a hat, probably because he was still growing his hair out and wanted to hide it.
A bunch of photos popped up from random citizens who had spotted him at a coffee place. He was wearing his hat and sunglasses. He looked like he was trying to be incognito but failing miserably, which, of course, was exactly what he was going for.
Each time I checked my phone over the next two days, there were a handful of photos. I started to breathe a sigh of relief as social media rejoiced at Sean’s return to New York City.
On day three, I checked my google alerts and my heart sank as I read the latest headline and found the photo attached to the article. It was a photo of me.
Me and Sean. And my pregnant belly.
The title read, “Sean Amity Hiding Away With Pregnant High-School Sweetheart.”
The author had done their research. There were photos of us from our high school yearbook. There were photos of me in my various outfits, dragging him from bars, complete with a link to the article that had been written about me years ago. But of course, the highlight of the article was the photo of Sean helping me from my car. The wind was blowing my hair off of my splotchy face and pressing my dress tight against my stomach. Sean and I almost never went places together. This had clearly been taken the day he’d found me crying in my car three weeks ago, long before the cash-for-photo reward had even been offered. Apparently someone in my neighborhood had recognized Sean, taken the photo and kept it to themselves until they saw the perfect opportunity to cash in.
The only upside was that this article had chosen not to mention my marriage.
My phone rang. It was a video call from Sean.
I heaved a sigh and answered it.
“Hey,” Sean said, his voice tired as he gave me a weak smile. “We have a problem.”
“I know.” I told him. “I already saw it.”
His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, Libby.”
I tried to give him a reassuring smile. “It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, it is.” He sank down onto his couch.
I wished I were there with him so that I could reach out and put my hand to the back of his neck, like I had so many times in high school. It was how I had always comforted him, how I’d let him know I was there without saying anything. “I knew what I was getting into.”
“Sure, but I had a plan. I was trying to keep everything quiet. You don’t need this.”
“Once that magazine offered a reward, it was only a matter of time.” I shrugged. “Besides, it could be worse.”
“How?” he asked, skeptical.
“Well, they could have plastered my husband’s death all over the article and speculated that you and I were having an affair before he died.”
His face went white.
“Like I said.” I grimaced. “It could be worse.”
He put a hand over his mouth, shaking his head and looking at me with guilt-filled eyes. “What if someone writes that story next?”
I shut my eyes against the possibility. “Let’s just hope they don’t.”
He let out a ragged sigh. “I’m coming home.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“The paparazzi are going to start prowling, Libby. I don’t want you to deal with that on your own.”
“I’ve done it before.”
His chin pulled back and I realized my mistake. “What do you mean you’ve done it before?”
I let out a sigh. “After you got out of rehab.”
He was silent, and I could almost see his mind spinning. “I didn’t look at any media afterwards. Randy and my mom kept it away from me.”
Lucky him. I shrugged. “They realized that the assortment of girls pulling you out of bars and clubs were all the same girl. Then they realized it was me. There was a lovely article with a bunch of high school photos in it. It was linked to the article,” I said, confused that he hadn’t seen it just now.
“We must be reading two different articles.”
“Oh, good.” My sarcasm was thick and bitter. “More than one article.”
“Well.” He forced a smile, though his eyes looked guilty. “All the more reason for me to come back. I wasn’t there the first time. I will be this time. I’ll get a flight back tonight.”
“Won’t that just prove everyone right? Maybe you need to show up a couple more times in New York.”
“I’m afraid nothing is going to make this better, Libby. We’re just going to