“No,” I said.
“Oh, that’s okay,” Denise said with a soft chuckle. “I know I’m getting ahead of myself. We don’t have to bring up your dating history at all, if you’d prefer not to. We can also use this as a way to bring in Ezra’s fanbase, describe yourself unequivocally as his friend. You were at the hospital, right? Did you go see your mother? If you don’t mind discussing that, it would be a beautiful way to celebrate your friendship. It helps rehab his whole playboy image too, a win-win—”
My hands trembled on my lap, my vision blurring and coalescing. I could feel my heart thundering in my temples, a steady, rapid throbbing. I slapped a hand over my chest, counting the beats—One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven, over six seconds. Eleven times ten is one ten, regular, probably sinus tach, physiologic.—until the thundering in my ears quieted and my racing heart slowed.
This was too much. All of this. Seeing Ezra, going back to a hospital, seeing my mother, breaking Ezra’s heart. And now, this. The deluge of comments, reminding me that after all I’d done to justify myself, my existence was still a blight.
“You’re not listening to me,” I said.
Denise sucked in a soft breath. I could almost hear the wheels screeching to a halt in her mind.
“Okay. I’m listening,” she said after a moment, in the calm, doting voice she might use for a class of kindergartners. “You don’t want to go through with this. You need a break. I get that.”
“I don’t think you do,” I said. I inhaled. “I’m quitting, Denise. I quit. I’m not doing this anymore.”
“Okay, now, let’s not get dramatic,” Denise said hurriedly. “I know this is bad right now. Just give it a few days to blow over. You’ll be fine—”
If Denise had more to say, I didn’t hear it. My thumb moved to hang up before I could think of the consequences, and I tucked myself under my covers. My eyelids felt heavy, swollen, and I closed them, a small, familiar part of me wishing I would never have to open them again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mal
Strawberry cheesecake ice cream obtained,he texted Jo.When do you want me to head over?
Jo didn’t respond. After the first three hours, he thought,Well, she was probably out late last night. After the next forty-eight, he thought,She saw Adelman in real life, fell back in love, and now wants nothing to do with me. It wasn’t until he received a text from Amelia requesting a video call that he understood that something more troublesome was at play.
“I’ve gotten twelve requests to interview you today, and none of them are about your book,” Amelia said once they were done with formalities. “Can you fill me in on what’s going on with you and a certain Josephine Boateng?”
Dread curdled in his stomach.
“You know Jo?” he said.
A dimple appeared in Amelia’s chin. “You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who doesn’t know her right now,” she said. She peered at him from over her teal tortoiseshell Warby Parkers. “You have no idea what I’m talking about right now, do you?”
“None,” Mal confirmed.
The chat box dinged with new messages: links to articles from Goss,Insider,Marie Claire, theNew York Post. He clicked the first link. Scrolled through. Found a photograph from his event at Em-Dash staring back at him. Next to him, a photograph of Jo from a premiere, a straight bang hanging in front of her face, looking like a color-swapped Jessica Rabbit in a formfitting emerald sweetheart-neckline gown. And next to that, one of Ezra Adelman in a cream sweater with his sleeves rolled up, looking very much the part of an American heartthrob. The title:Who Doesn’t Want a Billionaire?
“What is this?” Mal said out loud. He skimmed through the article as quickly as possible, picking up the pertinent claims: People thought Ezra and Jo may have been transitioned from “just friends” to “something more”—already a travesty, because surely she wasn’t good enough—but also that Jo was simultaneously seeing Mal, making her an ungrateful seductress too. Ezra was positioned as a hapless rising star, the nepotism baby who was talented in his own right, who’d elevated her at every step.
And Mal? He was a sexy lamp. A talented one, but collateral damage all the same.
When he turned back to Amelia, she looked contrite.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think about how this might hurt you—”
“They’re friends,” Mal said, even though a small voice whispered in the back of his mind:I knew it.“They’ve been friends for a long time. I don’t know what angle these people are taking, but they’ve got it wrong.”
“I think they got at least a few things right,” Amelia said. She shared her screen, highlighted a paragraph:Malcolm Waters is noone to snub your nose at. A Renaissance man himself, his New York Times bestselling debut novel, She Blooms at Dusk, was recently featured on Lana Porter’s long-running talk show.Another window showed the Google search history for his name, a graph that resembled a cliff. “We got eight thousand sales yesterday alone. I know you don’t check your Instagram, but you’re blowing up. People are very curious about what kind of man could compete with Adelman Junior.” She smiled, as if Mal was supposed to be pleased by the positive reception. “You know that I hate this kind of stuff as much as the next guy, but you know what they say about a little bit of controversy. It sells.”
Some part of him grasped that she thought this “little bit of controversy,” as she put it, was a boon. But overlaying it, he could see Jo, her face wet with tears, her body curled into a fetal position in the middle of her bed.
“So,” Amelia said. “Would you be interested in doing an interview or two? I think it could be a good idea. Just turn the conversation more to your work. We can coach you through it; knowing how and when to pivot is a skill—”
“With all due respect,” Mal interrupted, “I need a little time to process all of this.”
Amelia clamped her mouth shut.
