VANYA
Four days later, I’m still reeling from what Hadyn said. He didn’t act any differently when he cooked or while we ate and watched the latest Fast and Furious movie or afterward when we got into a fight about how many more of those movies the production studio could squeeze out. (I’m a solid four, but Hadyn thinks it can go on forever).
I took cues from him and acted like nothing had happened too. But when I got ready for bed that night, I took his words apart and studied them from every angle, trying to convince myself that they weren’t as meaningful as they sounded.
There’s no one I’d rather celebrate with than you.
No one?
Not one person?
And are we talking as friends here? Or is this just a ‘baby daddy talking to his kid through the human incubator’ situation? Like a grieving man trying to talk to his dead wife through a psychic?
Or was I off-base? Did I miss the sarcasm? Was he trying to get back at me for yelling at him? Was the evil plan to distract me like crazy by sending me confusing mixed messages?
If it’s revenge, it’s a heck of a great strategy. I over-analyze Hadyn’s words to the point that I can’t look at him without battling the urge to ask what he meant. It’s an unneeded mental weight on my already over-taxed brain. And he takes up way too much space in it.
“You have an interview after your shoot,” Hadyn says, over our lunch of whole-wheat tuna sandwiches and carrot sticks.
Sunlight dances cheerfully through the large windows. In the background, blenders churn bananas, soy milk and sugar. The café is much busier today than it was the last time I came.
“An interview with who?” I ask, taking one of his carrot sticks and dipping it in ranch.
“Women’s Wellness Mag.”
My hand stops halfway to my open mouth. I look at him with suspicion. “They asked for me?”
“Of course they asked for you. Juniper wouldn’t agree to the interview if they weren’t the ones offering.”
“That’s weird.”
“Why?”
“They’re the biggest women’s health magazine in the US, but they were the only ones who didn’t reach out when I came out as Vanya Scott,” I say, chewing slowly.
“Maybe their eyes are open now.” He swipes on the tablet.
“Or maybe they see an opportunity to boost ratings by crucifying me on the cross of public opinion.”
“You sound nervous.”
“Nervous? Me? Nervous? Why would you say that? I’m not nervous.”
His grey eyes jump to me. There’s a shadow of a smile stretching the corners of his mouth. “The great Vanya Beckford is worried about a silly interview?”
“This isn’t just a silly interview,” I tell him. “Women’s Wellness is an established brand. They’re known for being direct and blunt and they don’t care if you’re a celebrity. They get off on the backlash. It’s why they can be so selective with their guests. People are begging to get on their platform.”
“The fact that they want you should be a good thing then.” He dips his fries into ketchup and offers it to me.
I nibble it and then chew another carrot to balance out the scales. “Or it could go horribly wrong.”
“You’re going to do great,” he says confidently.
“Huh. I hope so.”
Dejonae glides to our table. Her curls are much frizzier than normal and there are nacho stains on her apron.
“Brought your water.” She slaps it on the table and then holds the tray to her face as if waiting for me to throw rotten tomatoes at her.
I gasp when I see the offensive drink. “Sweetheart, this is supposed to be chai.”
“I know,” she squeaks.
“Well,” I clasp my fingers together and wait patiently. “Go ahead. You obviously put this here because you found a way to turn water into latte.”
“No more chai for you.” She peeks out from the tray and juts her chin at Hadyn. “Stalker’s orders.”
I pin Hadyn with a dirty look. Then I look at Dejonae. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I was.” She glances down shyly. “But then he smiled at me…”
I groan. “This is why pretty people get away with murder.”
Hadyn, the chai warden that he is, smiles smugly. “You’ll get chai after you drink more water. A balanced diet is important for…” He glances at Dejonae and adjusts his words. “For Project Vegas.”
I wag a finger in Hadyn’s face. “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”
“Starting? I have to do a better job then. I thought we were further along than that. At least mid-way.”
I grab for the butter knife.
Dejonae bends over and slips it out of my fingers. “I’ll never get blood out of the tablecloth.”
Hadyn’s wide grin makes me want to smack his perfect face. I scowl at him and hold my fingers an inch apart. “You’re this close to being fired.”
“You two work together?” Dejonae gasps.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I gesture drastically to him. “He’s my soon-to-be-laid-off assistant.”
