There are dozens of messages from her fans. She’s disappeared, and her fans are looking for her.
“You’re doing that thing,” Whittaker says. “The clenching thing. You’re going to crack a molar.”
I don’t answer. I’m staring at the new video Tessa posted forty-seven minutes ago. The thumbnail shows her face bare of makeup, eyes red-rimmed. The title:An Honest Moment.
“Pull over,” I tell Whittaker.
“We’re three blocks from her—”
“Pull over. Now.”
He pulls to the curb. I tap the play button.
Tessa’s face fills the frame, and the breath locks in my throat. She’s wearing the pink comfort sweater, and I wanted to gather her in my arms and never let go. There’s no ring light and no backdrop. It’s just her in a way I’ve never seen on her channel.
“Hey, loves,” she says, her voice rough. “I wasn’t going to film today. I’ve been... going through something. And I didn’t know how to show up for you when I’m struggling to show up for myself.”
The air leaves my lungs.
“You know I don’t talk about my personal life much—mostly because what personal life, right?” A weak laugh. “But something happened at the Valentine’s gala. I met someone. And for a little while, it all felt magical. Like a real-life fairy tale—the kind I’d stopped believing in. I felt the kind of connection I helped you all find, and that I wasn’t sure I’d ever find.”
She’s talking about us. About me. On camera, for thousands of people.
“I let myself believe it was real. I let myself imagine a future. And now I’m sitting here and wondering if I made the whole thing up.” She swipes at her eyes, and her voice drops to something barely held together. “I was reminded that fairy tales aren’t real. You can’t blame a girl for hoping, though. Right?”
The guilt in my gut ruptures. Not the guilt of a coward—the guilt of a man who had reasons but no excuse. I couldn’t reach her. But I could have said more before I left. Thirty seconds of honesty instead of five words and a closing door.
“You know what I always tell you.” She looks directly into the camera. “If he wanted to, he would. So what does it mean when he doesn’t?”
The question hangs in the dead air of the SUV.
She finishes with something about struggling, about not having answers, about being gentle with herself. And then she says the thing that lodges in my memory like a fishhook:
“For now, I’m going to go to my favorite spot so I can think through things and clear my mind.”
The screen goes dark.
I can’t move. She thinks I used her. Took what I wanted at the Conservatory and left. She’s teaching thousands of women to recognize men like the one she thinks I am. And she’s right to—because from where she’s standing, that’s exactly what happened.
“Get me to her place,” I tell Whittaker. “Now.”
No one answers.
I knock three times on the blue door. The windows are dark. Her car isn’t in the driveway. She posted that video and then left—went to her favorite spot, wherever that is.
I sit on her front step. Call her. One ring. Voicemail. Text:I’m at your door. I can explain everything. Please.
Delivered. But "delivered" doesn’t mean "received" when you’ve been blocked.
My phone rings. Margie.
I answer before I can talk myself out of it.
“Did you see her post?” No greeting. Her voice could cut glass. “What the hell did you do?”
“I made a mistake,” I say, because there’s nothing else.
The sound she makes is somewhere between a sob and a scream. “I saw you at that gala. I saw the way you looked at her. That wasn’t fake—I know you, Archie, I know when you’re pretending, and that wasn’t pretending.”
