Chapter 2
I wake up with a pounding sugar headache and my phone buzzing itself off my nightstand.
Bleary-eyed, I drape my arm over the side of my bed and bat for my cell on the floor for a few moments before finally scooping it up.
It’s still vibrating with a stream of notifications, and a hum of anxiety that something isn’t right wakes up my system.
I blink a few times, my eyebrows notching in a frown as my screen fills with social media alert banners, many of them listing new followers.
I don’t have a lot of followers on social media… at least I didn’t nine hours ago, but my measly count has plumped up to a number that makes my eyes bulge, and there are—
Jesus Christ.
I jolt upright so fast my neck pops. I bring my phone an inch from my nose, then hold it at arm’s length. My post from last night has seven hundred fifty thousand views and… oh damn, a really decent ratio of likes to go along with it?
My video starts playing on a loop, and a profound level of humiliation sinks into my bones that so many people now know I was railed to dissatisfaction on a frat-room floor-mattress. With shaky fingers, I click on the comments, eyes a bit unfocused as I scroll, afraid of what I might see.
The comments range from hilarious— this woman’s evil cackle just cleared my skin, watered my crops, and blessed my autumnal harvest —to horny— Mother, I am kindly asking you to sit on my face —to laughably cruel— like not even kidding ur a fucking joke.
women r so vindictive and emotional it’s embarrassing fr .
But most of them, to my utmost horror, tag Rylie Cooper.
My pulse pounds in my palms as my thumb hovers over his name.
Has he made a comment? Posted a video response?
With a queasiness like I’m cresting a hill of a roller coaster, I click to his profile, letting out a long sigh of relief when I see that he hasn’t posted any new videos.
I scan a few of the thumbnails, frown deepening as I scroll.
It is truly a crime that someone so abysmally cliché is also so good-looking.
His crooked smile moves along a spectrum from goofy to downright wolfish depending on the post, gray eyes hooking you in and pulling you under.
But the one thing that’s consistent, even through a screen, is that the man seems to radiate a genuine type of joy and pleasure in what he creates.
I click on a thumbnail featuring him and a woman laughing… accidentally. Not out of any sense of obsessive curiosity and instant jealousy. I watch for a few seconds, wondering if this beautiful woman is his girlfriend when his low, rough voice cuts through.
“As a very huge thank-you for eight hundred thousand followers,” he says, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “I’ve invited my little sister, Katie, to roast the hell out of me. Katie, take it away.”
I see the resemblance immediately. She’s younger than him, probably only eighteen or nineteen, but she shares his raven hair and enviable lashes.
Her lips are fuller, though, and she wears them in an earnest grin as she says through suppressed giggles, “You were a breech birth and it shows. Even from the start you’ve done everything ass-backward. ”
Cooper tries to keep a straight face as she continues with a few more jabs—“ Euphoria and Succession are your comfort shows, and your teeth look like they belong on an American Girl doll… You are basically a billboard of a psychopath.”
He bursts with laughter, his glasses askew as he reaches under them to wipe his shining eyes. I feel my own lips quirk at the corners at the sound.
Oh no. Absolutely not. I slam my mouth back down into a scowl as I flick out of the video, scrolling back to the top of his page. I will not find goddamn… merriment from his content.
I’m about to tap out of his profile completely when I notice something that makes my stomach bottom out and little black dots float in my vision.
Rylie Cooper now follows me.
Fuck.
Okay. Well. That was definitely not the case last night. I’m a vain, obsessive creature and I would have noticed if someone with a blue checkmark was following me. No, this is new. And this means he’s definitely aware of my video.
My phone buzzes with a call, and I shriek, tossing it like Cooper himself just caught me stalking his page.
Taking a few deep breaths, I process that it’s from Aida, which is a huge red flag in its own right. Aida usually texts me like a normal person, or FaceTimes when it’s something important like her cat taking a nap or when she’s drunk and sappy. We email and GChat for anything Sausage Talk related.
A phone call only comes when it’s work related and it’s bad, bad news.
Shit. Okay. This is okay. I’m sure this is not at all related to the video. She’s probably… wanting to get brunch. Or… or…
Fuck. This is definitely about the video.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but I wouldn’t put it past her to hop on the train and bang down my door if she gets the sense that I’m avoiding her. With a deep breath and my drollest voice, I answer, “Hey, bitch. What’s up?”