“I thought you were working for him,” Dejonae exclaims.
“Do you need a job?” I ask Dejonae in a sweet voice.
“Why?”
My eyes go flat. “Because I’d like to hire you… so I can fire you too.”
“Relax.” Hadyn winks at Dejonae. “She threatens to fire me about twice a day. But she won’t.” He gives me a confident look. “Because I’m good at this job.”
Dammit, he is.
So far, Hadyn’s been great at getting me to gigs on time, shuttling me from one airport to the next and organizing my things when I get to my photoshoots.
With Juniper still handling my schedule and booking my projects from his hometown, I haven’t felt a major change in my daily routine.
In fact, things have gotten better now that I have an assistant who obsesses over whether I’ve eaten breakfast and insists I take a rest when I need one.
“Drink your water and then let’s hit the road, Beckford,” Hadyn says.
“Hmf.” I uncap the water.
Hadyn runs a hand through his thick hair and watches me as I drink. His hair is a little longer on top and I hope he cuts it soon. The slightly shaggy style makes him look like a roguish pirate.
It’s annoying how attractive he is, all hot muscles, perfect smiles and silver eyes.
Ugh.
When I finish gagging down my flavor-less chai substitute, we leave the café.
“I like her,” Hadyn says as he drives.
“Who? Dejonae?”
He nods.
I shake my head. “Keep your greasy hands off her. She’s too pure for your foolery.”
“Jealous?”
I roll my eyes and touch up my lipstick in the visor. “Please. I like her too. Which is why I’m trying to keep her away from your Darth-Vader levels of villainy.”
He hooks his thumb toward his chest. “Have you seen any of the Star Wars movies? I’m more Luke Skywalker than Vader.”
“Star Wars? I thought Vader was Star Trek?”
He makes a disappointed face. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
I tilt my head back and laugh. “My point is don’t get any ideas.”
“Relax. I meant I like her as your drug dealer. She knows when to turn off the tap.”
“Oh.”
“Back to my question. Were you jealous?” He sounds almost cheerful and that makes me uneasy.
“Of course not. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Sounded like you were jealous to me,” Hadyn teases.
“Jealousy is beneath me. I’m not immature.” I push the sun visor up and drop my lipstick into my purse.
He looks downright amused. “So you’ve never been jealous? Ever?”
“Of models who are booking more gigs than me? Of a woman with firmer abs and a bigger butt than me? Of baristas who get to make chai all day—”
“No one makes chai all day, you freak.”
I glare at him. “I get jealous in those situations. But if a man has me feeling so insecure that I can’t trust him around other women, then that relationship needs to end. Pronto. I’ve seen what jealousy can do to women. Starting fights in ditches. Tracking phones. Asking ‘where are you’ every five minutes. Bludgeoning the mistress and hiding her body under a playground…”
“Have you been watching true crime documentaries again?”
“I don’t have time for that.”
“You’re looking at jealousy to the extreme,” Hadyn argues, “but I don’t think feeling a little jealous is bad. It shows that you care about someone. That you want them for yourself.”
“Serial killer thinking.”
He laughs and his eyes twinkle at me.
What is it about that smile and those lips and that smolder that cause my nether regions to feel like they’re being electrocuted?
I try to banish the tingling, but it doesn’t work.
Not good.
I can’t be attracted to Hadyn. My pregnancy hormones must be messing with me.
“Are we there yet?” I choke out, dragging my gaze to the road.
Hadyn smirks. “You’re blushing again.”
“Black women can’t blush,” I mumble.
He just laughs softly and keeps driving.
I’ve done a ton of interviews since my debut as a model. Every interview is different, but I can fit all of them into three distinct categories.
The first is the Butt-Kissing interview where the host is so afraid of pissing off women of color and plus-sized women that they refuse to talk about anything substantial.
The Butt-Kissing interviews are full of poppy music and cheesy sound bites. Devoid of soul or meaty discussion, it’s all smiles, fist-pumps, ‘allyship’ and apologies.
The ‘I Don’t See Color’ Interview is the second category. It’s where the host is slightly disdainful of my accomplishments and secretly believes that it’s been handed to me by an increasingly politically-correct society.
Usually, their follow-up questions and lead-ins force the conversation into a political slant, as if they want nothing more than to expose me as some kind of blight to the rapidly decaying morals of the world.
