“We need a room.” Arthur said, his voice husky from hours of driving. “But we can't use your name. Or mine, probably, if Marcus is looking for me too.”
Beatrice pulled her hat lower. “I’m June. You’re... Johnny.”
“June and Johnny?” Arthur smirked. “A bit on the nose, don't you think?”
“It’s a classic for a reason.” she said, stepping out of the car.
The motel office smelled of pine cleaner and old cigarettes. A woman with hair the color of wood smoke looked up from a crossword puzzle.
“One room or two?”
Arthur felt a flush creep up his neck. He looked at Beatrice.
“One.” she said firmly. “Two beds.”
They checked into Room 14. It was clean but sparse, with wood-paneled walls and a television that looked like it belonged in a museum. Arthur dropped his bags and immediately went to the window, peeking through the blinds.
The black SUV was nowhere to be seen.
“You’re being paranoid.” Beatrice said, sitting on the edge of her bed. She kicked off her sneakers and sighed. “It’s just us. Nobody knows we’re here.”
Arthur sat on the other bed, the springs creaking. He felt the silence of the room pressing in. For the first time, he was acutely aware of the intimacy of the situation. He was in a motel room with Beatrice. The Beatrice.
“I should check the footage from today.” he said, reaching for his laptop bag.
“I thought we weren't filming.” she said, her voice soft.
“I didn't film you» Arthur said quickly. “Just the road. The landscape. I have to keep the channel alive, Beatrice. If I stop posting, the algorithm will bury me.”
Beatrice watched him as he set up his laptop. She looked at the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his fingers flew over the keys.
“You’re obsessed with it” she said. “The 'algorithm'. It’s just another kind of Marcus, isn't it? Telling you what to do, how to look, when to speak.”
Arthur paused. He looked at his screen, where a dozen thumbnails of his own face stared back at him. She was right. He had traded a boss in London for a digital ghost that demanded his constant attention.
“I just want to be successful.” he muttered.
“At what?” she asked, standing up and walking over to him. She leaned over his shoulder, her breath warm against his ear. “At being a person people watch? Or at being a person?”
She reached out and closed the laptop lid.
“Talk to me, Arthur. No cameras. No edits. Just tell me something real.”
They talked until the moon was high in the sky. Arthur told her about his fear of failure, about how he felt like he was always performing, even when he was alone. Beatrice told him about the first time she saw her face on a billboard and felt like she was looking at a stranger.
As the night grew colder, the distance between the two beds seemed to shrink. They weren't just a creator and a star anymore. They were two people hiding from a world that wanted to consume them.
Arthur looked at her in the dim light. She looked beautiful, but more than that, she looked reachable. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers on the scratchy wool blanket.
“I’m glad I found you.” he whispered.
“You didn't find me.” she said, her fingers interlacing with his. “You gave me a place to hide.”
In the morning, Arthur woke up to the sound of a camera shutter. He bolted upright, his heart racing.
Beatrice was standing by the window, holding his Leica. She was looking at the small screen on the back.
“You’re a good photographer, Arthur.” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “But you left this on. There’s a photo of me sleeping. From last night.”
Arthur felt a cold dread. “I didn't take that. I swear.”
Beatrice turned the camera toward him. It wasn't a photo of her sleeping. it was a photo of the two of them, taken through the window from the parking lot.
Someone was still following them.
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