Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
It’s either a miracle or a sixth sense that coaxes my eyes open just after two in the morning, because I would have assumed I’d be wrecked for at least forty-eight hours after what Alec did to me. But even though it’s pitch-black in the room, I’m suddenly wide awake.
Alec is curled around me, his cheek pressed against the back of my neck.
Deep, steady breaths glide over my skin.
When he leaves, I want to capture this feeling and wear it in a locket around my neck.
But the thought doesn’t send me spiraling into sadness.
I feel confident that we’ll try to make this work, and that we might even succeed.
A pulse of residual adrenaline kicks to life in my bloodstream when I remember that we can publish the story today.
Without a doubt, no matter what else comes in my lifetime, the hunt of this story will remain one of the most satisfying of my career.
But the deeper my feelings for Alec become, the more conflicted I am about remaining involved; I am as excited about getting it out into the world as I am about passing the entire thing over to Ian and Billy to handle from here on out.
Journalism is a field plagued by the increasing assumption that morality is dead.
In school, we are taught a very large number of things journalists shouldn’t do, but rarely are we told there are things we absolutely don’t do.
Sleeping with Alec always fell in that deeply gray area.
That’s it, I think. I’ll finish this, hand it off, tell Billy about me and Alec today. I’ll be free. The conflict of interest is an ever-intensifying sour tang at the back of my throat.
I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it: I pull my work phone off the nightstand to peek. I’m not at all surprised to see that Billy has texted me just after 1:30 a.m. Did we get the OK to go ahead?
As soon as I read these words, it feels like a new shadow passes overhead, clearing my thoughts from the harsh glare of yesterday’s excitement.
Alec probably has a text from his manager, Melissa, with the answer.
I could wake him up and ask. We could hit publish on this in time to get it up for the morning social media rush.
But I’ve worked too hard on this; I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize this story, and our relationship does that. The last thing I want—the last thing any journalist wants—is to become the story that overshadows the real story. Taking Jupiter down is too important.
We have enough without Alec and Sunny’s anonymous account.
We have the interview with the woman who was approached with a payoff who didn’t even know she’s been assaulted.
Screen caps of numerous videos of the same tattooed man.
The chat transcripts describing these women as “Bambis”—as innocents, as prey.
And finally, the identification of Josef Anders’s face and tattoo in this damning video.
Yes, Sunny’s account is the nail in the coffin that these videos are not recording consensual acts, but we don’t need it.
We don’t have to drag them through this if we can take Anders down without it.
There will be follow-ups to this initial report.
Waiting gives Alec and Sunny time to decide what they want to include after the dust settles. Billy can assign it to another writer.
This way, the Kims are shielded, and I maintain my integrity.
I check my gut, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for confidence to cool into ambivalence. Ten, twenty, thirty heartbeats pass, and the only thing I feel is relief.
I text Billy back: Run it, but take all details from the anonymous source’s story out.
Really? He said no?
I don’t answer this directly. We’re good without
I put my phone down and roll back into Alec’s arms, pressing my face into the familiar shape of his chest.
This choice feels good.
Relief settles heavily into my body, and I easily fall back asleep.
“I don’t know how else to say it,” I say the next morning, and fall back onto the bed, “but it feels real, E.”
Eden takes a deep, slow breath I can hear through my headphones. “Oh, honey.”
Alec was already gone before I woke up, but left me an apple, some water, and a note saying,
Excited for your big day. Melissa gave the go-ahead. Keep me posted. Last night was unbelievable. xx —A
The story went up an hour ago. Even without Sunny’s account, reception has been unreal: There are thousands of comments online; #JupiterScandal and #JosefAnders are both trending internationally.
Jupiter has been shut down while an investigation is conducted; footage of Anders being brought in for questioning has been shown on nearly every network.
Billy says they’ve been fielding calls all day and they’re hoping to book me for the rounds of morning news programs this week.
I want to celebrate this victory with Alec tonight, take him out to dinner.
Maybe we can call Sunny together and just have a moment of quiet reunion and relief.
Maybe we’ll plan my first trip to visit Alec.
Maybe after this I can take my first vacation in years.
The future feels like a bright glittery road stretching out forever ahead of us.
