Whoever came up with the phrase “there’s no such thing as bad publicity” never wore sweatpants outside in the midst of a scandal.
It was a man, by the way. PT Barnum, to be exact. A fun fact I learned while locked away in my apartment consuming hours of video essays.
Apparently, when you’re in the middle of a public breakup, it’s newsworthy that you look like shit. Sue me for going out in sweats to get a vanilla latte, because how dare a girl be comfortable when her life is in shambles.
Over the last three weeks, I’ve barely gone outside, and the one time I do, I can’t escape the severe case of diaper ass my favorite pants give me. And really bad photos are not the worst thing. It’s charitable even, how I’m paying someone’s rent by looking like shit. But I’d prefer not to see it front and center at every newsstand.
“Gonna buy something or just stare?” the newspaper stand operator grouses in a scratchy voice as, yes, I stare at myself on the glossy cover that I split with a smiling image of Jamiewalking down a carpet in Milian forThe Excavator’sEuropean premiere.
“How much for all of them?” I ask.
Is it a smart choice to buy as many tabloids as I can carry so no one else can look at them? No, but with my recent track record, I shouldn’t be expected to make intelligent decisions.
“You a fan?”
“The opposite.”
“Well, it ain’t my business what you do with ‘em, just that you buy them.” He taps at his register between taking long puffs of the cigarette. “Two hundred for the lot.”
I hand over my card and once the stack is paid for I waddle—more than walk—the rest of the way back to my apartment because holy shit, paper should not be this heavy.
“Okay, this one channels karma for a demonic curse and the reviews are great. All five stars,” Evelyn says, as I struggle to push through the door to my apartment, using my back. I find her wrapped in a blanket, seated at the breakfast bar with her laptop resting on the marble counter. “Ooh, I like this one, bad luck in the form of simple inconveniences. I know that would drive me crazy.”
“Evelyn, you can’t keep hiring Etsy witches,” I pant.
“It was your idea. I’m just funding it.” She ignores me and continues to scroll. “Hmm. I should double-check they won’t cancel each other out if I get multiple. I’ll message the sellers. Do you think it’ll let me do a group chat with all the witches?”
Evelyn regularly comes up for weekends and stays with me so she can take care of stuff as Lyla West. Last night, when the news broke that Jamie’s movie is a “timeless hit” and it’s rumored to be followed by four more movies and even more potential spin-offs, we drank wine and talked Etsy witches.
I drop the magazines, and the glossy pages slap against the original hardwood. Her attention whips to me as I walk past herto the kitchen and grab water from the fridge. I down the glass in one go.
“Yes, but after a bottle of wine, I should not be making any life decisions.”
“And were you day drinking when you bought all of those? If so, I’m impressed, since you were only gone for thirty minutes.”
“Nope. I just entered a fugue state.” I grimace.
Her brows pinch as she lowers her laptop screen, fully focused on me now. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? I have some PTO I can use and stay a few extra days. I can go to your meeting with you and then we can get take-out after.”
“Ev, I appreciate you being here, but I have to face reality eventually.” It’s not like I’m made of glass. I need to prove to everyone that I don’t need Jamie. I’m back and better than ever.
“You’re sure? Because the last time you were out, you made the choice to go on tour with Wes.” She scrunches her nose at his name. “I still think you should find a way to get out of it.”
“It’s not that simple.” The window to tell her I’ve been married for fourteen years has long since passed, and once the tour is over it won’t be an issue any longer.
“I’m just concerned. He really hurt you, Ave.”
“I know. I don’t intend to make the same mistakes twice.”
It takes a bit more convincing to get Evelyn in a car to the airport so she can catch her flight. She sends me a text that she’s boarding just as I arrive for my meeting with my management team.
I’m about to put my phone away when a new text comes in, adding to the string of unread messages I don’t know how to respond to.
September 15th
Wes
Are you okay?
