Also, if she’d read all of the news about me, I doubt I’d still be her celebrity crush.
Honestly, I’d probably think less of her if I still was.
My phone dings once more with another message, this one privately from Begonia instead of in the group chat.
She’s the only person in that chat that I’m not related to by blood or marriage—though I know Hayes will likely propose soon enough—and she’s also my favorite.
While everyone else freaked out when the tabloid coverage of Peyton’s side of our divorce story blew up, Begonia simply gave me a hug and awe all make mistakes, and it’s easier to do better with support instead of judgment.
How my brother found a woman with a heart the size of the moon who tolerates not only him, but all of the rest of us too, is one of life’s greatest mysteries.
Proof of life, I type back to her. For the moment. Tell them to call off the hunt. I’ll be back when I’m back.
The typing bubble pops up immediately, letting me know she’s working on a response.
“I’m going to the beach before anyone else is up,” Emma says. “Feel free to do whatever. And good luck with whatever it was that put you in that shape. For both of our sakes, it’s probably best that I don’t know details.”
“You’re leaving a stranger in your villa.”
“It’s preferable to being spotted in public with you.”
I’m not a big fan of being spotted in public with myself either. “Did someone make you watch my movies under duress? Is that why you can quote them but you want me to leave? Or did you…watch the news?”
I get a side eye that suggests she’s seen the news, but she’s a big enough person to not judge me for it. “I’ve had enough attention lately. Being spotted with you wouldnothelp that, and you being spotted with me is probably not good for you either.”
My brain is too sludgy to follow.
I hate sludgy brain.
“Who are you?” I ask her.
She grimaces.
Again.
I rise, get woozy in the head thanks to last night’s activities, but I refuse to go down. “Why don’t you want public attention? Who are you?”
She sighs a grumbly sigh, pulls out her phone, and after thumbing over the screen for a few seconds, she shoves it at me.
A video of what looks like a tropical wedding fills the screen.
I blink as the voices register. “I’ve seen this.”
“You and eighty percent of the world,” she mutters.
It’s a train wreck on top of a plane crash on top of a mudslide on top of an earthquake during a fire tornado. There’s a brideconfronting the groom about setting her brother up for jail. Something about her brother being a secret adult entertainment star. The groom selling a family business out from under everyone.
At least six friends sent me this to assure me my scandal was being overtaken by some nobodies getting hitched—excuse me,notgetting hitched in Hawaii.
I look up at Emma without finishing it, and it clicks.
She squeezes her eyes shut again. “And now my life is fully complete.”
I don’t think.
I just act.
And not likeactingacting. Likemoving.
