Max

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This has to be the end of it.

I shut down my computer and let my head loll against the back of my chair. I can still see text scrolling behind my eyelids—thousands upon thousands of tweets and statuses and photo stories, all boiling down to one thing:

isn’t, like, ur entire purpose keeping pplz info safe on social media? if u cant do that, what’s even the point of u?

What’s even the point of me? Been wondering that myself.

“Sir?” My assistant pokes her head in. “Need anything else?”

I crack my eyes open. “No. Go ahead.”

We’ve done everything we can for now. The offer of three months’ free service seems to have slowed the cancellations, but we’ll take a hit from this. Already, the cartoons and memes are popping up. A Photoshop of me giving the thumbs-up to a banana breaking through a condom seems to be leading in popularity.

I reach for my coffee: empty. There’s still most of a bottle of Jack in my bottom drawer, but I’ve got calls to make. And I should check on everyone. Kyle bit the bullet this morning. Rachel didn’t. Carson, Wes, even Kate... I have no idea. She called a few hours ago to commiserate, and to say she was getting ready, but whether she actually went through with it... I try to picture Kate in a physical altercation with a model—with anyone—and chuckle at the absurdity of it.

I loosen my tie and grope for my phone. There are less notifications than I expected: one from Kyle—Done—and a photo from Wes: a full-page ad in the London Times. It’s too blurry to read beyond the headline, but there’s a lot of red digits. A list of his debts. My brows shoot up at the length of it. Jesus, Wes.

Carson’s texted twice: once an expletive, which I take as his confirmation, and again—with Kate. Get over here. That one’s only a couple of hours old, but it’s—fuck. Four in the morning. Where’d the time fly to?

I dial him anyway. Can’t picture any of us sleeping tonight. And if Kate’s waiting....

I shouldn’t care. I do, anyway.

The phone rings and rings. My foot starts to tap. Come on...come on....

He picks up on the sixth ring, breathing heavily. “Sorry. Had to get outside. Still at the hospital.”

Hospital? “What the hell?”

“Haven’t you passed a TV in the last six hours?”

“Cut the shit. What happened?”

“Kate got her ass kicked by some model. She’s getting stitched up right now.”

Stitched up?

“Which hospital?”

“Uh, Weill Cornell—East 68^th.”

“Be right there.” I’m on my feet already, rushing for the elevator. Oh, this is bad. A hundred percent fucked. I should’ve foreseen this. It’s Carson’s fault, making out like Kate’s situation wasn’t serious. Friday night in the fashion industry—wasn’t that how he put it? Free publicity. Maybe we’d all have taken it more seriously, if he hadn’t—

I press my forehead against the elevator doors. This isn’t Carson’s fault. Not really. Not unless he sent the notes. Whoever did it: that’s who I need to be pissed at. That’s where my focus needs to be, right after I make sure Kate’s all right. Stitches—shit. Unbelievable.

I step off the elevator, breathing hard. Everyone’ll be freaking. I need to keep it together.

I almost smash up my Tesla, peeling out of the garage.

They’re camped out in front of the hospital: the paparazzi. Stalking Kate, no doubt. Like she hasn’t been photographed enough. I keep my head down, angling for the doors, but I’m spotted—because of course I am. Because one thing going right on this misery of a night, that’d be silly.

“Whoa, that’s Max Westbrook!”

“Mr. Westbrook! Hey!—having a heart attack to go with your hack attack?”

“Got a comment on the—”

I shoulder my way through the throng, resisting the urge to throw an elbow or two. Anyone standing between me and Kate, right now...it’s not a good place to be. I lower my head and keep shoving.

“Oh! Weren’t you and Kate Miller an item, way back when? You here for her?”

Carson bursts onto the street. “Max! Over here!”

I aim for his voice. A floating boom smacks me in the mouth. A flash goes off, turning my vision white, then red. My composure’s hanging by a thread. One more flash, one more gross armpit in my face, I’m punching my way out of this.

Someone grabs me by the elbow. It’s the final straw. I clench my fist, ready for a fight...and it’s Carson. He pulls me out of the crowd and we dash through the doors. They’re still taking pictures through the glass.

“Where is she?”

“Through here.” Carson leads me through the emergency room. It’s bright in here—too bright. Like walking through a giant tanning bed. I squint into the glare—where is she?