And then there’s the Click Bait Interview.
These are the hosts who actually put in the time to do a deep dive into my body of work. Not just the Wikipedia and Cliff-Notes version. No, they look into my previous interviews and past projects. They look for patterns and weak points. They craft questions that are designed to drag out an exclusive from me and pump their organization full of easy clicks.
I’m used to parading myself in front of the camera and thinking on my feet, but I’ve never encountered the Women’s Wellness type of interview before. It’s a mixture of all three with an oily slick that covers me in accolades, but the disdain is quick, it’s sneaky and it’s got an underhanded meanness that I didn’t anticipate.
It’s my first time fumbling through questions and the more I think of how badly I’m doing, the more I mess up.
Marge, the host with hair so stiff I bet a baseball would bounce off her head, keeps her plastic smile aimed at me.
“Vanya,” she says in a Southern drawl, “in this next segment, I thought it would be fittin’ to give you an opportunity to address these internet trolls head on.” The grin never flickers. Not for a second. “Would you like me to read out the comments that have populated since you revealed the face behind your famous cookbooks?”
I blink rapidly.
She must take that as agreement because she turns to the camera. “Some of the lines have been redacted.” She clears her throat as a picture gets thrown up on the screen behind us. “Heavy people should not be teaching the world how to eat healthily. Take your own advice and lose some weight before you start lecturing others.”
The lights in my eyes are blinding. All I can see are the blurred lines that hide damaging insults.
Which ones are they blocking from sight?
Disgusting pig?
Ugly whale?
Fat cow?
“Vanya,” Marge’s voice is smoother than the most expensive liquid foundation in my beauty bag, “what do you say to the people who think you fooled honest, hardworking folks with your cookbooks?”
“I didn’t fool anyone. I—”
“But you wrote several cookbooks teaching people how to eat and lose weight.”
“No, the cookbooks weren’t about teaching anyone to lose weight. They were about eating healthily. Losing weight is merely a side effect of an appropriate diet and exercise—”
“But you paraded yourself as a health professional without revealing your face. Wasn’t that intentional?”
“Yes, I hid my face, but it wasn’t because I’m ashamed of my size.”
“If you weren’t ashamed of your size,” Marge shoots the questions back like she’s Serena Williams at Wimbledon, “then why didn’t you publish these cookbooks as Vanya Beckford? You were already a well-established plus-sized model by the time your first book was published. Wouldn’t it make more sense if you promoted them as yourself?” She blinks slowly. “Unless you had a reason to hide.”
“I was… I am not ashamed.”
“Then explain to us, Vanya.” She tilts her head. “We’re all ears.”
I swallow hard and face the camera. I can do this. I can do this. “Well, I…”
The world starts to blur.
My eyes dart back and forth when the lights shine in my eyes.
I can’t do this.
Marge kicks one leg out and crosses it over the other. “It’s been a while since you revealed yourself to be Vanya Scott, but you haven’t come out with a statement addressing the online disapproval. Your publishing house is still working with you on another book, but I hear they’ve halved the print run. Isn’t that an indication that they expect this new book to flop?”
“No. I mean…”
“It may be that your highly awarded career as a plus-size model will be what destroys your success as an author. How do you feel about that?”
I see movement at the corner of the studio. It’s Hadyn. He marches right up to the cameraman so he’s in my line of sight. The fury on his face poses only one question—do you want me to end this thing?
My heart, that had been beating like a butterfly trapped in a gas chamber, starts to calm down.
Unlike Juniper, who would think of the cost to the agency and the blow to my commercial value before he acts, Hadyn doesn’t give a damn. I know that all I have to do is say the word and he would tear this studio to pieces before whisking me away. No regrets. No apologies.
The thought brings me comfort.
I smile and nod at him. I’m okay.
He remains by the cameraman, body coiled and eyes locked on me. Ready to pounce the moment he deems it necessary.
I decide not to give him the opportunity to worry.
Pasting an equally plastic smile on my face, I clasp my hands over my knees. “I’m glad you brought that up, Marge, because there’s something I’ve been meaning to say and I didn’t have the courage to say it until this moment.”
She leans forward, a scrawny fist propping up her sharp chin.
