Page 120 of ClickBack

She is. So is Zion. People have reconstructed my marriage with information that would surprise the man I was married to. Byron apparently found us abandoned in a field and carried us home. There are kind comments, too. Women defending my right to enjoy myself. Women telling other women they hope they look as good when they are grandmothers.

I do not want to be an example in either argument.

For the first time in months, I almost reach for my mother’s number. The impulse is so ordinary that I have started opening my contacts before I remember. I sit there with the screen changing in my hand, missing her with an urgency that has nowhere to go.

Rae’s message arrives while I am still looking at it.

Rae: Ma, do not go online.

Rae: I know that is pointless. Call me.

Me: Zion is asleep?

Rae: Yes. He doesn’t know yet.

I look at yet until the screen dims.

Me: Leave him asleep. We’ll talk in the morning.

She calls anyway. I let it ring, then send another message telling her I am home and safe. I cannot talk to my daughter while strangers are discussing the year she was born. I need to hear my own voice first and be certain of what will come out of it.

Trina sends screenshots, followed by an apology for sending them. Di writes, I am awake. I love her for not asking a question. I cannot answer her, either.

I go downstairs and turn on the light over the stove. The skates are on the counter, where I left them because seeing them made me happy. I move them aside to put down my phone, then pick the phone right back up.

One of the posts is unavailable now. Another has removed Rae’s name. A sports reporter says representatives for Jarrett Simmons have requested privacy for the woman pictured with him.

Representatives. More than one person. People whose names I do not know have been awake, discussing me, while I slept in the silk I finally let myself buy.

I call him.

“Giselle?” He answers immediately. He does not sound as if he has been asleep.

“Who have you talked to?”

“Cam. Tori. Graves. Tori has somebody getting the personal information reported.”

“How long have you known?”

He does not answer that as quickly.

“Since the gym. Earlier tonight.”

I look at the clock on the stove. “Hours.”

“I was trying to get ahead of it.”

“You could have called me.”

“I wanted to have something to tell you besides somebody put your family online.”

“So you waited until you could tell me what to do.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I open his message and read it aloud. “‘Don’t read the comments. Don’t post anything or say anything.’ What else could it mean?”

He is quiet while I finish. I hear him move, a bed or a chair shifting beneath him.