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Clara, on the other hand, had never looked happier. Her smile stretched from ear to ear and she was jumping up and down like a kid on Christmas morning. It could only mean one thing: she hadn’t seen the headlines yet.
She reached for the door handle. In a panic, I slapped the lock button so she couldn’t get in. Except that the door was already locked, so what I actually did was unlock it for her.
At the sound of the click, she opened the door and jumped into my car with what my father’s kind would call “irrational exuberance.”
“Did you hear me?” she said. “I said I just realized something!”
“Fanks!” I yelled. It was a panicked combination of “fine” and “thanks,” neither of which were an appropriate response toI just realized something.
“My keys are still stuck in your ignition,” she said, that huge smile still glued to her face. “How are you going to get home?”
“Sure!”
“Is something wrong?” she said, her smile disappearing. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Fine!” I shouted. “Everything’s going to be fine!”
Her phone pinged. “Just a minute,” she said, grabbing her purse. “Someone keeps texting me. It might be an emergency.”
She reached into her bag.
“Don’t look at that!” I said.
She frowned at me. “What’s going on? You’re starting to scare me.”
I grabbed her wrist. “Please believe me when I say I’m sorry, Clara. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Ian, what the hell is going on? Why are you apologizing?”
Her phone pinged again. There was no point in delaying it any further. It was in God’s hands now.
I let go of her wrist and leaned back in my seat. “I’m apologizing for what you’re about to see on your phone.”
CHAPTER 23
Clara
It’s funny, you think the term “two-dollar whore” is just an expression until you see it printed out in red capital letters above a picture of yourself in fishnet stockings and five-inch heels accepting two singles from a male hand protruding from a tinted car window.
“Oh my God!” I said. Or bellowed. Or screamed. I can’t remember exactly. Those first ten seconds are still kind of a blur.
“Clara,” Ian pleaded, “please let me explain.”
My phone pinged again. I opened the goddamned text. It was from my acronym-loving maid of honor, Janie.
OMG are you OK? IDK why you’d do something like this but call me ASAP
I moved on to the next text. It was from my thesis advisor at Columbia.
I know it’s been rough but you don’t need to do this. Call me, please. I’m here for you
Holy shit. There were still eight messages left to go. How many people had seen the picture?
I checked the next text, from one of the executive directors at Eco-Justice.
You should know this will reflect very poorly on the organization
I scrolled to the next text. It was from Tyler.
