After the first time I had sex, I curled up in the sheets, still reeling back from the aftermath while Atticus quickly buttoned up his shirt, anxious to leave as if this meant nothing to him. Meanwhile, I could hardly contain my sniffling. I wasn't crying because it was a bad experience, it was alright, but I was so fucking scared. I just lost my purity—the one true thing that made me marketable and appealing. Now that I was deflowered, I was no longer a virgin, no longer an ingenue, no longer desirable, no longer had that novelty. I wasn't the innocent, doe-eyed, fresh-faced fair maiden anymore, but someone else would be, and soon, they'd take my place. Plain and simple...I felt...well, for a lack of a better word, dirty. Tainted. Impure. I wanted nothing more than to pile on layers and layers of clothing to protect myself from being perceived. It was silly, I know. No one could tell, or at the very least, I hoped they wouldn't be able to. If they could, however, that would pretty much be the end of my career that had just started.
"Stop crying," Atticus muttered, "Jesus. It's not that big of a deal."
To you, I wanted to add. "I just...I just need a minute to process. I've never done this before."
"Listen, sex isn't like what you're gonna see in those stupid movies you act in. No man is ever going to light candles for you or lay a path of rose petals to your bed. Get over it."
I swallowed, letting the saliva coax my tongue. How pathetic was that? Crying over a consequence of my own actions. Maybe it wasn't all bad. After all, he was my boyfriend. Well, kind of.
"Does this mean..." I trailed off, pulling the covers right underneath my chin, "does this mean you like me? Like, for real?"
He stiffened, expression softening. "Maureen, we were kind of drunk."
Correction: he was kind of drunk, I was pretty much sober. Or at least, I think he was? I couldn't tell since he has a sober person's coordination and speech patterns, even after a bottle of beer.
"Right," I laughed bitterly. I was stupid to even ask that question in the first place. Of course he doesn't like me. Was I hurt? Partially, but I wasn't going to let it mess with me. I had more important things to prioritize. "Don't worry I got the hint. I'll be out of your hair soon."
"Hey don't be like that," he said, sighing, "no one has to know. I think it's best that people still think we're together, at least until opening week. Just to make sure it's successful."
I really wanted to refuse, to keep my dignity intact. But if he was going to fuck me over, I might as well get something out of it.
"Okay," I agreed, dabbing the delicate skin underneath my eyes with my ring fingers to stop crying.
I rolled out of the bed, collecting my dress off of the floor. I cringed at the memory of him peeling it off of me. Ashamed, I stepped inside the opening, the silk fabric uncharacteristically cold. As if it wanted to remind me how much of a mess I was. As if this was its way of telling me I made a mistake.
"You can grab a jacket from downstairs if you're cold, and I will call you a cab," he offered, already dressed in an all grey suit with a maroon tie.
"I'm fine," I told him, trying to jam my feet into my tight, hazardous heels. I swear, they could've been a weapon. Truth was, I probably needed his help, but I didn't want him to know that. "I'll see you later?"
"Sure."
***
Lucia never wasted an opportunity, that was for sure.
The film, despite all odds, did exceptionally well numbers wise. Somehow, it even surpassed the crazy projections, garnering a total of 800 million in the box office. This, without a doubt, would be my breakthrough, and I'd have my name attached to the movie for the rest of my career, for worse or for better.
