20. Billie

CHAPTER 20

BILLIE

U sually I enjoy staying in a hotel after one of my trips, relaxing back into modern life without thinking about work for a few days, but this time felt different. With two days to burn before my flight back to Philly, I knew I would have to occupy my time somehow.

The day after arriving in San Juan, I treated myself to a fancy breakfast in the café on the corner, then headed back to my room, opened up my laptop and dove into work.

I spent much of that first day editing my photos and contacting clients. Dr. Matthews — the woman I had been emailing before I went away — had sent me several more messages, and to my relief she was still really excited about my work.

As soon as I’d finished it, I sent her one of my sample images along with a full list of the species I could identify that I took photos of. There were a few birds I snapped that I didn’t recognize, and I’m hoping there are some scientists somewhere who will give me the answers.

By the second day, the work has slowed down, but that’s okay because my flight is in the evening, and I can occupy my mind with getting to the airport. I have a taxi booked, but I’ve had a lot of bad luck with taxis before, so I made sure to give myself plenty of time.

When I step out onto the street to wait for my driver, evening is falling. It’s hot and muggy, and cars are racing past on the street in front of me. With any luck, the traffic won’t be too bad, but I’m not going to hold my breath.

I stand on the corner, sweating and bouncing my weight from foot to foot. At exactly six thirty p.m., the driver calls me, and I answer the phone in Spanish, relieved that he seems to be on time. He pulls up a second later, and proceeds to talk my ear off the whole way to the airport.

Mostly, I nod and agree. My Spanish is pretty good, but being conversational in a local dialect is a whole other matter.

Fortunately, there’s AC in the airport, but the line for check-in is unbelievably long. I’m so tired that all I want to do is sleep, and standing here in this line is really not helping.

Looking at all these people, wondering where they’re going, I can’t help but think about Jensen. I bet he got a private jet back home. I bet he got personally escorted. I bet he didn’t have to suffer his way through a sweaty security line like this.

I’ve done my best to avoid news outlets for the last few days, not daring to catch a glimpse of the celebrity-gossip segments in fear of finding my own face plastered all over the pages. Maybe that’s narcissistic, expecting to see myself as the center of all gossip. There’s a chance that nobody is paying me even the slightest bit of attention, which is the way I would like it.

But then again, even though I don’t really use social media and don’t really go on the internet that much, I’ve still seen the articles about Jensen. I’ve still heard the rumors. I know exactly how crazy people online go for speculating about his love life.

A couple of years ago, they posted a list, a year’s review of Jensen’s girlfriends from the last twelve months. It probably wasn’t remotely true, and I imagine it was quite hurtful to everyone involved, but people were talking about it for months afterwards.

The press made it sound like he had a new girl every month and didn’t care what happened to the last one. And just to rub salt into the wound, they gave each girl a rating to really emphasize the point that they were awful.

Now I’ve met him, I feel surer than ever that the carousel of girlfriends can’t be fully true and must come from extrapolation of pictures of him with women, but I guess I’ll never know the whole truth.

And I hate that it’s happening to me.

Finally I step up to the counter, and the woman behind it squints at me. “Hello, how are you?” I say, pushing my passport forward.

“Do I know you?” she asks as she takes my documents, then squints at my passport as if that might give her some answers.

“I don’t think so,” I say with an awkward chuckle.

She scans my passport, then frowns at me. “Hang on — aren’t you that girl who rescued the prince?”

“No,” I lie quickly, hoping my tone doesn’t give me away. “That wasn’t me. I must just look like her, I guess.”

We both chuckle awkwardly again, and she finishes checking me in, not quite sure what to say next after embarrassing herself. At least she believed me. That’s something.

And I guess that’s all the answer I really need to my curiosity. I am all over the papers.

Goddamn him! If people start recognizing me, it’s going to be intolerable. I’m a keep-to-myself kind of girl. I don’t go out much. I’m fun, but I’m private. The last thing I need is to be associated with the Prince of Parties.

Even though I sleep for most of the flight, I still fall straight into bed when I get home. I’m so tired that I can’t bring myself to even think about doing anything else.

My traitorous mind summons dreams of Jensen, though. They’re distant and vague, but they’re of him, of Mostaza, of smiling at birds and swimming shirtless. Of laughing together in bed. Of kisses I wish I didn’t desire.

I wake up sometime in the afternoon the next day, jet lag catching me completely and biting me. My head’s pounding and my eyes feel bone-dry when I crack them open. All I can do is lie there and groan. Dehydrated, I conclude.

I’m still in my pants and shirt from yesterday, so I drag myself out of bed, strip them off and put a hoodie on before heading to the bathroom. The AC in my unit is incredibly effective, so I can wear a hoodie even in the depths of summer.

Once I’ve washed my face and brushed my teeth, I feel a little better. My head still hurts, though, so I drag myself to the kitchen, rummage through the cupboards for an ibuprofen, then pour myself a glass of water. I down it with some water, then find an apple in the fridge.

It’s bland, with a vague taste of chemicals, and it makes me long for the fresh, juicy fruit I ate back on Mostaza.

It’s only after I’ve eaten and had a moment to myself that I check my phone. Not being on social media means I can often go all day without looking at it, which is a habit I’m glad to have. It does mean that sometimes people get upset, because I don’t reply straightaway, but really that’s their problem. If they can’t handle waiting an hour for something not important, I think they need to look at themselves.

There are a bunch of unread emails, and a few texts from my friend Ella. I smile as I read them, and text with a promise to call her later.

But for now, work.

I take a seat in my office, put all thoughts of Jensen out of my head, and open up my photos. Yes. I can keep myself busy all day like this. I won’t think about anything else at all.