Chapter Twenty-Five #2
a foregone conclusion. As such, I can offer you two options: the first and easiest is to go on the record, telling your side
of the story in your own words. I understand you’re a bit of a writer yourself, so I can imagine the appeal this narrative
control might offer you. The second option, which brings me no pleasure to mention, is not to participate, and thereby let the tale of Graydon Lyons be told by classmates, acquaintances, and the man himself should
he deign to respond to my interview request.
I would apologize again, but I predict such protestations will grow tedious. Should you wish to discuss the matter further,
and I certainly hope you will, Merritt, I can be reached via any of the methods in my email signature. In any case, I remain
Your friend and advocate,
Ian Hoult
Whit had made the full range of angry and incredulous noises during this reading, but Merritt hardly noticed.
She knew she had grown pale while reading; her skin felt cold and clammy, sweat beading across her upper lip and a deadened ringing in her ears.
She was not prepared, though, to look up and see Whit so red-faced, stone-jawed, fuming.
“I know where he lives,” Whit said, standing up. He was wearing duck boots, and she felt a sudden fear he would run out the
door before she could stop him.
“Whit, don’t.”
“I’m serious,” he said, raising his hands and stretching out his fingers, as if preparing to strangle something. “We can go
over there—I can go over there and tell him to stop.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Why not? We can make him see reason. And if that doesn’t work, I can punch him in his greasy little face. I can punch him
many times.”
Merritt smiled, glad of the distraction. “Have you ever punched anyone, Whit?”
“Craig Peterson, junior year. Used a homophobic slur about my friend. And Howie Garner in college, also for using a homophobic
slur to describe me when I dropped out of pledgeship.”
“You were almost a frat boy?”
“Yes, very nearly.”
“The world is full of so many surprises and delights.”
“Merritt. This is serious.”
She gave him an ugly look. “Trust me, Whit, I know that.”
Cowed, Whit sat back down on the couch.
“God, I’m so sorry,” he said after a moment. “I can’t believe him.”
“Can’t you? It’s a good story. Everyone loves a reveal. That’s why people like that singing show where people wear those costumes—”
“The Masked Singer.”
Merritt raised an eyebrow.
“Annie likes it. Don’t.”
“Sure.”
Merritt sat thinking, absent-mindedly rubbing her half-full, still-warm mug with one hand. The point of the article was to
expose Graydon for his philandering, but she would be exposed, too, in the crossfire. And people would read the story—she
knew that—just as she would read a story revealing the identity of Banksy or D. B. Cooper. She wouldn’t be able to blame people
for being curious, even those who hadn’t read or heard of the book. In fact, the article would probably boost Graydon’s sales.
How humiliating. Insult and injury both.
And who had been Ian’s source? There were dozens of possibilities, really: students, professors, fellow authors, former friends.
Anyone who’d ever seen her tagged with him in an Instagram photo, or who put two and two together at a reading. Knowing that
she’d never be able to find out who it was irked her, yes, but the real question was, what kind of person would do that? Who would so cavalierly tell a story that made her into collateral damage, and worse, tell it to
someone who planned to splash that revelation across the pages of a nationally read magazine? The answer was depressing: so
many people, she knew, would do that sort of thing.
She sighed, pressing her head back against the chair.
“What do I do?” she asked.
She looked at Whit, whom she suspected was trying to be a good listener rather than leap to problem-solving. He was smiling
patiently and compassionately, and Merritt sort of wanted to kiss him.
“I’m really asking,” she explained.
Whit immediately jumped to his feet again.
“Let’s think,” he said, energized. “Let’s strategize.”
They went over the options Ian had laid out once more. Talk. Don’t talk.
“There’s a third possibility,” Whit said, pacing the small area before the fire.
“What?”
“Speak to him, but do it anonymously. ‘An anonymous source.’ ‘A close friend of the woman who inspired the main character.’
Whatever.”
“And say what? ‘Actually, Merritt’s a really nice person and Graydon sucks’? I’d just be confirming that it’s me in the book.”
Whit shrugged an apologetic shrug. “I think that ship has sailed. Unless . . .”
He wagged a finger in the air, thinking. Then he turned back to the couch and began digging through his cushions. When he
came back up, he held his cell phone aloft and was already dialing. Merritt waited.
Who are you calling? she mouthed.
Whit held up his finger again, and then the call must have been picked up.
“édouard, hi,” he said.
Merritt’s mind raced to make sense of things. Whit was smiling at her perplexed face as he spoke.
“Yes, that’s it,” he said, with a quick laugh. “I missed you so much, I just needed to hear your voice. Listen, I have a legal question for you.”
Oh, Merritt thought. Oh!
“But I need you not to mention it to Evie. Yes, top secret. Exactly.”
Whit smiled at Merritt, then asked his question of édouard the lawyer.
“What do you know about sending a cease-and-desist letter?”
When he hung up, Merritt did kiss him. Gently, at first, and then the kiss grew deeper and more urgent. Eventually, they paused
to breathe, and she met Whit’s eyes, which were both soft and bright with an unspoken question. He must have seen the answer
reflected in her own, because he stood and took her hand. She walked beside him as they went upstairs, abandoning her tea
to slowly grow cold.