseidon's Net.
"Am I so bad you've got to take the edge off?" Gavin teases me as we're done eating and I'm draining my glass, the check paid.
I swallow the last sip and put it down, half-rolling my eyes.
"You know it's the cameras, not you," I say. "You're basically, I don't know, a mannequin or something to me by now."
He raises his eyebrows, grinning.
"I'm a mannequin," he says, and I feel myself blushing.
"Something I don't mind kissing on the cheek," I say. "You know, it's no big deal, like my brother or my gay friend or European people when you meet them for the first time."
This is half-true. I don't mind kissing Gavin, and I'm definitely nervous about the cameras, but I've worked myself into a state about putting my lips on his face. For days now, I've been thinking about it again and again: the feel of his skin under my lips, our faces touching, probably our bodies touching.