“Oh,” she says, all color draining from her face. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words get lost in transit. Apparently, I found her mute button.
“Yeah. I found out from my father. He received a blackmail email.”
“Oh.”
“The message was sent anonymously, but it instructed him to send $1,000,00,000 to an address in Queens.” I list each fact as emotionlessly as possible, because that’s what these are: facts. I can’t change them. Sleeping hasn’t changed them. Ignoring them hasn’t changed them. Time to start facing them. I watch Poppy’s expression like a hawk. I’ve turned everything over so many times, I don’t know what I think anymore. Because, although, these are the facts, I can’t quite decide if I believe all the information behind them. Maybe Poppy’s reaction will help me figure out what’s real and what’s a lie. God knows I haven’t been able to figure it out on my own.
“Oh.” Or maybe she’s caught on repeat.
We sit in silence, and then, after a long pause, she says, “Isn’t that where…”
“Yeah, it’s Sterling’s address.”
“Oh.” Poppy’s face is inscrutable. I watch her wheels spin, but there’s nothing there. Figures.
“Would you please stop saying that. It’s not very helpful.”
“That bastard,” she says, but her eyes dart to me when she says it, like she needs me to signal how I feel about it before she can figure out how to be supportive. She’s taking my side—just as soon as I show her what side that is. So far, this conversation is as illuminating as talking to a mirror.
“I don’t know what to believe. I’ve seen the video. It was taken the night of my brother’s wedding.”
She pulls me into a hug, and for a moment I feel only skin-crawling violation. No one has actually touched me since I got the news. After a moment, though, the anxiety vanishes, and I find myself sobbing into my best friend’s shoulder. By the time two large, wet spots have soaked through her jacket, I simply have no more tears inside me.
I’m a champion crier, I realize. I wonder if there’s an Olympics event for it. I’d be a shoe-in. I’d get all the best sponsorships. Kleenex. The Grand Ole Opry. I can actually see this life, complete and rounded and real, inside my head. The last week has been like that. Every black thought conjures its own reality. The future I was headed to—the one with Sterling—is gone forever. Everything feels futile. Pointless even. And worse than that? I can’t help thinking I’d always known we were doomed. I might as well acknowledge the cosmic joke in it.
“Do you think Sterling actually did it?” Her voice is tentative, but soothing.
“Who else would?” It’s the same question I keep asking myself, hoping to find an answer. “You know what would be helpful?”
“What? Anything.” She pounces on the opportunity to do something.
“What was your first thought when I told you? I mean at the exact moment you put all the pieces together.” My judgement is obviously impaired. I want someone else to tell me what kind of man Sterling is. I’m not sure I know any more.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I’m not, though. “Gut check time.”
“I thought—he wouldn’t,” she says slowly, “but…”
“But who would ever expect anyone to do something like that?” I finish for her.
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“And who else would?”
“Also that,” she agrees.
“I don’t know what to think, Poppy. It’s hard even telling you. Like, I worry—will you ever see me the same way?”
Poppy’s face bursts like a dam. It’s a strange thing, to watch someone else’s heart break for you. To watch them come apart, because your pain is just too much. “No, darling. No. No. Never. Nothing about this changes how I see you.”
“I know you love me. I know you wouldn’t abandon me. And I know you would never want it to change how you see me. It’s just, I wonder, you know? When people find out, does my name change from ‘Adair’ to ‘Adair with the sex tape?’ It’s just always there, this ugly feeling. Like an enormous monster. And to do anything—just get up and go to the bathroom—I have to pretend it’s not there, just waiting to rewrite me into a person I don’t want to be.” The last words escape through a sob, but I don’t want to feel sorry for myself. I just want her to understand.
“I will never, ever tell anyone.” Of course, Poppy understands. Of