Isabel swallows hard, but otherwise remains stoic.
“Georgina lives with me,” I continue. “We’re as committed and serious as two people in love can possibly be.”
Well, that does it. Isabel can’t keep her poker face intact any longer. Her chin trembles. Her eyes flash with acute rejection. And I’m not surprised. How many times did Isabel declare her love for me over the years, and I told her I’m not cut out to say those words in return? “It’s nothing personal,” I’d always say. “I’ve never been in love. I’m not cut out for it.” How many times did Isabel say she wanted to move in with me, and I’d say, “I value my space and privacy too much to share my bed and home with anyone. It’s nothing personal.” How many times did Isabel say I “broke her heart” because I wasn’t capable of loving her the way she so clearly needed to be loved? And now, here I am, breaking her heart one last time—forcing her to hear that I’ve given everything she’s ever wanted from me to another woman. And not just any woman, but someone who’s Isabel’s physical opposite in every way. Plus, Georgina is ten years Isabel’s junior—a fact that’s probably hitting Isabel where it counts, considering how much she’s been using Photoshop lately to smooth away all signs of her actual humanity.
But it can’t be helped. As much as I don’t have any impulse to brutalize Isabel, she needs to understand, without a doubt, my heart is now irrevocably taken. Not to mention, I feel like I owe this moment to Georgina as my final act of penance.
“Why are you telling me this in front ofher?” Isabel spits out. “Did she demand you do this, and let her watch, as some sort of test of your?—”
“Here we go,” the waiter says, arriving with our martinis, and we lean back from the table to let him put them down.
“Bring me another one,” Isabel says, picking up her glass.
“Make that three,” I say.
“Of course,” the waiter says. “Would we like to order some appetizers?”
“No, we won’t be ordering food,” Isabel snaps. “Bring the next round of drinks and then leave us alone.”
“Yes, Miss Randolph.”
As he scurries away, Isabel trains her ice-blue eyes on mine. “Doing this in front of her is cruel.”
“Nobody is trying to hurt you,” Georgina pipes in. “We thought it would be more respectful to tell you this, in person, before we started posting ‘happy couple’ photos on Instagram. And, by the way, I don’t see how Reed telling you he’s in love and happy could possibly be considered ‘cruel’ to you, whenyou’rethe one who’s engaged to be married, and you and Reed haven’t even been together inyears.”
I bite back a smile.That’s my girl.
“It’s not like you and I are besties,” Georgina continues. “So, I don’t feel like either one of us owes you an apology for falling head over heels in love with each other and then giving you thecourtesyof an in-person heads-up about it.”
I take Georgina’s hand underneath the table, letting her know I’ve got her back. “I understand you’re feeling blindsided,” I say. “But Georgina is right. You’ve got no reason to be upset with me or throw shade at Georgina. You’ve moved on with Howard. I’ve moved on with Georgina. Congratulations to us both.” I raise my martini. “Cheers.”
Georgina clinks with me, but Isabel doesn’t.
“You told me your girlfriend wasn’t at the party,” Isabel says, her nostrils flaring.
“I didn’t want you heading straight to Georgina to confront her. I also wanted Georgina to have a shot at getting a good interview out of you.”
Isabel scoffs. “Why? Why did you care about that?”
“Because I thought it would be a win-win.”
Isabel looks at Georgina. “I hope you know you can forget about that interview now, sweetie.”
“Yes, I’ve gathered that, sweetie. Although I do have a couple questions for you. Not for an article aboutyou. For something I’m writing about your fiancé.”
“Ha! Howard’s not going to let you interview him! Not after I tell him?—”
“No, no,” Georgina says calmly. “My article about Howard isn’t going to be aninterview. It’s going to be an exposé.”
Isabel pauses, clearly taken aback. “Aboutwhat?”
“I’m glad you asked. But first, a little background, so you understand how this idea was born. I was researching an article about Reed, actually. So I went to the courthouse and got copies of some lawsuits he’d settled. One of which, was this one.” She reaches into her computer bag, pulls out Troy Eklund’s lawsuit, and slides it across the table in front of Isabel. And the moment Isabel sees the name at the top, she gasps and looks at me, hurtling into full panic mode.
“I want to be clear, I found this lawsuit, all by myself. Without Reed or anyone else saying a word about it. And when I read it, I found it so interesting and mysterious, I decided to track down this Troy Eklund dude and hear his side of it. I went to a bar in West Hollywood, where he was playing on a Tuesday night. Troy and I chatted after his set. Man, he’s a chatty motherfucker. Also, a douchebag. But, anyway, based onthatconversation, I then headed downtown to a restaurant owned by a woman I think you know. Francesca Laramie.”
Isabel looks ashen. She looks at me and whispers, “You told her?”
“Reed didn’t say a word to me about any of this,” Georgie says. “He didn’t even know I was sniffing around about any of this. I figured everything out for myself.”
