Spotlight on Nobody

- 21 -

~ song: Brazil by Declan McKenna ~

Someone walks down the aisle of the Amtrak and I slide lower in my seat, pulling my hood down. I know I look suspicious, in a hoodie and sunglasses in Amtrak Business Class, but I don't need any paparazzi to see me. Paparazzi. I almost laugh to myself. It's funny to think that journalists – I use that word generously – are spending their valuable time following me around. I'm really not that interesting, but I won't let them find that out, because I won't let them find me.

Leo insisted on flying me to New York City for the Gala, but I refused. Not only is a 20 min flight ridiculous to me, but it's also has huge environmental repercussions I can easily avoid by taking a highspeed train. Of course, he bought my ticket – hence the cup of mint tea on the table next to me, courtesy of business class – and I obliged begrudgingly. He's already spending literally hundreds of thousands of dollars on me this weekend, the least I could have done was paid a $60 train ticket.

Things have smoothed over between us in the past week. I came to realize that this was neither of our faults; it's not my fault for wanting to go public, and it's not his fault that no one thinks I'm good enough for him. In the end, I learned that letting all the bullshit come between us did nothing but fuel their fires and put out my own.

That's not to say that everything has stayed the same between us either. I was too swept up in Leo, in the allure of his lifestyle and of his beauty and his essential perfection. That's not me. I've always been the grounded, mature one who knows her self-worth and doesn't let anyone tell her any different. It wasn't like me to allow my every emotion to depend on outside sources – on whether or not Leo texted me that day, on what magazines had to say about me, on what pictures of Leo were posted by adoring fans. So, I've withdrawn to protect myself. I can't give every part of me away to Leo all at once, free of charge. Because that will undoubtedly leave me broken, wasted and alone.

Logan is waiting for me on the platform at Penn Station. Instead of his normal "SECURITY" shirt he wears around Leo, he's sporting jeans and a tee shirt, per my request. He grabs the measly roller from me, heedless to my protests, and we make our way to the subway, another one of my requests. Why get stuck in rush hour traffic on a Friday night when you can just hop a few subways?

Despite my best efforts to blend in, Logan's hulking figure and massive, tattooed biceps make it hard to feel normal. Walking through crowded Penn Station is much easier than it normally is – people give Logan and, by default, me, a wide berth as we walk deeper underground.

When we resurface, we're standing on fifth avenue, next to Central Park. The street is busy with rush hour traffic; taxi drivers honk at prospective customers, buses whir by, almost taking some pedestrians down, mothers walk hand in hand with their children who are weighed down by small backpacks, and the clank of a spatula against a griddle rings out from a nearby hot dog stand. Sighing, I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, savoring the moment.

"Miss, the hotel is that way," Logan says politely. I keep my eyes shut and hear him sigh.

"Miss," he says pointedly. I raise my eyebrows in his direction, but my eyes remain closed and feet rooted to the spot.

"Nell, let's go," he says much more casually, and I crack a grin, opening my eyes.

"See, that wasn't too hard, was it Lo-bro?"

"No ma'am," he responds, and I can't help but laugh. I guess it will take a little more effort to crack through Logan.

As we enter through the doors of the Plaza - which the doorman has opened for us because god forbid I touch a door handle! – I immediately feel underdressed. Glittering light from crystal chandeliers bounces off the gold-leaf paneling on the walls, and every person in the lobby looks like they belong on the cover of a magazine, and I'm not talking tabloids. Reluctantly, I trail behind Logan across the marble floor, feeling a dozen pair of judgmental eyes searing through the back of my hoodie as I pass.

"Welcome to The Plaza. How may I serve you?" the concierge says, with honey dripping from her voice but thinly veiled disgust in her eyes.

"Checking in for Greene," Logan responds in a gruff voice, obviously seeing through the woman's fake façade.

After clacking my name into the computer with her annoyingly perfect manicured nails, I can practically see her eyes pop out of her head as she reads her computer.

"Ms. Greene, you can follow me to the Grand Penthouse," she says in a reverent tone. "Your bags will be taken care of." She gestures to a bellhop to grab my tiny roller from Logan, but I reach a hand out to stop him.

"I'm sure we can get there just fine, thank you," I say with a honey sweet voice to match her own. I grab the key out of her perfect little hand, and strut towards the elevator with a new found confidence. I'm not sure, but I swear I can hear Logan chuckle to himself.

"I'll put your things in your room," Logan says as he hits the buttons to the 4th and 20th floors. "You're late for your appointment."

"What appointment?" I ask in a whiny voice. I've had enough excitement for one day – I just want to eat junk food and read my book in bed.

Before he can answer, the elevator doors open to a reception area with an even more beautiful receptionist – do they only hire models here? – greeting me with a warm smile. The words "Warren-Tricomi Salon" are backlit behind her, and I give Logan a withering look. With a small shove from Logan, I exit and make my way to her.

"You must be Ms. Greene," she says assuredly, coming around from the front desk and placing a gentle hand on mine. "You're just as beautiful as in the photographs." I try not to snort with laughter. For one, the photographs she's talking about are undoubtedly my unflattering paparazzi pictures. Not to mention, I'm hardly beautiful, especially now – leggings, a hoodie, no makeup and a messy bun?

"Ms. Greene!" I hear in a loud, clear voice, belonging to a fashionably dressed man with braids trailing over his back, gold string and beads intertwined amongst them elegantly.

"In the flesh," I mutter, perhaps a twinge sarcastically. "Please, call me Nell."

"I'm Darien," he introduces himself as he pulls me in for an embrace. Stepping back, he examines me more intently. Muttering words like wonderful, mmhmm, fix that, and yes to himself, he makes me spin slowly for him.

"Mr. Griffiths had only one request: keep your hair long." He smiles as he sits me down in his salon chair. "Do you have any of your own?"

"You're the expert," I say with a shrug. I've resigned myself to my fate, which is feeling more and more like a complete makeover, and figure I may as well make the most of it.