He’s blown up his entire life.
For… me.
He’d said, Even if she doesn’t want me.
What an idiot. Of course, I want him.
But can we work? A former failure of a contract killer, and the man who lied his way through celibacy fraud?
What a couple we’d make.
I force myself to put my phone down. In my bid to become at least a semi-functioning adult, I decide to take my time. However badly I’m tempted to throw myself into his lap.
THIRTY-NINE
ROMAN
For two days,I’ve kept checking my phone, hoping that a message from Maggie would pop up.
And the lack of her message is worse than the headlines. Worse than the rage-inducing headlines and the kiss-and-tells.
Is it too little, too late? Or maybe I vastly overplayed the relationship between us in my head.
My phone now sits face down on the coffee table with the sound off. It was worth checking when I waited on Maggie, but now it’s just hate from everyone online, and questions from the people I know in the real world. Although the vibration is off, I still hear occasional phantom buzz.
My fingers clench every time I imagine it.
My apartment is the cleanest it’s ever been. Stress scrubbing usually alleviates the anxiety, but this time, all it’s got me is a bleach-scented house and aching elbows.
I lay back on the sofa and stare at the ceiling.
There’s enough in my bank to cover a few months, but god knows what I’ll do after that. I only hoped the world would move on to the next scandal before long.
So much for the idea that the truth will set you free. I’d spilt everything.
I wasn’t celibate.
I wasn’t a liar.
I believed it for a while, but I continued my platform long after my views had changed.
It’s amazing, really, how quickly your supporters can turn on you. And the glee with which they’ll tear you apart when you show the slightest weakness.
Sponsorships sank like boulders, while a mass exodus of followers ensued. The remaining ones seemed to stay only to watch my world implode.
A woman I recognised from two years ago sold a story about how I cried after sex. Another one said I couldn’t even finish because the guilt ate at me. Someone else said that I’d begged her not to tell anyone my real name.
They all stung, but the last one the most. Because it was true. She’d seen my name on a letter that had fallen down the side of the sofa.
The screen holds hundreds of notifications when I finally pick it up.
I’m going to delete it all. Disappear from the internet and figure out my next steps away from it all.
I pull up Instagram first, delete my account, then delete the app. The sense of relief that washes over me isinstant. Then TikTok. Then Threads. The podcast feed. The mailing list.
When each one asks me multiple times if I’m sure, I hit yes. I’ve never been more sure of something in my life.
Placing the phone on the table, screen facing me, I stare. The lack of notifications is almost louder than the chaos before.
