I don’t. I watch him get swallowed up by the sidewalk traffic, but my feet won’t move. I can’t follow him now. If I do, I’ll just say something else I’ll regret by the morning and probably end up hurting more than just his feelings. It’s better if I take some space, get my thoughts together, sleep this off.

Deep down, I know he’s right. I feel it, mixed in the bile and acid and other shit. I know I should stay away from Taylor. I know I should have never gotten involved.

But it’s over. My tuition is paid. I won’t tell anyone. It’s over.

14

TAYLOR

I run through a series of basic tried-and-true poses in a fog, but the small, handsome German photographer pushes me to deliver, which I’m annoyed by at first, then we fall into a rhythm, and I appreciate his refusal to allow me to phone this one in. I contort and work my angles, and we bang out frame after frame, barely needing to stop and communicate verbally. When he takes a break to consult with the lighting person, I check the shots of me in the thick, oversize parkas and nothing else and they look great.

As we prep for my next look—a stunning pink velvet suit—I tilt my head to the side so the on-set hairstylist can tame my flyaways. We’re doing a twenty-four-inch, slicked-back ponytail for the rest of the looks, and I see that the crew is almost ready for me when a horrifying stream of crimson trickles out my left nostril and onto the lapel of the suit.

I can barely process what’s happening until the stylist steps back to look me over, noticing the blood as it settles into the fabric like an insult. A few minutes later my agent is on the phone with the designer, trying to figure out if a replacement sample can be rushed over to the studio, and someone asks if I’m okay. I help the photographer come up with a few poses where the damage can’t be seen and the architecture of the blazer is still on display for his lens. I also suggest draping a double-breasted trench that belongs to the next mini dress look over my shoulders to cover the sullied lapel. The designer approves via FaceTime and the crisis is averted for the moment, so I don’t freak out. At least not while I’m still on set with two wads of toilet paper stuck up my nose as the makeup artist adds dramatic liquid wings to my eyes.

Instead, I pull out my phone and frantically text Mei.

Do u still get nosebleeds?

She texts me right back. My nose bleeds more than my vagina these days.

I wasn’t expecting that. She never mentions them.