Tarnished Love by Bianca Borell
CHLOE
I position myself in the required pose, with my chin high, my neck tilted, when my vision blurs and my ears ring with an echo. A slap pulls me out of it, and as I focus my eyes on the photographer, my agent raises her brows in displeasure. I am in trouble, fainting is unprofessional, but instead of anger, my manager pats my arm, while I sip from a water bottle.
“Chloe, you can’t go on like this.”
“I am sorry, it won’t happen again.”
“It’s been months of nonstop flying and photo shoots. You need a break.” No, I don’t want to go back to confront her.
“No, I am fine.”
“This is not up for debate. Have you any idea that you could retire right now? No model before you has pulled so many contracts in such a short time.”
I shoot up and dip my chin to show that I am okay, and we can go on.
“If you don’t rest for a while, I won’t manage you anymore.”
“What?”
“Call me when you’re better.”
I finish the photo shoot and call Damien. It’s been three months of no calls, just text messages, the same every day.
Damien: How are you?
Me: Working
Damien: Anything new?
Me: Only shoots and catwalks
By the third ring, he takes my call.
“I am ready to come home.”
“I’ll send the jet.”
Allowing him to take care of me offers me a microsecond where I can breathe without this pain choking my life essence from me. How long until I can forget about his betrayal? I am not mad at her anymore. Not much anyway. She had no idea who he was, but he, he . . . why did I give in to the temptation of him? From the beginning I knew and still I hoped.
When I let myself in, I find her on the couch, eyes shiny with tears. She rushes to me, and we fall to the floor, hugging.
“Please forgive me.”
“I am not mad at you. I am mad at him. He knew who you were, you didn’t.”
“He was very drunk. Chloe, we didn’t fuck… It was stupid for me to imply when you came back home. I don’t even know why…” Sincerity gleams in her eyes, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
“I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
I love her, she’s my best friend, and still there are moments when she looks at me with caution. And all I can think about, all I can see is them together. Did he kiss her the same? Touch her the same? So what if they didn’t actually do it? Is this supposed to make the pain go away? If he wasn’t drunk, they would have. In those moments, I hate them both. But there are the other times when we go out and have fun. Meeting guys, flirting, when it’s bearable.
Maybe the day I breathe without pain at hearing his name or a memory, I will be able to let go of the strain in our friendship. Until then there is nothing I can do. One day, Filip du Mont, you will be just a memory, a bitter and wrinkled image of my almost home.
