He shakes his head. “Not me. It’s the whole place.”
“And you’re part of it.”
“Don’t discount the work you’ve done for yourself.”
“Couldn’t have without all of the support.”
He grunts at me.
I grin.
I’m not all the way there on working through my viral moment. GrippaBeav’s legal team has told us that their final determination is that the Cheeky Beaver channel doesn’t break their terms of service, so they won’t be taking it down. Mabel says she’s getting closer to finding out who’s behind the channel so that her lawyer friend can send a strongly worded letter, or so that Mabel can dosome other things you don’t need to know aboutif that doesn’t work.
And while I haven’t been on the internet myself beyond texting friends and watching cute or funny videos of babiesand cats that they occasionally send from various social media channels, Mabel’s kept me updated when new Cheeky Beaver videos go up and when those new videos lead to the original video making the rounds again.
But I’m here.
I’m in public.
I’m not afraid.
And I’m with the most amazing man I’ve ever known.
Our food arrives, and we both dig in.
The volume of voices around us swells as more people come in for lunch, but we’re safe and secluded in our booth, catching each other up on stories about Lav and Pip and having a nice date out in town.
I sigh in happiness as I finish my salad. “If you’d told me two months ago that life would go on and I’d start to feel like—likethe thingdidn’t happen, I don’t think I would’ve believed you.”
“Been there myself though. It fades. People forget. Other people do other stupid things. It’s the cycle.”
“But living through it is different than knowing that’s the cycle.”
“And that dumb fuck with the GrippaBeav channel bringing it back into the cycle every couple weeks,” he mutters.
“Yeah, but overall, it’s nice to feel like myself again. Like a better me, even. And to feel safe in public. I like it here. I’m beyond grateful that Ginny invited me.”
He looks out at the rest of the room, and his smile fades into a scowl.
“Thatisher,” a guy says nearby. “I’m telling you, it’s the beaver lady.”
My insides turn to ice as I hear my mother’s voice.You were saying, Cricket?
I duck my head. “They didn’t just say that,” I whisper to Heath.
“Holy shit, itisthe beaver lady,” a second voice says.
Heath tosses his napkin on the table.
“Don’t,” I wheeze out, but he’s already in motion, moving to the men at a table not far from us.
The men who are aiming their phones my way. They’re probably forty-five or fifty, both of them, dressed in jeans and button-downs, one of them wearing a cowboy hat.
Everyday guys.
Staring at me and whispering about me, bringing all of the chaos and terror flooding back inside me.
My heart pounds.
