“I told them I was in San Francisco, you dickwad,” she said.
“And I told them we needed some help,” he replied. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t thank you,” she snapped, too loudly, and Imani looked up from frantically typing something into her phone. “I am nothelpless; you didn’t have to go around me and bring in myhandlers. I do not want to behandled.”
Birdie had been working with Imani since she was twenty-five and landed that movie with Kai. At the time, Imani was a magnetic junior publicist who had been a star debater at Spelman and applied all the ruthless wisdom that she used in debate tournaments to her client roster. She was known for both her exceptional brain and her killer shoe collection (indeed, this morning, she had paired her athleisure tracksuit with a pair of lug-soled combat boots as if she were lacing up for battle), and there was almost no jam that Imani couldn’t finesse, no reporter she couldn’t woo. She was diplomatic when diplomacy was called for, she was cunning when cunning was called for, and she was irate when fury was called for, which Birdie had only heard about but never witnessed. Now she suspected that she was about to get a first-row view.
“I don’t need a lecture,” Birdie said to Imani, whose stare was darting between her and Elliot, while Sydney clucked her tongue from her perch at the table. “I didn’t need you two to show up and hold my hand. I’m doing this on my own.”
“How’s that working out for you?” Imani asked.
“Perfectly fine except that my genius best friend is also a moron who clearly hasn’t had this hunk of junk serviced in a decade.”
Elliot bristled like he took umbrage at calling the camper a hunk of junk, which she thought was actually a pretty generous description.
“Do you have something to say?” Birdie turned toward him.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“I thought so,” she said, like they were having an actual conversation.
“So you haven’t checked your phone this morning,” Sydney piped in. Sydney was a hardheaded divorced mother of two teens, so needless to say, she’d seen some shit on her watch. She was feared in the industry for her negotiating tactics, but fabulous to her clients as long as they remained on her good side. She treated herself to a day spa one Friday of every month, and though she was a natural brunette, she’d been blond for as long as Birdie had known her, and Birdie had never seen so much as a centimeter of a root. Sydney was that meticulous.
“I’ve checked my phone this morning,” Birdie said. “I actually called you, Imani, but you didn’t pick up.” She held up her screen like this was proof. “Then I lost service again. I can’t be blamed for the lack of Wi-Fi in the middle of a godforsaken rest stop.”
“I don’t think this is even technically a rest stop,” Elliot interrupted, but all three women glared at him, so he hoisted the blanket up higher and shuffled toward the back to get dressed.
“We must have been in a dead pocket, driving up here,” Imani said. “And if you are so on top of things, then I assume you’ve seen the article.”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Birdie said. There were probably seven hundred articles zooming around the web about her right now.
Sydney yanked her head toward Elliot.
“His article.”
“His article?” Birdie’s stomach flipped. “What article?”
When had Elliot filed his article? She hadn’t even known he’d finished it. He certainly hadn’t run it by her, hadn’t shared even the smallest hint of the details about what Carter said, what Carter felt. Had he waited for her to pass out last night, slipped out to the parking lot, skulked around until he found a signal, and blasted it to theTimes, then slipped back into bed, and then proceeded tomake outwith her this morning?
She was going to kill him. Really. With her bare hands.
“I just texted it to you.”
Birdie’s phone buzzed.
The headline read:PART 2: AMERICA’S SWEETHEART DOUBLE-FAULTS
Birdie huffed air out of her nose like she was about to blow her top. She glanced toward the back of the Winnebago, but Elliot had ducked into the bathroom, which was probably for the best in case she spontaneously combusted from rage.
“Keep reading,” Imani said.
“I’m going to go back there and murder him.” She didn’t realize she had said this aloud, but Sydney clucked her tongue again, indicating either deep approval or deep disapproval, and Birdie didn’t have the slightest clue which.
“I’m not sure that murder will help your public image,” Imani said. “But if you do, make sure it’s not with a tennis racket.”
“Imani!” Birdie barked.
“It would be a pity,” Sydney said, sliding her reading glasses up her head. “To off a man that beautiful, but don’t worry, Bird, I’ll happily help you bury the body.”
