They’d both shriek in horror when they saw it online tomorrow morning, but at the moment I didn’t care. I’d learned some hard lessons in my life, but perhaps the most important one was that you have to cherish the insignificant moments you have with your most significant people. To hold onto the times when you’re happy. To smile often, and laugh loudly. To enjoy the ones you love, and hold them close to your heart while you still have them.
I closed my eyes and smiled as the cab wound through the bustling streets of SoHo, still vibrant with life even in the wee hours of the morning. Things weren’t perfect — they’d never be perfect — but in this moment, life was good.
***
“Ughhh.”
The noises coming from Fae’s mouth were eerily similar to the sounds made by zombies onThe Walking Dead, a sure sign she was hungover. Perched on one of the kitchen island barstools, I sipped my coffee and watched as she cracked one bleary eye open.
“Morning sunshine,” I called.
“Unggh.”
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Mmhh.”
I’d take that as ayes. I hopped down from the stool, bypassed Nate — who was frying an egg shirtless and, let me tell you, his abs were nothing to shake a stick at — and fetched a mug from one of the overhead cupboards. After pouring a cup for Fae, I navigated slowly across the loft to where she was sprawled on one half of the red sectional.
The loft had a modern-industrial feel, with exposed brick walls and a ceiling crossed by painted ducts and beams. Yet, despite the minimalist architecture, the space was bursting with color. None of the furniture matched, and several of Nate’s vibrant, 10x10 foot canvases leaned against each wall. The windows were huge, looking down at a street full of similar refurbished industrial warehouses, most of which housed artists and eccentrics. The amount of natural light that poured in from the large windows was incredible — a vast change from the one small pane my own apartment boasted — but always left the uninsulated loft chilly. Fae and I kept spare sweaters tucked away in Simon’s closet, though, in a pinch, we’d both been known to steal a sweatshirt from Shane or Nate.
Thankfully, each of the boys had their own room, so whenever Fae and I crashed here we made good use of their large sectional. When I approached, Fae perked up and immediately reached for her steaming cup.
“So what’s on the agenda for today?” she asked, after she’d taken her first sip and once again joined the world of the living.
“Nothing much,” I said with a shrug. “Cyber-stalking the ex-love of my life for a few hours. After that, my schedule’s pretty free.”
Fae snorted with laughter, sending a line of coffee dribbling down her chin.
“Nice,” Nate called from the stove. “Very ladylike.”
His comments only induced more laughter from Fae, and after a few seconds I joined in with her.
“I propose we ex-boyfriend-stalk as a team, and then hit the market as a reward,” Fae suggested.
“Done,” I agreed instantly. The Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market was a labyrinth of second-hand treasures, from furniture, to jewelry, to designer fashions that had been worn once by wealthy owners only to be cast away. We made it a habit to go every few weeks — more often in the summer months. Like a bloodhound on the trail, Fae somehow always managed to find the best deals. She’d once found a vintage Chanel jacket for a tenth of its original value. Another time, she’d bartered a Miu Miu handbag with a broken clasp down $500 from the seller’s starting price.
Fae grabbed Nate’s laptop off the coffee table. “Nate! Can we use your laptop?” she yelled, already powering it on.
“No!” Nate yelled back. “Last time you left about seventy-five Pinterest tabs open and you changed all my bookmarks to fashion websites.”
“Okay, thanks! You’re a peach!” she called, clicking the internet icon. Her fingers tapped the sides of the keyboard, impatiently waiting for the search bar to appear. I watched as she typed “Sebastian Covington” and my breath caught in my throat as her index finger hovered over the ENTER key. I had never — not once in seven years — allowed myself this weakness. Looking for him before would’ve been pointless and guaranteed nothing but pain and suffering on my part. And now, ironically, I was being forced into the one thing I’d never wanted to know about — how his life had turned out once I’d left him behind.
“Ready?” Fae asked, turning speculative eyes to me. I was clutching my coffee cup so tightly that my knuckles turned white and I was afraid the thin porcelain might crack beneath the strain. I swallowed roughly.
“As I’ll ever be,” I replied. “Just do it. Rip off theBand-Aid.”
For the first time ever, I cursed Google’s speediness. Within milliseconds, thousands of results poured across the screen. His personal website. Links to his most famous magazine covers. His online photo gallery. His credentials. The prestigious awards he’d won.
2009 IPA Photographer of the Year.
2011 L’Iris d’Or Award Winner.
2011 National Press Photographer of the Year.
2013 Pulitzer Prize Winner.
I wasn’t a photography buff by any means, but even I recognized some of those awards by name and knew that they were a big deal. Moreover, his client list boasted some of the biggest magazines in the industry, includingNational Geographic,TIME,Sports Illustrated,People,Maxim,Rolling Stone…