“I don’t even have to finish my sentences with him,” I tell Eden. “We had a big talk at the gala last night and just—” I exhale a laugh. “We must be the two biggest drama queens who just found each other. It’s only been a matter of days and we’re so dopey.”
She lets out a tiny, happy noise.
“I didn’t even tell you about my first night here. He came to find me in the middle of the night. He thought I left. But I was in the bathroom freaking out.”
“Why?”
“Because we put on a movie and fell asleep. Because it felt like a relationship.”
Eden laughs. “I’ve been with you guys. You are in a relationship.”
“I know. I think we sort of decided that last night?”
She goes quiet for so long that I’m just about to ask if she dropped out when she says a breathless, “Holy shit.”
“Right? Are we idiots for even trying?” I rest my hand over my eyes. “We only have two nights left and—”
“George.”
Abruptly, I sit up. When Spence and I broke up, I absorbed so much energy from Eden. I promised myself I wouldn’t do that again, and look at me now, just talking about myself. “Shit. Sorry. I am being a self-absorbed monster.”
Eden pushes out an abrupt “Georgia. Shut up.”
She never uses my full name. As in, I can’t remember a single time in our ten years of friendship that she has ever called me Georgia. My stomach sinks. “What?”
Her voice is shaking, her words slow. “Check Twitter.”
My Batphone vibrates on the bed beside me. “Alec is calling me,” I say, and then unease presses in cold at the edge of my thoughts. He has a marathon day—why is he calling?
“Call me right away after you talk to him,” Eden says.
I frown, confused. “What?”
“Just—go.” She disconnects, and I pick up the other phone.
“Hey, what are y—”
“I need you to pack up.” His voice is firm, tight, as if he’s pushing words out between tiny, shallow breaths.
Everything inside me comes to a standstill. “What?”
“I can’t talk,” he says, and it sounds like he’s walking. “I just need you to get all of your things and go home. Head down the back way we came in last night. Through the service elevator. Can you do that?”
My lungs squeeze in, compressing my heartbeat. I can’t figure out what’s happening. Is this about the article? There was nothing that Alec shared with me in the piece. The reception has been amazing, and he hasn’t been exposed, so this can’t be about that. I’m—I’m just frozen with confusion.
“Gigi!”
“What?” I say again, uselessly.
“Are you up? Tell me you’re up and packing.”
My face grows hot, my throat tight, and I stumble into the bathroom, throwing my things into my toiletry bag. Last night he washed my skin with aching sweetness. Now he’s telling me unequivocally to go home?
“I don’t understand. Are you okay?” All I get is the sound of feet clomping down a hall, the frantic murmur of voices. “Alec, what’s going on?”
He speaks to someone else in the background, and I hear Yael say, “Stay here.”
Alec returns. “Yael is going to meet you out back. She’ll take you home.”
“Alec, what—?”
“Why didn’t you include my information in the story?”
Everything in me hits pause. “What?”
“The story. You didn’t include anything I told you.”
“Because I didn’t need it,” I say, breathless from this inexplicable panic. “I wanted to protect you. Protect us. We had enough—”
“Never mind,” he says. “We don’t have time. Are you packing up?”
In the empty, calm room my head is a storm of chaos. I grab my toiletry bag and return to the bedroom, staring at the landscape of his clothes and my clothes draped innocently together over the back of a chair. I collect mine, shoving them into my bag. “Are you—”
“Gigi, are you packing up?”
I stare at my open suitcase, my things spilling out of it. So many clothes I haven’t worn because I live in my underwear here. I wear his T-shirts. “I am, but I don’t underst—”
“Gigi,” he yells, voice unrecognizable. “Fuck. Just—please. Hurry. Pack up and leave the room.”
Hurry. Pack up and leave the room.
My phone starts shaking. My hand is trembling so hard I can barely maintain a grip. I never could have imagined how it would feel to hear him be angry with me. A physical shove would hurt less. “Okay,” I manage, but the word is garbled by a confused sob. “I don’t know what I did, but I’m so sorry.”
“Shit.” When he speaks again, his voice breaks. “I don’t know—” He cuts away again, answering someone in the background again, before telling me, “I have to go.”
I hear the burst of a door, wind, and a blast of voices all around him.
And in the melee, only one voice comes through clearly, the sharp sound of a woman cutting through the chaos—“Alexander! What’s your connection to the Jupiter scandal?”—before the call disconnects.