I might be a little delirious. Didn’t sleep last night, and—yep. Not much the night before, either. It’s got to be fifty hours since I last put my head down.

Carson herds me into a smaller room, and behind a flimsy green curtain, which makes a screeching sound when he pulls it back. Kate starts and yelps in pain.

The doctor ties off a stitch. “Try to stay still.”

She whimpers. Or, no—she’s stifling a yawn. Halfheartedly covering her mouth. “Sorry. How many more?”

“Almost there.”

I duck under the curtain rail. “How bad is it?”

She waggles her hand: comme ci, comme ça. I still haven’t gotten a look at her face: she’s bent forward getting her neck stitched, and that’ll leave a mark; that’ll scar for sure.

“I’m sorry.”

A faint chuckle escapes her lips. “Guess I got what I deserved.”

I shake my head helplessly. In a way, I suppose we all deserve much worse, but seeing her like this... It should be satisfying, seeing her brought down a peg, but it just hurts. In all kinds of ways. All I can think about is getting her out of here. Feeding her breakfast and tucking her into bed.

Not my problem.

I close my eyes and picture her bouquet scattered on the floor. The little glass bead that fell out of my cuff when I got undressed that night.

I hate her. And I want to kiss her better.

“I feel awful, Max. Just...terrible.” Her breath hitches, and I’m at her side in an instant, reaching for her hand.

“It’s okay. You’re almost done.”

“No—not that. Not physically.” She laughs, flat and mirthless. “I’m totally numbed up back there. It’s just...I was so busy thinking about myself, how embarrassed I’d be, I never considered—I still don’t know her name. The girl I pushed. She was a teenager. Never did anything to deserve that. And now....”

“Ssh....”

“No.” Her head jerks up again.

The doctor steadies her head with his hand. “Please, miss. Or I’ll have to clear the room.”

“Sorry.” Kate squeezes my hand. “I can’t ssh, though. Can’t pretend this is all right. How’s she supposed to book anything now? Models are meant to be these...perfect, serene, uh...living coat racks. Their careers don’t survive things like this. Not unless they’re huge—like, Tyra huge.”

“You could help with that, couldn’t you? Pull a few strings?” Not that I’d bother, in Kate’s position: she’s seriously hurt. I keep catching glimpses of blood through the curtain of her hair—blood, and a huge purple bruise. And she’s covered in gouges and scrapes, all down her arms and chest. Hardly a proportional response to a push.

She draws a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t know. After tonight, I.... I’m not sure I’ll have any clout left.”

“Oh, come on.” I swipe my thumb across her knuckles. “You’ll be a meme for a while. They’ll make fun on you on Project Runway, America’s Next Top Model—all the fashion shows. But your clothes are great. I’ve sat across from a dozen of your dresses on dates. First dates, even. No one’s going to care what you did when they need that next knock-‘em-dead mini.”

“Not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.” She makes a sound between a laugh and a sob.

The doctor steps back. “All done.” He frowns. “You might want to avoid the main exit. There’s, uh....”

“I know.” I cut him off, but the look in Kate’s eyes tells me she’s figured it out. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.”

“My hero.” It’s probably meant to come out mocking, but it sounds like a plea. She looks up, and I barely rein in a shout. Her left eye’s swollen shut. A crescent of black stitches rings her cheekbone.

“Ow....” I’m touching my own cheek.

“It looks worse than it is.”

I doubt that. She’ll be wearing her shame across her face for the rest of her life.

Carson passes me her jacket. I hold it out for her. “Come on. Let’s get back to the Plaza.”

The ghost of a smile touches her lips. My heart turns over in my chest. I could revive that smile. Make her laugh, make her forget, like I used to, after Matt. I’d draw dicks on my face with her eyeliner, pretend to trip over her wiener dog, anything to see that spark of life in her eyes.

“I’ll head out front and distract them,” says Carson. “Got somewhere to be, anyway.”

“Thanks, man. For everything.” I elbow him, and he elbows back.

Kate pulls her hood over her head, letting it dangle in her face.

I slip an arm around her waist, and we follow Carson out of the room, veering off in the opposite direction. Two blocks to where I parked: we’ll be fine. This, at least, is going right. I’ll make sure of it if it’s the last thing I do.