A Crazy Kind of Love by Mary Ann Marlowe (23)

Chapter 23

The entire staff watched me as I exited Andy’s office. I wanted to call Micah to give him a heads-up, but more urgently, I needed to contact Eden immediately to warn her that Andy knew, but I certainly didn’t want the hungry wolves to overhear my conversation with her, so I jumped in the elevator down to the lobby, searching for her contact info in our email chain.

When I got out to the street, I dialed the number, but as I was about to hit Send, a man approached me. “Jo Wilder?”

I looked up from my phone and squinted at him, trying to place where I knew him from. All at once I recognized him as one of the paparazzi from a competing newspaper, but I couldn’t remember his name. We’d met at some event or another, jockeying for the same photos. “Yes?”

He snapped my picture. “When did you first sleep with Micah Sinclair?”

“What?”

“Are you still sleeping with him? How would you characterize your relationship?”

What had Andy published? I turned away from the reporter and walked down the sidewalk back toward the building. “No comment.”

“What do you know about the other women?”

“Leave me alone.” I tripped over my own shoes, but caught myself. My hands started to shake.

He kept pace with me. “Where is Micah now?” He turned and started walking backward as his camera clicked in bursts. “Were you working undercover? Did Andy Dickson send you in on assignment? Pretty choice assignment.”

I put my hand up to block the shot, and nearly walked into a woman holding a small boy by the hand. When I stopped to let her by, he asked. “What’s it like working for Andy?”

I turned to face him. “Off the record?”

He dropped his camera to his shoulder. “Yeah. The guy’s a genius.”

“It sucks. It really sucks.”

“Are you thinking of leaving? Could I give you my card in case they need to replace you? I’d be willing to sleep with celebrities to get the story.”

I finally made it to the lobby doors and ditched the pest. I hid in the stairwell and pulled up our website on my phone. Right on the front page, the headline read: “I Slept with Micah Sinclair.”

I’d never said that. I’d never given Andy any details about my relationship with Micah, and my name accompanied a single statement, which I’d also never exactly said: “I’m dating Micah,” says Daily Feed’s own Jo Wilder. At the top of the page an image was slowly loading, knocking that one sentence farther down. The reception was terrible in the stairwell, so I stepped into the lobby.

Midmorning and midafternoon were the best times to publish a click-bait story. The traffic on the site would hammer our servers. Andy had posted this the minute I’d left his office. He’d only been waiting for me to take the bait.

The image finally finished loading, and I stared at a picture of Micah, asleep, half-naked on his own sofa, draped in a crimson throw. My blood ran cold.

As I waited for the elevator, my phone rang, incoming number unknown. I answered it anyway. “Is this Jo Wilder? Hi, I’m a reporter from the—” I hung up, cursing the vultures. How’d he get my cell phone number?

The minute the elevator doors opened on our floor, I rushed into the newsroom and burst into Andy’s office. “Andy, how did you get that picture? I took that on my personal camera. You have to take it down!”

He smirked. “Oh, did you? Then why’d you upload it to the server here?”

I combed through my memory. Had I used my personal camera? It had been early. I’d been so hungry. I’d reached into my bag and . . . I couldn’t remember. Maybe I’d taken out the wrong camera. And then Zion had uploaded everything. Everything.

I had to sit down. Dizzy. “You can’t publish that, Andy.”

“It was that or we run the story on Eden. You chose that story.”

I balled my hands into trembling fists. “You have to pull it”

He sat down. “No. I don’t.”

He didn’t understand. How could he? I hadn’t explained it right. “Andy, I’m not just sleeping with Micah. I’m not one of those girls. We have something really special, and this is going to ruin everything. He’s going to think—” My hand flew to my mouth as I realized how this story would distort my intentions with Micah all along

Andy closed his eyes and shook his head. When he looked at me again, I thought I saw pity. “Go read the article, Jo. Tell me if you really believe all that when you’re done.”

Zion waited for me outside Andy’s office. “Josie? Are you okay?”

“Zion, what did Andy write?”

He laid a hand on my arm and looked into my eyes. “Remember what Andy does, okay? It might not be so bad.”