“In all my years as a model, I’ve heard critiques from every side. To some, I’m not thin enough. No surprise right? The conventional model is size zero or less.” I gesture to my wide hips, my thick thighs, my full breasts, my dark skin. “And to others, I’m not big enough. I’m still too small, too close to the status quo to represent what a plus-sized woman looks like.”
I chuckle. “These comments, they remind me that I can’t please everyone and I didn’t start the Vanya Scott brand because I wanted to try.” I take a deep breath. “Marge, the truth is that I didn’t write those cookbooks for Vanya Beckford the plus-sized supermodel. I wrote those cookbooks for Vanya the overweight middle schooler who was told by the cutest boy in school that I was the only girl he wouldn’t want to see naked.”
A soft, four-letter word flutters from my left.
Marge whips her head around, pointing a stunned look at Hadyn before hiding her surprise.
“It’s strange.” I scoot to the edge of my seat as I become more passionate. “So strange that as a bigger girl, we take up more room and yet people act as if we don’t exist. When they do acknowledge us, it’s to make us the butt of a joke or lecture us on how lazy we are.”
“But Vanya, you do understand that sometimes those lectures are for the greater good. Being overweight is tied to so many health issues. In a world that’s raging for body positivity, we can’t blindly accept unhealthy habits. We have to acknowledge the downfalls of carrying around more weight than our bones were meant for.”
Come on, Marge. You couldn’t punch higher than that? I bob my head. “I do know how concerned the world is about the plus-sized body. In fact, they’re so concerned I bet they’re lining up for medical degrees just so they can be more involved.”
Marge chuckles. I’m not sure if she’s humoring me or if she’s genuinely amused. Frankly I don’t care.
“What people don’t seem to get is that we don’t need your self-important opinion. We know that exercise is helpful. We know that eating healthier is better. We’re not stupid. We’re not trying to wiggle out of taking responsibility. We know.”
“Loving yourself—it’s a journey. Sometimes, you lose weight. You feel good for a bit. And then you gain back double the weight and you spiral into depression. You feel awful. You hate the outstretched skin you’re in. And sometimes, it doesn’t stop even when you get thin. There’s still a part of you that wonders if you’re good enough.”
Marge makes an ‘mm’ sound, and I wonder if she can relate to that.
“I didn’t decide to be a model because I liked it. I started modeling to help my family, but modeling gave me a confidence boost that I’d never experienced before. I used to think,” I gesture to my temple, “that I’d buy that purse or take that trip or make that move on the guy I like,” my eyes trip to Hadyn before darting away, “when I’m thin. So many of you do that.” I face the camera because I’m not talking to Marge anymore. I’m talking to all the people like me. “You shrivel into yourself. Press pause on your life, waiting. Waiting. Because don’t you have to be skinny to be confident and glamorous and even sexy? Don’t you have to be skinny before you can be beautiful and happy?”
Hadyn folds his arms over his chest. His eyes glint at me. He’s not even hiding his admiration and a shiver of satisfaction runs down my spine.
“The answer is no. You matter. You matter right now at the exact size that you are. And so when you exercise and when you eat right, it’s not to achieve some magic number on a scale. It’s because when you love something you take care of it. You’ll give your body what it needs to be healthy, to have the energy to do the kinds of things you like to do and live the life you want to live.” I face Marge again. “That’s why I created Vanya Scott. That’s why my cookbooks exist. So the Vanya I used to be can see that being healthy and eating right is not a desperate grab for beauty but an expression of self-love.”
“A very important message indeed,” Marge says with a hint of sincerity behind her plastic grin. The camera focuses on her as she tells people where to find my books.
I let out a breath of relief.
My eyes, without any kind of direction from me, find Hadyn. One corner of his lips hitches up and he gives me a nod of approval.
I pull my lips in to hide my smile.
After the interview, the sound team descends on the stage to unhook my mike.
Marge swivels her shoulder to give them better access to her microphone. Her sharp eyes land on me. “You’re very well-spoken for a model, Ms. Beckford. I didn’t expect you to be so level-headed or expressive. I’ve had interviews about this topic that unravel into this awful ‘you hurt my feelings’ rant. So boring. I appreciated your dialogue.”
