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“So, what are you saying?” Oliver finally jumps in, his voice almost desperate.
“I’m saying we need to step up. We need to be the men she needs us to be.”
“As a group?”
I nod and glance at my friend, finding his expression less pained. “As a group. If Allie’s friend can have nine men, why can’t Allie have ten?”
“There was a reality TV show about one woman with ten men a few years back,” Theron reminds us.
“I remember that. Did they work out?”
“The show was a hit,” Theron continues. “People loved the dynamic. They were a cute family. I remember that much.”
“People love a happy ever after,” I muse, already thinking about how to sell the story of the start of a crazy relationship setup that none of us expected.
“We need to talk to the rest,” Oliver says.
“And somehow get grumpy Russell on board,” Theron adds, but it’s with a smile.
“Exactly.”
“There’s just one other big part of this puzzle,” Oliver says.
“And what’s that?” Theron leans forward, gripping the headrests so he’s more part of the conversation.
“Allie might hate the idea.”
I reach out for my bottle of water, taking a long swig while I contemplate what to say next. This discussion feels big, and the outcome even bigger. In the end, I decide that discussing that possibility isn’t beneficial to anyone. “Maybe,” I accept, “but no idea ever comes to fruition without some challenges on the way.”
Oliver rubs his hands over his face. “There’s no way she’ll be able to think about anything like this with all the press attention looming over her. And the job situation.”
“So, you deal with that, and let us deal with the rest,” Theron says.
He makes it sound so simple, and I know it’s not going to be.
All we can do is try.
So that’s what we plan to do.
42
ALLIE
Russell is asleep in my bed as I brush my teeth, staring out of the window at the rising sun. The night had been turbulent, marked by tears and shared misery. He held me until I stopped crying and we both fell asleep. But I couldn’t rest for long. My racing heart woke me with the memories of the scandalous photos that are now splattered across the internet. Despite my exhaustion and frazzled nerves, I needed to get up.
Drowning in panic and misery isn’t going to get me anywhere.
There’s an article to write.
Regardless of everything, I’m going to deliver what I’ve been paid for.
And with Dawn’s idea fresh in my mind, I need to begin to get the words down while they’re ready to flow.
I set up my computer and immediately archive the draft I wrote after Kirsty’s visit. It sounds hollow after all my experiences. Rather than providing readers with insight, it’s cliche and ridiculous. I can do so much better.
Whether my draft, with all its truth and grit will be printed or not is another matter.
I have a feeling that Kirsty will reject it outright. She has a tone and style that she expects to run consistently through every piece that’s featured in the magazine, regardless of who penned it. In reality, every journalist in the place has a natural sound to their writing that is sanitized by the magazine until everything is unified and bland.
