Chapter 52
CHAPTER 52
AIDEN
“The next episode they shot, things started to fall apart for me. I hadn’t known, of course, but Blake was being lured by another girl. Turns out he wasn’t hard to poach. And those challenges to stay in the game?” She shrugs. “The real way to stay alive was to couple up. End up getting dumped, and… well, you’re off the show.”
I watch her shoulders fold inwards. “That’s what happened.”
“Yes. And when I found out, I was so hurt.” She wipes her cheek. Is she crying again? The idea makes my chest constrict. “I made a fool out of myself. I tried to mimic his accent, saying… God, have you not heard this?”
I sit up too, and brush her shoulder with my own. “No. I haven’t.”
“It was everywhere at the time. I should just show you the video… but I’ll never live it down.” She takes a deep breath. “I tried to say it in a British accent, the… ‘But I’m your little Sugar Puff.’ Except it was awful. I had been drinking and was clearly pretty drunk, and Blake just laughed. I had to be escorted off the set by the production team.
“That moment, though… it became legendary online. People made it into a meme. ‘But I’m your Sugar Puff’ was remixed into a song, and it made the rounds at the clubs that summer. It ended up charting, actually.”
“What the fuck?”
She shoots me a look that’s equal part wry and equal part sad. “ The Gamble still uses the term. It’s become part of the lore. I’ve even seen people with Sugar Puff T-shirts.”
“Fucking hell.” How could anyone have let that happen? “But when the show aired, surely people saw? You were the victim in all of it.”
“Not the way the show was edited. I came out looking pretty sanctimonious in my innocence, and my attempts at making friends were chopped up and rearranged. I looked smug and petty beside Blake, and my love was entirely naive.”
“You were nineteen .”
“Yeah. Maybe it would be different if the season aired today, but it was a decade ago.” Her words are wooden. “When the show aired, I finally saw everything . I saw Blake chatting with the other guys. Telling them he called me Sugar Puff because that’s what my tiny tits reminded him of.”
Her words are a bucket of cold water over my head. “He did what ?”
“He did it all with a smile. The kind of fuckboy that people can’t help but love, you know. Remember what I told you… about my experience with oral sex?”
“I remember,” I say darkly. “He said that on TV, too?”
“Yes. He did.”
I push off the couch and start pacing in front of it. My hands squeeze again into fists. I need to do something. Anything. But I can’t, because this was ten years ago, and the pain is already there. The damage is already done.
Her shoulders slump, like she knows what’s coming and is bracing for it. She doesn’t look like the woman I’ve grown to know, and for a second, I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Drag me down where my own shame can drown me.
This is a fucking show that I still keep on air.
“And now you’ll think of me the same way the viewers did,” she says. Her voice sounds hollow. “The way everyone still does.”
“Of course I won’t.”
“How could you not?” She buries her head in her hands, and I ache, seeing her sitting there. “I was a laughing stock. People yelled ‘Sugar Puff’ after me on the streets. And I knew it was because of him, because I’m flat chested. My god-awful British accent made into a soundbite, and I was reminded of it everywhere .”
There will be time for anger later.
I sit down beside her and wrap my arms around her body. For a moment, she struggles. Sits stiff and tense. But then she sags, falling into me as if her strength has left her. Her face is still hidden behind her hands.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she murmurs.
I rest my chin on the top of her head. “Don’t be”
“I hate it. I hate that it’s out there, I hate that the dumbest thing I’ve ever done is entertainment… And I hate that you know about it now.”
“Charlotte…”
“Do you think less of me for it?” She pulls back, her voice fierce despite the question. There are tears sliding down her cheeks, and I feel like I’ve been stabbed, seeing them.
I wipe one of the wet trails off with my thumb, dragging the pad across her silky smooth skin. She’s crying silently, but her eyes are defiant. “Of course I don’t think less of you.”
“Most people do.”
“Most people are fucking idiots,” I say.
She blinks twice, rapidly. “It was such a stupid thing of me to have done.”
“You were young.”
“Other young people go to war or… or… release amazing music. I did this.” More tears track down her face, and I pull her tightly against me. We end up in the middle of the couch, with her lying on my chest and my arms wrapped around her.
I feel the wetness of her tears through my shirt. “I’m sorry,” I mutter against her temple. “I’m going to make it right.”
“It’s not your fault,” she whispers.
“Yes, it is.” I kiss away the saltiness of her tears. “That show should never have aired.”
“The editing made me look like such an idiot. And Blake? He came out on top.”
“I know.”
“There was so much more that wasn’t shown, you know?” She presses her forehead to my collarbone, her hands still fist the fabric of my shirt. “I got the villain edit, the bad edit, whatever you want to call it.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I say. “Don’t beat yourself up for decisions you made at nineteen.”
She pushes up on her elbow, and her tear-stained eyes are lit with fire. “How can I not? It’s all that will ever come up when people search for my name. Even if I get my editor to approve my plans for the book, even if I somehow get it published… This will always haunt me. And I could have avoided all of it if I had just been smarter. ”
I sweep back a tendril of her hair. The frustration in her gaze spears me, and I know I’m unworthy of holding her. Of being the man she chooses to spend her nights with when I’m responsible for the pain she’s living with.
“You are smart,” I tell her. “You’re funny, witty, and well-read. You’re a beautiful writer. And you have a past that makes you interesting and complicated. I know how it’s like to live with regrets. But Chaos, who makes it through life without a single one?”
“People smarter than me,” she murmurs. Her hand glides to my neck, and her short nails scrape the scruff under my jaw.
“If you’re going to be mad at anyone,” I say, “it should be me. Not yourself.”
She traces a finger down my Adam’s apple. “I know,” she murmurs. “But that’s getting harder and harder to do.”