Page 41 of Just for the Cameras
I cross one leg over the other, studying him, wondering what possessed him to become such an asshole over the years of his life.
How old is he, anyway?
I lift my phone and do a quick internet search of Graydon St. John. One of the first pictures I see is of him with his shirt off, the same one Everly showed me. I ignore it and look up his age.
Thirty. Huh, my age.
Doesn’t seem like he’s thirty. From the crinkles next to his eyes—which most definitely are not laugh lines—I would have said maybe mid-thirties. Then again, doesn’t football age people?
Next thing I notice is his net worth.
Over $50 million!
What?
My eyes shoot up to where he’s sipping his beer, reading something on his phone.
Uh, he’s definitely buying dinner tonight. He probably makes as much in a minute as I do in a year.
I scan farther down and see that he was born in California, and his dad is a famous football player.
Huh, didn’t know that.
“Your dad played football?” I ask, causing his eyes to shoot up to mine.
“What are you doing? Are you googling me?” His eyes turn dark and menacing as his paw of a hand pushes my phone down to the table where he can see what’s on my screen. His gaze lifts to mine, and for a moment,I feel like he’s about to flip the table as fire spews out of his eyes. “Don’t fucking google me. If you have a question about my life, ask me.”
Flustered, I exit the Google search and say, “I’m sorry, I just…I was curious about your age.”
“Thirty,” he answers.
“Yes, I saw that.”
“You could have asked.”
“You’ve been a jerk the whole time we’ve been here, so I’m sorry if I didn’t want to talk to you.”
His jaw grows tighter. “If you have a question about me, ask. Don’t fucking look me up.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling embarrassed.
Heat trickles up the back of my neck as I can feel a bout of tears spring to my eyes.
No.
Do not cry.
Not in front of him.
He doesn’t deserve to see how his words, his demeanor, and his overall assholery affect me.
I blink back the sting of tears and keep my head tilted down, my eyes studying the grain of the table as silence stretches between us.
He doesn’t seem to be moving either, and if I were even remotely brave enough, I would look up to see what he’s doing, but instead, I keep my eyes locked on the table. If I look at him, I know these tears will flow over, and I’m doing everything in my power to keep them at bay.
Why is he so…angry? Why does it matter if I look him up on the internet? He’s a public figure, there are probably a ton of things written up about him, and yet I get chastised for trying to figure out his age.
He’s just so…awful.