I pushed past him to my workstation and powered up my laptop. The story loaded, and I started reading. Under the giant picture I’d taken, the statement I’d allegedly made was followed by: Has Ms. Wilder gone “undercover”? The photo she submitted (above) gives us a fly-on-the-wall view of a morning-after with Micah Sinclair—although as documented below, this is hardly a unique perspective.

Several smaller images scattered down the page. It was a collection of tales. A collection of cautionary tales. Each had a small paragraph to the left or right.

All of the women were attractive. In a couple, Andy had found pictures of them with Micah. He stood smiling next to every quote. Every damning quote.

At the very bottom, I was horrified to find the picture of Victoria Sedgwick I’d taken a little over a week ago. My name ran sideways along the edge, adding a cruel irony to the entire situation. Victoria’s statement knocked the wind out of me. I thought we had something special. I really thought I loved him. I thought maybe he loved me, too.

I remembered shooting that picture of her. I thought she’d glared at me with envy when she saw Micah with me. What had her expression really meant? Was she nursing a broken heart?

Andy was right to pity me. I was just another one of Micah’s girls. My statement at the top of the article made me seem like a naïve fool—or a calculating snake. And that picture of Micah, draped in his crimson blanket. He looked like a king on his divan, waiting for his harem to come feed him his grapes.

I turned and threw up all over the floor.

Zion closed my laptop and took it out of the dock. He slid it into the computer bag and started gathering my other things.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you home.”

I looked at the mess on the floor. “Oh, God. I have to clean this up.”

“No, you don’t. The custodial staff has been called. Come with me.”

We walked out front, and he hailed a cab. As soon as we got in, he started talking.

“What are you thinking, Jo?” His voice sounded like cotton. Cotton from miles away—from the land of cotton. I started to giggle hysterically.

“Josie.” Zion turned my face toward his. He seemed so far away. In slow motion. Blurry. Dim. I stared out the window and watched the buildings pass. In the distance, my phone rang. And rang.

When we got home, he led me to the sofa and plumped a pillow behind me. He grabbed my glucose meter and pricked my finger. I watched him, but it was like it was happening to someone else.

“Did you eat any lunch, Jo?”

He found my bag and pulled out a glucose tab. “Take this. Now, Josie.”

I put it in my mouth and swallowed it. He brought me a juice box, and I drank that, too. He could have handed me a plate of chocolate cake and a pint of beer. I would have eaten it all. I didn’t care.

After about fifteen minutes, the world rushed back at me. “Zion?”

He came out of his room. “Oh, thank God. How are you feeling?”

“What am I going to do?”

“Right now, you’re going to rest. And I’m going to make you some lunch. Then we’re going to talk about it.”

I closed my eyes and focused on breathing, in and out. The pain I felt after less than two weeks only proved that there was no amount of happiness that could lessen the blow of losing it all. Was it as recently as that morning I thought I’d be content with being happy for now? How could I be happy for now if it meant one day I’d be living unhappily-ever-after?

Earlier that morning, I was ready to fall into a feeling. Worse, I’d nearly excused my mom’s heartbreak due to her decade of romantic fulfillment. I was furious with myself for betraying her for a fleeting emotion. I strengthened my resolve to fight that feeling. Snack boxes. How’d I allow myself to confuse food with love?

As I calmed enough to drift off for a bit, Zion handed me a plate and sat next to me. “You ready to talk?”

He’d made some kind of burrito. It wasn’t as fancy as pear-ginger buckwheat pancakes, but he hadn’t paid anyone to make it for me. And he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He just did it because he truly loved me.

“Zion. Have I ever told you I love you?”

“Aw. I love you, too. I hate to break it to you, though. You’re not my type.”

I guffawed. “That’s a pity. Life would have been so much easier if I were.”

“Yeah? You want to get with all this?” He struck a ridiculous pose, shoulder dropped, cheeks sucked in, eyes batting in exaggeration.

“Who wouldn’t?”

“True. But I think there’s someone else you like more than me. Or at least you did.”

“Yeah. I did.”

“And now? You’re not going to let that article change your feelings, are you?”

“My feelings?” It came out a sob. “Zion, he was just using me. Didn’t you read the paper? He strings girls along, letting them think he loves them. And then he dumps them. And I’m one of those girls. Lord. I’m so stupid.” Tears welled up in my eyes for the second time that day.

