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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
NOAH
Farrah Conner needs help. Seriously, I mean it.
If it isn’t bad enough that she’s lying to friends and family about getting married and carrying my baby, she’s now splashing it over every social media site there is. Probably be talking to the gossip rags and doing television interviews pretty soon if she hasn’t already.
“That’s some pretty messed-up shit,” Blake says.
“You got that right,” Rob agrees.
It’s good my brothers believe this is made-up stuff because they seem to be the only ones. Farrah already has ten thousand likes on her Facebook page and twenty thousand re-tweets on Twitter, with no signs of either one slowing down. I would check her Instagram and TikTok and whatever else she uses, but I don’t feel like paying damages on the room. Have to contact my lawyer and PR people and get them on top of this quickly.
“You think Mom believes you?” Blake asks. “There’s a lot of damning evidence here.”
“I think so, but jeez. Looking at what she’s posted so far, I’m beginning to believe it myself.”
Those words leaving my mouth cause me to think. If I’m only two seconds away from buying what Farrah is selling, I wonder who else might be. Amber in particular.
“How long ago did she begin posting this nonsense?” I ask my brothers.
“Three days?” Blake says.
“Four,” Rob states and then adds, “Wait a minute. Here’s something posted on Facebook the night of Mom’s birthday. From the angle of the picture, I can see how some might believe you two are together.”
“Hello,” Blake sings. “What do we have here?”
Me: “What is it?”
“You devil, you.”
“What is it?” I ask again.
Blake shows Rob his phone.
“Come to daddy.”
“Goddammit! What?” Blake shows me. “How the hell?”
There are four photos of Farrah in lingerie. Risqué lingerie.
“How did she get into my place?” The pictures of Farrah were taken in my bedroom, on my bed. “Someone’s about to lose their job.”
“Yeah, they are,” Rob chants.
I tilt my head back and let my eyes close. “In my bed.”
“Sorry, man,” Rob says.
I don’t have it in me to respond.
Blake gets off the couch and pours himself a coffee. “Anybody else?” He holds up the pot.
Rob and I decline.
Blake sits back down, sips his Folgers. “I need to tell you something, Noah.”
“Go ahead.” Nothing he can say will make this situation worse. Farrah Conner has fucked me over royally.
