Or when someone’s trying to get ahead of something.
No.
The thought arrives before I can stop it, ugly and cold.
Did she know this was coming?
I sit with that for exactly three seconds—three seconds of feeling like I’m going to be sick—and then I go back to my texts.
Back to the top, at 12:06 a.m.
Scottie
It’s done.
12:06 a.m.
She sent this at midnight. Before anything broke. Before anyone was awake. Before there was anything to get ahead of.
Her post went up at 3:00 a.m.
The hit piece dropped at—I check the timestamp—5:17 a.m.
Shescheduledthe breakup post.
She must have texted me right after, before she went dark.
The cold feeling dissolves as fast as it appeared. Of course.Of course.This wasn’t damage control. This was Scottie Quinn, alone, frustrated, and sunburned at midnight with a phone full of unanswered texts from her family, finally doing the one thing she never does.
Choosing herself.
Jake leaked the photo. He’s the only one who had it. He must have seen her post go up at three a.m. and panicked. Probably told his agent, who did what agents do.
I’m going to kill Jake.
But first, I need to talk to Scottie. I text. It shows delivered. Call. Straight to voicemail.
I try again.
Her phone must be off. She probably scheduled that post last night, texted me, and then went to sleep, not knowing I’d be up five hours later with hundreds of notifications and a heart that’s about to come out of my chest, unable to reach her.
I’m still staring at the screen when Logan wakes up.
“What’s going on?” he asks, pulling his earplugs out.
I shake my head, knowing I need to tell him, but also knowing I?—
What? Need to get to Scottie? That’ll only make the rumors worse. Need to punch Jake in the face?
Worse still.
And, honestly, I’m not sure any of those are bigger needs than the one in front of me right now.
I pull up the story and hand it to him.
And then I watch him read it.
I’ve watched Logan’s face my whole life—I know every version of it. The focused version when he’s working a count. The shut-down version when his anxiety wins. Competitive, relaxed, mourning, celebrating. That rare, loose version when he’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe.
