And with that, Truth_Seeker98 leaves the meeting. In the aftermath, there’s only silence and screen after screen of hurt and hostile faces.
“Well, Margot?” comes Sylvie’s somber voice. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
I open my mouth, but my brain is a skipping record, permanently stuck on the wordFraud, fraud, fraud, frau—
But then from behind my computer, Savannah stands up too quickly. She wobbles, and without thinking, I stand up too. There’s another offended gasp from Sylvie, and when I look down, I realize that my webcam is pointed directly at my sky-high granny panties.Perfect.
“Well, I think that concludes tonight’s episode ofStop, Drop, and Swoon,” Sylvie says coldly. “Rest assured, dear listeners, asground zero for this major hit to our community, I will be holding space for your reflections and feelings and reporting on them as the story unfolds. Please send your comments in at—”
I slam the laptop closed. “Savannah, wait!”
But she’s already left the room, her blanket tossed to the floor.
I find her in her room, sitting on the bed in the dark. She’s busy reading something on her phone. Between the blue glow from the screen and the moonlight streaming in through the window, she’s rendered silver. If it weren’t for the slow tears spilling down her cheeks, she could be a statue.
My voice cracks into the dark. “Van, listen. I can explain.”
“Is it true? Did you write this?”
For a moment—only a moment—I consider lying. But I can’t keep this secret from her anymore, and after what’s just happened, there’s no point in trying.
“Yes,” I say, shame fogging out of me like from a smoke machine. “I wrote it.”
Her voice hitches. “And this is your worldview? That love never works out in the end?”
I cross my arms as if I can shield her from the sharpened ice chip that occupies my chest instead of a heart, but I can’t bring myself to answer her. She does it for me. “This is about Adam. Isn’t it?”
Adam. Hearing my ex-fiancé’s name spoken out loud after such a long time purposefullynotsaying it feels like brushing against an electric fence. I barely get the words out: “Can we not talk about that right now?”
“Oh, Margot,” she says softly.
“I’m so sorry—” I begin, but Savannah surprises me by tossing her phone on the bed and standing up. Without another word, she walks to me and throws her arms around my neck.
For a long moment, I stand there in the dark, shakily inhaling the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo while relief nearly bucklesmy knees.She doesn’t hate me. As though she hears me think it, Savannah grips me tighter:I could never hate you. Hot tears spring from beneath my closed eyelids, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt thatthisis the only kind of real love. Everything else is cubic zirconia.
When my breathing finally eases, we release each other at the same moment, and I stare at her through mascara-blurred eyes. “What the fuck am I going to do, Van?”
Savannah sighs and then, like a small miracle, one of her twin dimples appears with her half-smile. “I think I have an idea.”
The next few days suck. They suck like the whirlpool that pulled theTitanicdown. On top of all the appointments and hassle involved with reporting the HNA leak to the authorities and increasing my computer’s security, I’ve helplessly watched as my reputation has gone up in higher and higher flames. My agent, my editor, and my publicist form a trio of triage, each desperately trying to stop the hemorrhaging. But despite their Herculean efforts to save my ass, it’s no use. My career has cracked open like an egg, directly into Satan’s skillet. I have no choice but to abandon all social media, where me and my oversize panties have become the flame-throwing target for every betrayed Bookstagrammer, Goodreads troll, and sycophant on the Internet. When I manage to sleep, I dream in hashtags: #HappilyNeverBuyingAgain #BeerBellyGate #Boycott MargotBradley #PantiesofLies.
The final blow comes five days after the HNA leak. My usually crisp and buttoned-up agent calls in tears to let me know that she tried everything, but my next publishing deal—which we were still in the process of negotiating—is dead in the water. There will be no Alaska book. There will be no more books, period. All is lost.
The next morning, I sit at the kitchen bar staring blankly into the perfect latte heart Van has crafted for me. I have savings. Enough to last us a good while after my royalty checks completely dry up. But what then? Savannah’s freelance illustration business does okay, but not well enough to keep us in Silver Lake, eating the organic, grass-fed, non-GMO, grain-free, pesticide-free, everything-free diet my sister’s body requires (or else). I become profoundly aware that, at thirty-one years old, I have no salable skills besides writing. It’s the only thing I do well besides caring for my sister and finding deals on Net-a-Porter.
In short, I’m screwed. And yet a small, obstinate part of me is proud that I didn’t deny the truth. If anything, this ordeal has simply proved yet again that Happily Ever After is a lie designed for the tenderhearted and gullible—something I refuse to ever be again.
“Your face is doing that loading-wheel-of-doom thing.”
I look up from my coffee as Savannah comes back into the kitchen with her laptop. “Sorry,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Just wondering if Amazon might consider rebranding their stock of my books as a toilet-paper alternative. Might keep us in the black.”
“Not a terrible idea, actually. But I think you’re going to like mine better.” Savannah turns her laptop around on the kitchen island to face me. On the screen is a website featuring a beautiful aerial photo of a rustic lodge surrounded by a smattering of log cabins. All the buildings and pathways are nestled within a pristine wilderness that seems worthy of a David Attenborough voice-over. Overlaid on the photo are the words “North Star Lodge” and, below that, “Your Alaskan Adventure Awaits.”
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s where you’re going, obviously!”
I look up at her with dead shark eyes. “Savannah, the Alaska book isn’t happening. There’s no need for a research trip.”