“And I’d appreciate if you’d consider your words before you speak, Marge. For your information, the dumb model stereotype is old and outdated. Most models have to create their own beauty brands in order to afford their rent. We’re businesswomen, marketers, social media managers and activists. And by the way, the Women’s Wellness Magazine will continue to decline in views if you do nothing but throw cheap shots disguised as concerned questions at guests. Thank you for the invite. Have a nice day.”
Rising elegantly from the chair, I storm to the stairs at the edge of the stage.
Hadyn is there, hand outstretched and silver eyes caressing me. I feel a full-body shiver when my hand slips into his.
He squeezes my fingers gently. “Rockstar.”
“I know.”
“Cocky too.” He presents me with a cup of chai latte. “I asked the caterers if they could make this. Not sure how it’ll taste but—”
My eyes land on the precious chai latte and stars glow from my eyes. “I love you!” I spring myself at Hadyn, making sure not to jostle him too hard in case the beautiful chai in his hands sloshes over the rim. I can’t let even a drop touch the ground.
Hadyn gives me a shocked look.
I snap the drink from him and then, in the midst of my chai happy dance, I realize what I’ve said. Heat blazes in my cheeks.
Hurrying to make it seem like I was talking to the latte, I lift it high. “I love you. Muah.” I kiss the side, leaving a big lipstick stain.
Hadyn’s expression clears and a smile crosses his handsome face. “You have a serious problem.”
“If this is wrong, baby, I don’t want to be right,” I say before taking a sip.
He chuckles and leads me to the dressing room with an arm around my shoulder. “Who was the idiot who didn’t want to see you naked?”
“You have issues,” I mumble, laughing into my cup.
“Just a first name will do. You said he was from middle school?”
“Get off me, Mulliez,” I joke.
“Initials then.”
My laughter, this time, is louder and from deep in my belly.
“He must have been blind. You were adorable in middle school,” Hadyn mutters.
Dazed, I tilt my head back to look at him.
He meets my eyes and my insides quiver like a mountain of jello on the back of a camel.
“Oh my gosh. Hadyn? Hadyn Mulliez?”
The syrupy, feminine voice stops both Hadyn and I in our tracks.
A woman flies toward us, descending from the winding metal stairs of the studio. Her heels thunk on every step and I’m surprised her stilettos don’t stick into the metal grates.
She successfully glides her way down to our level and picks up speed. Hands flailing, she launches herself at Hadyn. I’m talking flying squirrel style—both arms and legs extended.
Hadyn stumbles back, managing to stay on his feet as he catches her. The woman’s skirt swooshes around her skinny legs, giving me an eyeful. Victoria isn’t keeping her secrets locked up tight enough.
“Hadyn!” Flying Squirrel screeches again. She disentangles her arms, but she’s still standing so close to Hadyn that she might as well be an extra limb.
“Hey…” Hadyn drags out the word. “Uh…”
“Britney,” she chirps.
“Britney?” It’s a question.
She laughs and caresses his shoulder. “Britney from the ski resort?” She bats thick eyelashes. I grudgingly admire her application. Some people can’t make long, fuzzy eyelashes work, but her face is so sharp and eye-catching that it suits her. “Remember the Jacuzzi tub…”
“Ah.” His eyes light up with recognition. “Britney.”
“Yeah.” She does another high-pitched giggle.
“You two know each other?” I butt in. It’s a dumb question. Because of course they know each other. I just heard about their blissful night in the hot tub.
My insides twist so violently that I wonder if Project Vegas is protesting his or her father’s shallow taste in women. I can’t disagree with the assessment. What the heck does he see in this Britney-chick? Long legs? Great smile? Big boobs?
“Vanya Beckford.” Britney turns to me and gives me a cool smile. “I heard Marge was interviewing you today.”
I stare darkly at her.
Hadyn gives Britney an affectionate grin. “Do you work here?”
“Yeah. I started about a week ago.” She bats her eyelashes at him. “Hadyn, it’s been so long. What are you doing later? I’ll treat you to dinner.”
He opens his mouth.
“Hadyn, remember that thing we have later,” I snap.
He pins me with a puzzled look. “What thing?”
“That thing,” I say, turning my fingers in a circle. “That very important thing.”
He scrunches his nose. “I don’t remember anything on your schedule for tonight.”
“You know her schedule by heart?” Britney asks, looking at me like her number one wish in life is for me to step in front of a bus.