Zion went into the bathroom and brought me a wad of tissue paper. “Did we read the same article?”

I wiped my eyes and sniffed. “Why?”

He resettled himself beside me and squeezed my knee. “Yeah, he’s been with a string of women. You already knew that. And those relationships all ended. You already knew that, too. And those women are now talking about it to the media. All factual.”

Every word he said hurt, but I took a deep breath, interested to hear how he’d spin this nightmare. “Go on.”

“At least two of those girls were groupies. They sort of advertise a no-strings-attached arrangement, you know? You don’t know what Micah may have promised them. Probably nothing. They got exactly what they wanted from him. You notice none of the girls who moved on to a bigger rock star were interviewed? Why not? Why only the couple who are no longer featured in any gossip stories?”

He made a little sense, but I wasn’t convinced. “So what? So they’re bitter. That doesn’t exonerate him at all. How can I know he isn’t going to have his fun with me and then drop me, too? Look at Victoria Sedgwick. She was with one of Adam’s band members last time I checked. And she claims Micah was in love with her. How am I any different?”

“She said she was in love with Micah and that she thought he loved her. Doesn’t mean he did. And come on. Victoria Sedgwick is the biggest hanger-on. You don’t know if she’s even still with that band member. If she is, I wouldn’t doubt she’s trying to work her way up to Adam himself.”

I snorted. As if anyone would get Adam to look away from Eden.

And then I remembered what Eden had said about the way Micah looked at me. And how he’d never brought a girl home. And how he’d never said he loved any of those girls.

My phone rang again. I reached into my pocketbook, hoping despite my misgivings that it would be Micah. But when I saw the incoming call was from my dad, I hit Ignore and threw the phone onto the coffee table. I couldn’t deal with a lecture from him on top of everything else. I couldn’t think of anything he could do but make me feel worse.

It pissed me off that just by calling, he’d already said everything to me. I knew he’d tell me to think of the shame I was bringing to him and to my family. He’d tell me to change my behavior and stop being seen with someone who disgraced me. And a small part of me wanted to pick up the phone and call him to tell him it was over with Micah so I could hear him say, “Nalla. Good,” as if I’d done something right for a change. And then maybe he’d be proud and accept me again.

But I was thirty-three, and he’d stopped pretending to be my dad half my life ago. He couldn’t tell me how to live my life or who I could love. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake as him.

Then I thought, maybe I knew what he’d say to me, but he needed to hear what I had to say to him. I grabbed my phone and hit the call button. As I listened to the weird ringing, I realized it must have been past ten p.m. his time. How was he even hearing this story already?

The phone clicked through. “Anushka, baby doll.” I hadn’t heard his voice in a couple of months, and it always took me by surprise. Even when he was angry with me, he always moderated his tone, sounding warm and comforting. The main problem with my dad wasn’t how he treated me. But it was easier to pretend he was a horrible person than to admit that I still hadn’t forgiven him for never being there.

“You called?”

“Yes. I am calling you to talk about what is happening with this boy.” His English had been nearly flawless, though accented, after his years living with my mom. He’d reverted to the heavier Indian accent, but it was evident he hadn’t spent much time thinking in English lately. His singsong intonation sounded more like his family than him. He’d fully assimilated into his home culture. What would he do with a daughter like me?

“There’s nothing to discuss. It’s a tabloid article. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

He said something in rapid Malayalam, and a woman’s voice nattered in the background. “Anika, people, they know you are a Namputiri. They read this article, and they will see it as a reflection on my family. I will hear about this tomorrow.”

I regretted calling. “Dad, you don’t get to have this both ways. You don’t get to make me a part of your family only when I’m bringing shame down on you. If you wanted me in your family, you had that choice years ago. And you left.”

Zion walked behind me and rubbed my shoulders. I was grateful for his presence in my life. Even though he was my age, he’d been more of a father to me than this man on the other end of the phone. He’d looked out for me, celebrating my victories and commiserating during my failures. He’d advised me and fed me and housed me and literally saved my life.

My dad started to speak again, but I didn’t need to hear anything he said. Even if he said he was wrong, that he’d made a mistake years ago or only today, I didn’t care. I didn’t need his recognition anymore. In a weird way, more than anything Zion had said, it was my dad’s disapproval that led me to conclude that I needed to give Micah a chance to fight his corner. I always did like to play devil’s advocate.

