I sink deeper into my couch, a pile of art work sliding from my lap as I scroll with trembling fingers. It's been a few days since Patricia's video call about Jessica's petition, and somehow in that time, I've become public property. The article features a grainy photo of me leaving Logan's building clutching a coffee cup, hair thrown up in a messy bun. I look tired. Ordinary. Nothing like the polished women Logan dated before me.
"Captain Logan McCoy's Kindergarten Teacher Conquest: Meet the Woman Playing House with Hockey's Most Eligible Bachelor," the article states with casual cruelty.
I swallow hard, telling myself it doesn't matter, that I know the truth of our relationship. But my finger keeps scrolling, a masochistic impulse I can't seem to fight.
A fan blog has compiled a "timeline" of Logan's dating history, complete with quotes from past hookups. "He's not the settling down type," says a model whose name I vaguely recognize. "Great for a weekend, but don't expect a call back."
My throat tightens. I know these women are talking about a version of Logan that existed before Tyler, before me. But seeing it laid out like this—the sheer volume of beautiful women he's been with—makes me feel sick.
The comments sections are worse.
"Bonus Mommy? More like gold digger who found a bonus bank account."
"She's not even hot. McCoy must be losing it."
"How long before he trades her in for a newer model? I give it six months tops."
"Kindergarten teacher? Perfect. Already knows how to handle children—including McCoy lol."
The adrenaline makes me shake so much I nearly drop the phone. I set it face-down on the table, drawing my knees to my chest.
"This is ridiculous," I say out loud to my empty apartment. "They don't know you. They don't know us." My own voice sounds hollow, unconvincing.
The phone buzzes again. I ignore it, all I can hear is the hum of my refrigerator, the ticking of the wall clock, the familiar creaks of my building. Things I don’t usually notice are screaming for my attention.
And the phone keeps buzzing. I finally flip it over to see Elena's name lighting up my screen with multiple texts.
Elena:Have you seen this garbage?
Elena:Don't read the comments, Reese. I'm serious.
Elena:Call me when you can.
Elena:I'm getting worried. Just let me know you're okay.
I stare at her messages, poised over the keyboard to respond. What am I supposed to say? That I'm fine? That I'm not currently curled into a ball, trying not to cry over what strangers are saying about me on the internet?
Before I can respond, my phone starts ringing—Elena switching to FaceTime. I consider ignoring it, but that will only make her worry more. I take a deep breath, paste on what I hope is a casual expression, and answer.
Elena's worried face fills my screen. "Oh good. You answered. Why weren't you answering my texts?"
"Sorry," I manage. "I was writing progress reports."
Her eyes narrow and she purses her lips. "Bullshit. You've seen it all, haven't you?"
I try to laugh, but it comes out all wrong—a strange, choked sound. "It's not a big deal."
"It is a big deal. They're being horrible to you. And for what? For dating Logan? For being good to Tyler? All of it is crap and you know it." Elena's voice softens. "You've been so careful with Tyler. You've never overstepped."
I press my fingertips against my eyelids, fighting back the pressure building behind my eyes. "What if Jessica's right? What if I am confusing him?"
"Stop it." Elena's tone is firm. "Tyler adores you. And you adore him. He's lucky to have you in his life."
"But these articles?—"
"Are written by people who have never met you, never seen you with Tyler, never seen how good you are for him." She pauses. "This is just collateral damage from the custody battle. Jessica definitely leaked some of this stuff to build her case. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a PR person doing it on purpose."
My head snaps up. "You think she's behind it?"
