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The fallout of the tabloid pictures wasn't half as bad as I'd feared. Most people just acted faintly embarrassed when they recognized me, but my blog saw a huge uptick in traffic and, true to Anton's predictions, I sold everything that was for sale in my storefront. Unfortunately, I couldn't find time to go down to my old apartment to package everything up and send it out because wedding preparations—and Anton—took up all of my time.
Dress shopping, gift registry, gift bags, decorations, catering, drinks, bridesmaids, colors, flowers, silverware patterns, and getting tied up and fucked each night and most of the days took up a lot of time. Getting married, it seemed, was a full time job that did a lot to alleviate any obsessing I might have done. Besides, after a few days the embarrassment of being photographed in intimate positions wore off, especially when tourists from out of town stopped me on the street and asked to take a picture with me. Of course, they never asked while Anton was there. Anton gave off a forbidding vibe.
By the time the week was up, I was feeling better about the world, but I was still looking forward to fresh tabloids so my picture would get off the cover. Sadie and I were walking to the nearest drug store so I could grab myself some Midol—my period was coming up and the beginnings of crankiness and cramps were making themselves felt—and discussing how to get her picture in the tabloids so she could sell some of her work.
"We should kiss," she said. "The next time you see a papparazo, you have to tell me so I can mack on you."
"I'm not kissing you to get you into the National Enquirer," I said. "Why don't I just advertise your shit on my website?"
"Because," Sadie whined, "I want to get autograph requests, too!"
I laughed. She didn't really want this kind of scrutiny, and besides, there was no telling what Anton would do if he found out someone had touched his property, for publicity or not.
Ducking out of the rapidly chilling autumn air—now creeping into winter—we browsed the aisles in the Rite Aid.
"Do you need enemas?" Sadie asked loudly from two aisles over as I looked for the Midol.
"Sadie!"
"Just asking. You never know. What about laxatives. Laxatives and enemas?"
I groaned and put my head down as she ro
unded the corner, grinning.
"Hey," she said. "Those tabloids are going off the shelves. Someone has to keep you humble."
"I'm plenty humble," I said.
Unzipping her hoodie, Sadie bared her chest to me. "Really? Then I dare you not to sign these."
"No problem," I told her as we headed toward the checkout. "I don't have a pen with me."
"God, Lis, you are absolutely no fun at all." She zipped back up and followed me. "Come on, let's see which poor sucker is on the front page of the Star now that it's not you in a dog collar and leash.
"Sadie!"
"What? Everyone knows!"
Cheeks burning, I tried to pretend I didn't know her as I approached the checkout. I let my eyes pass over the colorful tabloids next to the counter as I neared, and a pang of relief lanced through me when I realized that none of the pictures there were mine. Thank god.
Then something caught my eye.
I frowned, puzzled, and reached out, plucking an Examiner from its spot. The story on the front was something about celebrity plastic surgery gone horribly wrong, but in the upper left corner was a familiar face.
My mother.
I read the words next to her and dropped my box of Midol from nerveless fingers.
"Oh my god," I said. "Oh my god." I swayed on my feet and Sadie hurried over.
"What's wrong?" she said. "Did you get caught screwing your husband again?"
Numb, I shook my head and held the paper out to her. She took it from me. I saw the blood leave her face when she recognized my mother there, and in a shaking voice she read the headline aloud.
"SEX, DRUGS, AND REHAB: THE BILLIONAIRE'S MOTHER-IN-LAW SOBERS UP."
