Page 149 of Becoming Us

The king-size bed was still there. The same faceless, luxury furniture. But now, the walls were lined with massive, framed photos—portraits of me. Modeling shots from when I was a teen. My face, again and again, blown up like I’d died and no one had told me.

“Aren’t they amazing?” my mom said, stepping inside and tilting her head toward one like she was admiring a painting in a gallery. “I just wanted to frame a couple, but then I couldn’t decide—they were all so good. I might’ve overdone it.”

“You think?” Ilana muttered.

Our eyes met, and something passed between us. The same familiar ache. A shared discomfort we didn’t need to put into words. None of this surprised us—but that didn’t make it easier.

“Too bad he quit. Noah could’ve had such an incredible career,” she went on, then turned to Atty. “Had you ever seen them before?”

Atty looked like he’d just been handed a live grenade. “Yeah, a couple.”

“Isn’t he handsome? People say he’s my spitting image. I used to model too,” she added, full of pride.

A shiver crept down my spine.

“Mrs. Ríos?” A server appeared in the doorway, addressing her. She’d stopped using my father’s last name years ago.

She gave us a quick, apologetic smile and left the room.

“I’ll give you two a minute to process…” Ilana said, gesturing to the wall of framed me. She offered a helpless shrug and slipped out.

I stood there, frozen in place. “I don’t even know what to say,” I muttered to Atty.

It wasn’t just the wall. As I stepped farther in, I realized the shelves and bookcases were cluttered with even more of them.

“She’s…very proud of you.” The words sounded kind, but there was a flicker of apprehension in his expression.

“She’s proud of the way I used tolook,” I corrected.

His gaze softened. I shook my head and turned back to the photos. They weren’t personal—not even close. If you’d taken photos that actually belonged in a childhood bedroom, it would’ve been of me and Holly, gossiping and listening to music. Me playing drums. Me with Colin and the guys on the volleyball team. These didn’t show life; it was a trophy room. And it wasn’t even meant to be mine.

I should’ve prepared Atty for this. He looked confused as fuck and now I knew with complete certainty that I couldn’t keep avoiding this conversation.

I parted my lips, ready to at least tell him I’d explain later, but then I caught something out of the corner of my eye. The uneasy flutter in my gut turned sharp as the discomfort surged.

What the…?

I moved closer, picked up the frame. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I nearly hurled it across the room. Inside the ornate gold frame was a photo of me tucked beneath River’s arm. Our first shoot together.

A flash of a memory hit—me pressed against a bathroom wall—and I dropped the frame on the shelf with a dull clatter.

“Noah?” Atty’s voice came from somewhere beside me, but it barely registered.

I looked so young. Despite the styled clothes, the makeup—I looked so fucking young. Why hadn’t I seen that before? My stomach always twisted when I thought about it, but I’d never really seen how we looked standing next to each other.

Back then, I hadn’t known. I figured it out years later—after I’d already slept with him. River was twenty-four when we met.

“Noah?” Atty asked again, gently. “What is it?”

I turned to him, swallowing down the knot that had risen in my throat. “Um, that picture,” I started, but the words cracked. I cleared my throat. “I don’t like that picture,” I managed. I turned away, afraid that if I didn’t, I’d start crying over something I damn well knew I’d let happen.

Atty reached for it. My hand twitched, ready to stop him—but he didn’t look at it. He flipped the frame over, undid the clasps one by one, then slid the photo out. Still without glancing at it, he tore it into pieces—small, decisive tears—until it was just a pile of paper on the shelf.

He gave me the softest look—a question. I nodded and wiped at the moisture gathering under my eyes. His arms came around me, and I let myself sink into that comfort—for a moment. Then I pulled away.

“I can’t do this here,” I whispered.

He kissed my temple, gave my shoulder a quiet squeeze, and stepped back. Barely—but just enough to feel like space.