Page 132 of The Fake Out

That night, I sent Chris a text.

Me: It’s taken care of. Those photos will never be seen. It’s safe now.

Although I saw that he’d read it, he never replied.

FIFTY-NINE

If you were a Transformer, you’d be Optimus Fine.

—DAVE F.

I woke up each day and I pretended I was fine. I smiled at Mama. I argued with Iris. I had lunch with Ali. I met with the library committee to discuss the upcoming council meeting. I read a book. But not a romance; my heart couldn’t handle it. I told everyone I was fine.

Mama played a game with me where she pretended I wasn’t lying to her. It went something like this:

“How are you feeling?” Mama would ask.

“I’m okay,” I’d say.

The truth was I felt like I was walking around with an open wound and no Band-Aid in the world could help it. So, I pretended. Except when I crawled into bed and Kevin plastered himself to my side and I stared at the engagement ring on my finger and cried stupid, useless tears.

When the morning came each day, I reminded myself that I’d made the right choice, the smart choice, the only choice, the best choice for Chris.

But sometimes when I got to work, I sat in my car and cried for fifteen minutes.

Ladies and gentlemen, I was not fine.

* * *

The first check came by certified mail two weeks later.

“Do you know what it is?” Mama asked.

I shook my head and stared at the legal-sized envelope, almost afraid to open it. Despite Chris’s request to leave me alone, it hadn’t stopped the emails, requests for interviews, a publisher reaching out and asking me to write a tell-all, and more than a few pieces of hate mail. Thankfully, the public’s reaction to Chris after his confession had been surprisingly positive and I’d read more than one article that praised him for his willingness to speak the truth.

“It can’t be too bad, it’s just an envelope.” Mama pushed it toward me. “Go on, open it.”

“It’s from a lawyer. It could be really bad.” Inside was an accounting sheet for “services rendered” and a check for $100,000. I held it out to Mama.

Her eyes widened. “So, he came through.”

A surprising wave of anger ripped through me. “I’m not keeping that. It’s going right back where it came from, thank you very much.” I snatched it off the table and stuffed it back in the envelope.

The next day before going to the library, I stopped at the post office and mailed it right back to the attorney with a note:

To Whom it May Concern,

I received this payment by mistake. Services were not rendered.

Thank you,

Mae Sampson

A week later and, to my great astonishment, it came back.

* * *

“I need your help.” Iris sounded more annoyed than anyone who needed help should sound.