I give her a sweet smile. “He’s my assistant.”
“Really?” Britney jumps back with the force of someone who got hit by a cannon ball.
Dramatic, much?
“She’s the boss,” Hadyn agrees.
“That’s right.” I pop my eyebrows. “I’m the boss.”
“Okay. Then when do you get off work?” Britney asks. She grabs Hadyn’s hand and swings it back and forth. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after I came back from my trip. I think it’s fate that we’re meeting again like this.”
Fate? This woman would take a man telling her ‘bless you’ after she sneezes as fate. Unbelievable.
I cross my arms over my chest and scoff. This is too annoying to watch. “I’ll be in my dressing room.”
Hadyn gives me an amused look and I want to smack him so hard my palm print is tattooed into his face.
“I think it’s fate,” I mock as I saunter to the dressing room. “Ooh, hot tub.”
Whatever.
I don’t care if girls flirt with Hadyn.
I don’t care if Hadyn flirts back.
It.
Doesn’t.
Matter.
I have a whole list of details to take care of. And that’s just for my business. Now that I’m moving toward my fifth week of pregnancy, I need to stop stalling and book a visit with the obstetrician Dr. Lesley recommended. There’s so much I haven’t done to prepare for Project Vegas because I’ve been shoving as many modeling gigs into the day as I can before I go on hiatus.
The door squeaks open.
I fly to a seat in front of the vanity mirror and slide my large earrings out.
Broad shoulders appear in the glass.
I stiffen with annoyance, but I do my best to keep my voice level. “I’m going to the farmhouse with Dawn later tonight. We’re going to try out my latest recipes. I told you that.”
“No, you didn’t, Van.” He leans against the wall. I don’t have to see him to hear the smugness in his tone.
Now that his ego—and who knows what else—have been stroked by Britney, he sounds quite satisfied.
Not that I care.
“You lied to me, Van,” Hadyn rumbles.
I whirl around, eager to fight with him for reasons that are still unclear. “What are you talking about?”
“You said you’ve never been jealous.”
“I haven’t!” I screech.
His lips curl up. “Right.”
I shove myself out of my seat and march toward him. “By the way, I’ve thought about it and I don’t need you to go with me tonight. So you’re free to do more hot-tub diving with Britney.”
“It happened years ago on my trip to Europe.”
“And I’m sure you had an enlightening experience.” My smile is strung tighter than a rubber band about to snap. “Like she said, it’s fate that you met again. I’m happy for you. Word of advice? Mention the fact that you impregnated another woman after one night in Vegas delicately. She doesn’t seem like the type who’d take that well.”
I start to storm out of the room, but Hadyn grabs my hand and pulls me into him. I squirm to be released, but he’s much stronger than me. Banding me up in his arms, he dips his chin in the crook of my neck and gives me a tight hug.
His body is hard against mine and the heat of his nose on my neck makes my heart flutter. It should feel uncomfortable to be crushed against him, but he’s warm, solid, and gorgeous.
My frown slips and I fight to keep it in place. For the sake of my dignity.
“That girl means nothing to me.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“Uh-huh,” he grumbles, lips moving against my neck. “You’re cute when you’re jealous, V.”
Something vibrates between us.
It’s Hadyn’s phone.
He straightens and, when I try to flit away, he keeps his grip on my hand so I can’t get too far. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he stops and then raises both eyebrows when he sees who’s calling.
“It’s Juniper,” he explains.
“Put it on speaker,” I urge him.
Hadyn answers the call.
Juniper’s voice fills the air. “Hey, I was trying to call Vanya, but she wasn’t picking up.”
“Yeah, she’s right here. What’s up?”
“I’m calling to let you guys know that my mom is better.”
“That’s great, Juniper!” I yell, bouncing on the tips of my toes. Elation rises in me. I’m so glad for him.
“I hope you missed me, V. ‘Cause I’m coming back tomorrow.”
“That’s… great.” The joy drains out of me like a balloon losing air.
I slowly meet Hadyn’s eyes. If Juniper comes back tomorrow, that means Hadyn won’t need to fill in as my assistant.
My heart churns with a strangely thick anguish.
I should feel relieved that Hadyn will back out of my life.
I should.
But I don’t.
And that longing to keep Hadyn around scares the heck out of me.
