Chapter 9 – Rhiannon
One month later…
◆◆◆
My email notifications ping as another partnership deal hits my inbox. This time it’s from a company that makes socks.
Socks. Really?
Who knew even socks could be controversial given the right spin.
I laugh as I tab back to my anonymous social media account, now boasting two hundred thousand followers and thirty colorful videos tackling just about every topic you could think of.
My latest post is in indirect response to the Live Like an Influencer’s newest blog entry. The one where they dive into underwear, “We should all be replacing our underwear every six months and only buying ones made of organic cotton material,” it reads.
Sure, that might be a nice luxury if you’ve got the budget to treat underwear like it’s disposable. But for most of us, that kind of upkeep just isn’t practical, or financially realistic, especially when organic cotton comes with a premium price tag.
Plus, who can afford to throw out their underwear twice a year?
My mind drifts to Cain’s boxers that I’m currently wearing at my desk. They’re worn and soft from me sleeping in them constantly the past few months. I guarantee these things aren’t only six months old especially since our one night stand had been almost a year ago.
My rebuttal to their article is a cheeky post offering practical alternatives to the great underwear toss-out debate. My top recommendation: keep wearing the pairs you already have until you can afford to replace them.
I even got a well-known gynecologist, an old friend whom I’ve collaborated with through my therapy practice to make a cameo and say, “Yeah, it’s not a requirement to toss your underwear every six months.”
I hit upload, satisfied with the mix of humor and grounded advice. Before closing my laptop, I switch tabs to our family thrift store’s page. Fitting, really, since both are about giving good things a longer life before tossing them to the dumps.
I’ve just listed a newly refurbished pair of bedside tables, donated by Mrs. Dayton, one of our neighbors, in exchange for Gabriel fixing her kitchen sink. And, of course, Gabriel delivered.
Sanding them smooth, staining the wood a deep walnut, adding new brass hardware that makes them look twice as expensive.
As I scroll through the photos, I wonder if Dad and Mom would be proud of the ways that we’re sacrificing to keep the business alive.
I really hope so. Keeping the thrift store running since our parents passed hasn’t been easy, but it’s something the three of us have clung to fiercely. It’s our way of honoring their memory.
If the doors ever close, it’ll be because we made that choice together as a family, not because we let it fall apart due to neglect.
I skim through the latest invoices sent over by Natasha who somehow juggles the roles of operations manager, sales associate, and assistant manager at Brookhaven’s only bar and restaurant, Brookhaven Brews.
According to the September close report, we sold twenty pieces of furniture last month.
It’s not bad for a small town like Brookhaven, but also not great. Especially since a few of those pieces were minor items like light fixtures and door handles. To keep the shop afloat without dipping into our own savings, we need to sell closer to forty pieces.
I rub my temples, trying to figure out where we’re going to get the difference from and decide it’s a discussion I’ll have with Gabriel in the morning.
I like to call these things, future Rhiannon problems. She’ll be better equipped to handle them than the current, completely exhausted and overwhelmed version of me today.
With a sigh, I move to close my laptop when a new email notification pops up on the screen. The subject line catches my eye immediately: “CEASE AND DESIST”—bold and aggressive, courtesy of the Law Offices of Prescott this sounds like a simple scare tactic.
To win a defamation case, they’d need to prove the statement was false, made to a third party, and caused actual harm.
If they’re considered public figures, they’d also have to prove malice. And you’ve never used their names?”
“Never,” I say, slipping my all-black sneakers on and tossing my back over my shoulder.
“Exactly. You’ve kept everything general.
Your posts are clearly opinion-based, and opinions aren’t defamatory.
This is a baseless attempt to intimidate you.
I’ll text you in a bit after I review everything more carefully, but honestly?
I wouldn’t lose sleep over this. I studied a few cases like this in law school, and they usually have a tough time holding up in court. ”
I sigh heavily, my shoulders slumping. “See, this is why I keep you on retainer.”
He snorts. “No, you don’t. In fact, you’ve never paid me a dime for my services. I should probably start collecting on that.”
“I’ve paid you back in good times and friendship.”
He laughs again.
“Thanks. I love you.” I grab my house keys, still fuming but slightly less panicked. The last thing my family needs is an expensive lawsuit over some harmless social media posts I made to show my little sister a different perspective on things.
“Love you too. I’ll handle this,” he reassures me.
I hang up the phone and step outside, locking the front door behind me. The late afternoon air bites at my cheeks as I head out, my stomach still in knots from the call.
During the short walk to the train station, I scroll through my posts, each caption, each comment, each harmless take I’ve ever shared.
I never attacked Madison or Matt. Hell, I never even mentioned their names. I have nothing against them, or at least I didn’t, until they threatened to sue me. But if they’re really going to push this, then maybe that’s about to change.
The accusations gnaw at me. I open my email app and start typing a response to their lawyer, my fingers flying with all the things I want to say. Then I remember Leo’s warning: Don’t engage. Don’t respond. Make them do the work to take this to court. They may not if you just ignore it.
With a sigh, I delete the draft and shove my phone into my bag.
The train hums beneath me as I head into the city, the rhythm oddly calming.
I watch the landscape change from the quiet, small-town suburbs that I love, to the blur of high-rises and billboards, and for the first time all day, I manage to stop thinking about the bloggers and their ridiculous lawsuit and instead focus on all the good that I have in my very chaotic, busy life.
By the time I get home that night, after hours of scrubbing toilets and polishing marble countertops that cost more than my entire life, I’m bone-tired and ready to fall asleep.
I peel off my uniform, pull on a pair of old sweatpants overtop Cain’s boxers, and collapse onto the couch. My body aches, but my mind’s already running through next week’s meal plan, grocery lists and the stack of bills on the kitchen table that Gabriel and I still need to go through.
When I shift, I catch the faintest whiff of Cain’s cologne, and it yanks me straight back to that night I snuck out of the Hartford Hotel one month ago. I can’t help the smile that creeps in. Damn, I had fun with him.
He told me not to sneak out again, sure, but there was no reason to stick around. Neither of us wanted anything more. Besides, the man sleeps like the dead after sex. There was zero chance he’d wake up, zero chance we’d bump into each other ever again.
That’s all we’ll ever be. A memory. Two night stands and the pair of lucky boxers I still wear to bed every night. Maybe they’ll grant me some much-needed success for this lawsuit.
When my phone buzzes, I grab it, half-expecting another notification that’ll ruin my night. Instead, I see Leo’s name pop up and instantly relax.
Leo: Don’t worry. They don’t have a case. They’re just trying to scare you.
A slow, relieved smile spreads across my face as I answer.
Rhiannon: Thanks, you’re the best. Let’s get lunch together soon.
Leo: See you soon.
I set my phone down, lean back, and exhale.
If they think they can intimidate me, they’ve picked the wrong woman. I’ve already lost too much to be afraid of losing anything else.