“Don’t you dare what’s up me,” Aida snaps. “Did you tell the world last night that you fucked Rylie Cooper?”
“Okay, that was definitely not the point of my story.”
“And you’re definitely missing the point of what I’m asking.”
I try to think of something to say, but all that comes out is a tiny, pitiful whimper as my hungover brain tries to organize the past few minutes.
“Eva…” Aida hisses. “What the hell is happening?”
“I don’t know,” I whine, nibbling my thumbnail. The tip cracks between my teeth, and I grip my hand into a tight fist. “Everything is happening so fast. I—”
“Okay, first things first: Did what you said actually happen or does Soundbites need to loop in legal for a potential slander case?”
“Legal?” Anxiety drenches my spine. “I did it on my personal account.”
“Covering my PR bases here, babe,” Aida says, her tone lacking patience. “Is it true?”
“I mean… yeah?”
“All of it?”
I throw up my hand as I scoff. “Well, I think he lasted more than three pumps. No more than six, though. The essential point still stands.”
Aida doesn’t even give me a courtesy snicker. “Eva, this isn’t a joke. Landry is requesting we all hop on a call ASAP.” She says our boss’s name on a breath of fear. Panic curdles in my gut.
“About this?” I squeak.
“No, about the weather. Yes, this!”
Landry Doughright, Soundbites’ founder and CEO, is brilliant and poised and everything I aspire to be.
A well-respected journalist of her day, she’s now lauded as making news and media more accessible and digestible to younger generations.
I have a massive career-crush on her, and have been secretly praying for a meeting where I can wow her with my drive and convince her to give me a chance at more serious topics.
Having to explain to her my drunken internet ramblings about a guy I dated six years ago does not top the list of topics I want to speak to her about.
“There must be some sort of employee protection against talking to your boss about your sexual history,” I say, throwing off my sheets and pacing the limited floor space of my bedroom.
“I think it probably has more to do with you being a recognizable face of Soundbites and sparking a massive amount of controversy with a beloved social media personality and less about the fact that you’re still bitter about not getting off six years ago.
” She makes it sound so rudimentary when she phrases it like that.
“In fact, I am begging you to not mention your sex life at all on this call. No more four-hump-dump talk.”
“Three-pump chump.”
“Eva!”
“Fine! Sorry for speaking the truth!”
“I’m emailing you the link to the GMeet,” she responds, her keyboard clacking in the background for emphasis. “Please, whatever you do, do not make this worse.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel better in a crisis.”
“Sorry I’m prioritizing my job and ability to financially sustain myself over your feelings. It must be hard not to be the center of everyone’s universe. You can cry about it later.”
“I really appreciate the apology, it’s a good start,” I say with as much false sincerity as I can muster.
Aida is so caught off guard that she actually does let out a surprised laugh that turns into a groan. “You’re a dumbass. See you in a few minutes.” The line goes dead.
Women supporting women, am I right?
I resume my pacing, my phone continuing to erupt with notifications, a tiny bomb in the palm of my hand… Then again, I’m the one who blew up my life last night.
With a mortified moan, I drop to the floor, back pressed to the edge of my bed and head cradled in my hands as I try to untangle this mess. The reality of my history with Cooper trickles in, memories I haven’t looked at closely in years.
We both went to Breslin University, a small liberal-arts college in upstate New York that produces a new class of pretentious forward thinkers each year who inevitably move to the city, making Manhattan the world’s busiest small town.
It all started simple enough. Cooper was a year ahead of me, but we met in a humanities lecture his final semester. It wasn’t a full class, but the professor was chill enough to not make us cluster at the front of the auditorium, and everyone spread out.
I claimed a seat near the back, next to a wall to lean on as I took notes.
I was absorbed in the presentation on the history of botanical symbolism in feminist art of the ancient world when the auditorium door opened behind me, closing with a loud click and a whispered curse.
The tardy student shuffled to the row behind me, and I rolled my eyes as he conspicuously rifled through his backpack, cursing again.
A few seconds later, his chair squeaked as he leaned toward me, and I pursed my lips into a scowl in anticipation of the next disturbance.