“Dad, I have to go. There’s someone I need to talk to.” I hung up and stood. “Zion, I’m going for a walk.”

I walked to the subway and took the G train south to Park Slope. I didn’t know if Micah would still be home, but I wanted to talk to him face-to-face. There was too much potential for misunderstanding.

When I turned up his street, I immediately spied a cameraman sitting on the lowest step in front of his door. Another reporter leaned against a tree across the street. I wheeled around before they saw me.

I doubled back to the coffee shop on the corner and ordered hot tea. At a table near the far wall, I stared at my phone, trying to decide who to contact first. Micah or Eden. Neither one had tried to reach me. The article had only been out a few hours. Maybe they hadn’t seen it. Or maybe they were trying to figure out what they were going to do about it.

The only thing in my notifications, besides a dozen calls from unknown numbers, had been a mention on Facebook. I opened that up to find that Marisa Bennet, Mom’s bitch of a neighbor, had dropped the article about Micah on my mom’s wall. Nice to see Josie Wilder is making the most of her time in NY.

I grimaced at her tackiness. Yeah, so my mom had proudly posted every single thing that my name ever appeared on for all the world to see, with the very blatant exception of this latest article. Marisa wasted no time attempting to slut shame my mom through me. But my mom had spent the better part of her life dealing with bitches like Marisa, and her response was possibly the greatest thing to happen since the whole debacle began. Come on, Marisa. You know you’d hit that if the opportunity presented itself.

If I’d had any temptation to defend myself, that mic drop allowed me my first solid laugh of the day. I was still chortling when the phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number, but had a crazy, fleeting worry that Micah might be trying to reach me. I hit Answer, and the man’s mosquito voice droned on immediately about the money they’d pay me for an in-depth interview. All I had to do was sell them a slice of my life.

I hung up, and blew on my tea, wondering if I should wait out the reporters on Micah’s stoop or push through and knock on his door. Before I could make up my mind, Zion texted me a link to a competitor’s site with a video of Micah posted in a sea of targeted ads. This Williamsburg woman controlled her glucose with one weird trick.

The headline read “Fame-Whore Micah Sinclair Confirms He’s Dating Tabloid Photographer Jo Wilder.” My fingers shook as I fished my earbuds out of the side of my pocketbook and hit Play on the video.

Micah opened his front door, dressed in a pair of faded skinny jeans and a white T-shirt with a red Japanese sun on the front.

At least he hadn’t stepped out in his pajamas.

He approached the cameraman closest to him, offering his hand. My mouth dropped open at the unfolding shark attack, and I thought, Run, Micah, run! but he couldn’t hear me.

He tapped the cameraman on the shoulder when his handshake went ignored. “Hey. Sam, right? What’s going on?”

The cameraman shooting the video moved in closer and called out the question they’d been sent to ask. “Do you have any comments on the article posted in the Daily Feed today?”

A shadow of confusion passed across Micah’s face, but he controlled his features quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m not aware of any article. What do you wanna know?”

“Is it true you’re currently dating Jo Wilder?”

Micah’s smile broadened. “Is that what brings you here? Is that the news of the day?”

“She’s quoted saying you two are dating.”

Micah turned up the sidewalk and started walking. “If she’s saying that, it must be true, right?”

The first cameraman started walking backward shooting pictures or video. He asked, “Do you want to comment on it?”

If they’d rattled Micah, he didn’t show it. With his usual charm, he calmly told them, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to her about all this before I comment.”

They tag-teamed the questions as they pursued him, pressing for the real scandal and hoping to get a reaction. “What about the other women in the article?”

He didn’t stop walking. If it had been me, I would have stopped. He just said, “As I said, I haven’t read the article you’re referring to.”

But then the reporter recording the video asked, “Are you sleeping with a tabloid journalist to get more media coverage?” and Micah shot him a dirty look.

The other reporter alley-ooped with “Are you sure she didn’t sleep with you to get that insider photo?”

Micah picked up his pace and turned his back on them both, but the camera followed him to the end of the street until he opened a door and went into a coffee shop.

This coffee shop.