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“Bad.”
“On a scale of one to I want to curl up in a ball and die.”
“Nine.”
“What!” I shout back. “What on earth could possibly have been published?” I rise from my chair so fast it almost topples over. “We had dinner, for Christ’s sake—we didn’t bang at the dinner table!”
“Calm down! In fact—where are you? I’m coming over.”
“No—don’t, I’m fine. It’ll be fine.” Whatever it is because I haven’t seen it yet.
“What’s the address of your new place Miss Independent?”
“Ugh.” I have to get out the envelope for my electric bill and read it out loud to her, not having memorized it yet. “But honestly, I will be okay. You don’t have to race over here.”
“Okay. Just…don’t look, okay? Please.”
“I won’t,” I say, fingers crossed behind my back.
* * *
It’s bad.
Worse than Claire said and I want to curl up and die, just like she said.
Why did I look?
Why didn’t I listen?
It took less than one minute to find the first post about Noah and me, right there in the center of the search engine, my face—along with his—sitting at Mason’s, smiling across the table at each other, completely oblivious to the fact that someone was taking our photo. Without my consent.
Without his.
This happens all the time, he said.
Well no wonder he doesn’t go out in public. No wonder he didn’t want to show up to buy those baseball cards and risk ending up on the front page of the daily news.
The first source wasn’t horrible, accompanied by a boring article with little information—thank God it didn’t include my name. I was dubbed “female companion.”
Female companion? Makes me sound like an escort, but—whatever. Fine. Still anonymous.
Second and third source? Not much better, but still reasonably inaccurate.
It was the fourth article that had me breaking down, a well-known, widely read, televised gossip column that included my name, age, occupation—and a vomit-inducing headline.
BEST RBI, UGLIEST MUGSHOT
“With a face like that, Noah Harding is lucky he’s worth 80 million dollars…”
“I’d fuck him too for that kind of money.”
“Is that girl blind or just desperate?”
My jaw hits the ground as tears well in my eyes.
“Match made in heaven—she’s ugly, too.”
I stare at those words in the comment section Knowing they’re not true, but feeling their sting just the same, the tingling in my eyes stronger, threatening to break through the dam holding back the tears flooding my eyes.
They think I’m ugly too?
First of all, that sentence implies Noah is ugly, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Second of all, I’m ugly too? Fuck you, Walter from Philadelphia! Mind your own goddamn business, asshole.
I hiccup, swiping at the tears on my cheeks, indignant.
Tilt my chin up defiantly.
How dare they call me ugly! How dare they even comment on our looks—they have nothing to do with the article! Except…they do, because the headline screams Ugliest Mugshot.
Don’t look at the comments, Randi—close the search window and get it out of your head.
But I don’t, because I can’t, because I cannot unsee it.
The floodgate is open.
The damage has been done.
So now what?
I’ve been searching and reading, cell phone still in my left palm, and I remember it then, needing to hear Noah’s sweet voice. I need him to tell me what I should do.
What we are going to do.
This happens all the time, he said. He’ll know what to do, so I text him.
Me: Noah, call me please.
Ten minutes go by with no reply, no response, and I check the time—nearing eleven o’clock. I wonder if he’s working or at home. Maybe he’s in the shower?
What do professional baseball players do all day? Does he have a game today? Is Claire wrong—is it possible he hasn’t seen our faces splashed all over the news?
When I try calling him, it goes straight to voicemail, and the knot lodged in my throat turns into a sob so intense I can’t find my voice to leave a message.
Me: Why aren’t you picking up? Please, Noah, I just want to talk to you.
I’m pacing now, back and forth across the empty shell of my office.
Me: I’m not mad, but I need to talk through this, please call me.
Me: Noah this ISN’T FUNNY. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
Defeated, I put my head on my desk and let myself cry.
15
Miranda
I wake up to a pitch black room, the only light shining in from the streetlamp outside the window.
Not my bedroom window.
My office.
How on earth did I end up falling asleep and staying asleep this long?
I lift my head, groggy, stomach growling from hunger, and frown at the scroll of notifications on my lock screen. There are dozens.
Dozens.
My head pounds and the salt stains on my cheeks pull my skin tight, the tears having long dried up, but present nonetheless. My hair sticks to the side of my mouth and I spit, sputtering, to dislodge it.
