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SAWYER
It's a nightmare. It's a complete goddamn nightmare. If I set out to destroy my professional reputation and the fate of my family’s club, I couldn’t have done better than I did last night.
At least Dad is in the islands. That is literally the only redeeming aspect of this entire situation.
It was bad enough I woke up this morning feeling like a truck ran me over at some point last night. I eventually lost count of the drinks I slung back, so it came as no surprise that even though I downed some ibuprofen and a ton of water before falling into bed, a brass band was in the middle of a symphony when I opened my eyes. I'm not as young as I used to be—nights like that don't roll off my back anymore. There was a time I would have jumped out of bed, downed a Gatorade, and moved on with my life.
If only that was the biggest problem I had to face.
When I checked my phone out of habit, the sight of two dozen missed calls and another dozen text messages left all thoughts of a hangover in the dust. It was Milo who ended up filling me in, as he was the one who called me the most. My brothers contributed a call or two, but it was Milo blowing my phone up for two hours before I ever lifted an eyelid.
Right away, he barked a question. “Who was near us last night?”
My head threatened to split open at the way he shouted. “What?”
“Who did you see near us at the bar? Did you recognize them?”
I closed my eyes and tried to put myself back in the situation, but I came up blank. At least I know this isn’t about Dad getting sick or having an accident. It was my only consolation. “What's this all about?”
“I texted you a video. Watch it, then call me back.” He ended the call before I could ask any more questions.
That video. My stomach turns to ice at the thought of it. I've watched it dozens of times today, maybe a hundred. Over and over I've replayed it, until I have every word memorized.
“You should hear how they talk!” God, I sounded like such a half-drunken asshole. “They think just because they’ve got money, that makes up for their lack of education.”
Me. Milo. Every word of our bitch session was recorded. My face was completely clear, and anyone familiar with the club could identify the bar in a heartbeat. Whoever the videographer is, they're skilled at taking a crystal-clear video without being spotted.
After watching it again, I called Milo back, my hands shaking, nausea threatening to overtake me. “What the hell is that?”
“What does it look like? Somebody recorded every word.”
“Where did you find it?”
“A friend of mine sent it to me. She got it from Twitter. She said it had already been retweeted a bunch of times, and that was two hours ago.”
Thus began what is shaping up to be one of the worst days of my life. It's far and away the worst day of my professional life, no doubt, but my personal life is bound to take a steep nose dive the second Dad gets wind of this.
Hours later, seated in my office, there's nothing I can do but watch the numbers tick upward, slowly but surely. The number of people commenting, retweeting. No, this isn't exactly worldwide news, and I doubt people even as nearby as New York or Boston would hear about it or even care very much if they did.
But here in Somerset Harbor? It’s a different story. It's a small world, and people do love to talk.
Calling down to the dining room at noon, I ask, “How are our reservations for this evening?”
Considering it's a Friday, we ought to be in good shape, booked solid.
The hostess on duty keeps me waiting a moment or two before she lets out something between a groan and a whimper.
“It looks like we've had a handful of cancellations for this evening,” she finally reports, speaking slowly and carefully.
No. This isn’t happening. We had to turn guests away last Friday night, we were so busy. “How much is a handful?”
“Since this morning, there have been eight cancellations.” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “And there were a few more for lunch, too.”
“How is it down there right now?” My office is not on the ground level, so there's no way for me to know without either calling down or taking the elevator myself. Considering I dread facing a single local for fear of what they've heard, this is the safest way to find out.
“We have customers,” she tells me.
My eyes close, and the same sick feeling that's haunted me all morning intensifies. She doesn't have to spell it out. Already, people have gotten word, and they're pissed.
