“Peopledothat?”
I cut my eyes toward her and wince, because yeah. In my world, they do.
And if I wantmy worldto behers, she needs to not look quite this mortified upon learning as much.
My chestaches.
Fighting for air, I mutter, “Let’s just get you home.”
Chapter 16
?
Social media is the worst. And so are PR managers. And promises…
Mirabelle
Sick, I stare at a photo from a night that I can barely pick out of the haze. I was inebriated. I was fuzzy-warm. I left from Jeffry’s with Mr. Anders early, because the air in the apartment feltwrong, and I needed toleave. Outside, Mr. Anders told me half my friendslikeliked me.
And then?
Then he cornered me against my car, touched me,kissedmy cheek, and tried to get me to agree to abet.
I can’t think. I hate this. It’s my face, online, very clearly.
And Ilookdrunk. So drunk.
But since there’s no alcohol in the picture, I look drunkonMr. Anders.
Ahead of me at that great big black corner desk in his office, Mr. Anders focuses on his computer screen and swears.
When I look up at him, he’s swallowing hard and reaching to pour himself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher I keep filled for him.
“We’re not together,” I say, feebly. “We’renotdating.”
His stormy gray eyes slash to me. Pupils dilated, he stares.
“We’re not,” I whisper.
His head begins to shake. “I don’t think you should read any of the articles associated with this picture, Mirabelle.”
I slump and look down at my phone. “It’s that bad?”
“This time, the picture was sold to a tabloid, not a main news channel. The language is more…objectifying.”
My phone slips from my fingers into my lap, where the screen goes dark against my pretty pink apron. I was optimistic this morning. After two days of quietly doing my job without any incidents or unwelcomeinteractionsbetween Mr. Anders and me, I decided to wear something pink and happy. I thought maybe the photo wound up scrapped, useless, blurry. I thought maybe, despite the altercation with Jeffry, Mr. Anders had actually managed to make a friend and that’s why he was leaving me alone.
I thought many, many things.
Many good, hopeful things.
Sinking against my hands now as hope abandons me, I whimper.
“I’m sorry,” Mr Anders says.
I peek up at him, ready to sayit’s not your fault. Except, of course, I ampressedto my car withhisthumb against my lip. So.
My fingers close into fists, and I find myself glaring at him. Because itishis fault.
