Chapter 23
Throughout the regular Monday-morning staff meeting, I posed as an engaged office worker to mask my true identity as a sad and embarrassed romance writer.
As I dragged my cracked-open heart back to my office, my phone vibrated with a text from Bronwyn.
A producer from the Today show had reached out late last week, and given the number of exclamation points in Bronwyn’s text urging me to call her immediately, this had to mean I’d scored a spot on a network morning show.
Hurrying down the hallway to my office, I shut the door and called her.
I desperately needed a win this morning.
“Hey, Thea,” Bronwyn said. “I’m here with Emily McCarthy, and Harper’s on the line, too.”
Emily McCarthy was the head of publicity.
She’d participated in a kickoff conference call several months before my book was published, and then had been happy to be relegated to the cc line of future correspondence until I’d become a bestseller.
Her presence this morning seemed to confirm my hunch that this call was about the Today show.
My love life might be crap, but my body hummed with anticipation over my career advancing to new heights. “Hi, everyone.”
Emily dove right in. “Hi, Thea. We’re concerned about some rumors that surfaced online over the weekend about your astronaut boyfriend.”
I gasped. OK, so, not about the Today show. “What are you talking about?” Had someone found Max?
Emily continued, “Right now we think it’s only on Reddit.
But someone who goes by the handle Trucrimehunter213 figured out that you work for a marketing agency, and they’ve been floating the theory that you invented the whole astronaut thing as a publicity stunt.
That maybe your boyfriend isn’t actually an astronaut or maybe you made up a new boyfriend entirely. ”
“What?” My body stiffened. “But that’s preposterous. That podcaster was never supposed to ask me any of those questions in the first place, and Harper tried to have the YouTube video and the podcast removed because I was freaking out. I never intended to talk about any of it!”
“It’s not all bad,” Bronwyn chimed in. “Some of the commenters think you’re a genius.”
I sat with all this for a minute as my mind flooded with the memories of the internet trolls and random strangers on social media who’d speculated for weeks that I must have had something to do with Sam’s death.
Posting and commenting as if it were a TV show and not my actual life.
How could this be happening again? I tried not to think of Rebecca’s reaction to the very thing she’d been most worried about with my new book.
“Be that as it may, Bronwyn,” Emily said, “our job is to shut it all down. We want to keep the focus on the book and keep any media coverage positive. Do you think your boyfriend would agree to a photo shoot with you, or an interview? In my experience, it’s best to get ahead of a story like this because it has a way of spiraling out of control very quickly.
One day you’re a media darling, and the next you’ve been canceled because everyone thinks you’re the new Anna Delvey. ”
I bristled at the comparison to a convicted con artist. “He’s super private because of his job, but I’ll ask him.
” As humiliating as it would be to beg Max to confirm his identity, what choice had he given me?
I could survive the heartbreak of being ghosted, but not of losing my professional reputation.
I was kicking myself for ever letting Max and my career become publicly intertwined.
But Max knew my career meant everything to me.
I had to believe he would do the right thing and bail me out.
“Thea, I can’t stress how important this is,” Emily said.
“We need you to do everything you can to convince him. It’s critical that we put to rest any rumors that he isn’t an astronaut or that your relationship isn’t legit, before this story gets more traction.
You’re not the only one who could be affected by this; our publishing house’s reputation is also on the line. ”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “Is that all?”
“For now, yes,” Emily said.
The call ended, and I immediately texted Max: Can you please respond?
It’s important. Then I pulled up Reddit.
When vile internet conspiracy theories first surfaced after Sam’s death, Frannie had sprung into action deleting all my social media accounts.
It wasn’t until months later that I read the posts myself, and by then enough time had passed that none of them felt like imminent threats.
But this time, Frannie wasn’t here to save me from myself.
I searched my name and found Trucrimehunter213’s posts.
Thankfully Max’s name had not been unearthed because it certainly felt like the person knew me, or knew someone who did.
Trucrimehunter213 knew where I worked. I briefly entertained the idea that Rebecca was Trucrimehunter213.
There was a knock on my door, and Rebecca walked in without waiting for me to respond. “Got a sec?”
Reluctantly I nodded, and she took the chair opposite me. “After you left the staff meeting, there was some discussion about online conspiracy theories concerning you and the astronaut. I assume you’re aware of these?”
My cheeks burned as I thought about my colleagues talking about me. What if one of them was Trucrimehunter213? “I just got off the phone with my publicists,” I admitted. “But this is all ridiculous.”
“Thea,” Rebecca said, “I’ve tried not to pry the past week, but is Max back in town yet?”
“No,” I said flatly.
“Any luck getting an appointment with a therapist?”
“Still waiting for someone to respond . . . you know, postpandemic scarcity, blah, blah, blah.” I lied for a second time. It did not feel good, but the idea of sitting in a therapist’s office rehashing my traumas felt worse.
“Hopefully someone will get back to you soon,” Rebecca said, skepticism splashed across her face. “I could make some calls?”
“No, but thank you.” She clearly wasn’t buying what I was selling anymore—but then, how was it her business to force me into doing something so personal? She was the CEO of this firm, not my life.
“I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to look yet, but Coco showed me some of the stuff that’s online.
It’s a little scary, to be honest.” An uncertain look crossed Rebecca’s face.
She adjusted the sleeves of her blouse before continuing.
“What if you and Lucy moved back into the guesthouse just until this internet stuff blows over? We could hire a security guard and a driver—”
I held up my hand to cut her off. “No, we’re not doing that. I’ll warn my doorman to be extra vigilant. We’re safe. I appreciate the offer, but it’s all going to be fine.” In other words, I thought, mind your own business.
As soon as Rebecca left, I returned to Reddit and began scrolling through the comments.
Bookluv911: It’s as if she mined her own tragedy to sell books. Pathetic. I can’t believe an author would stoop that low.
TruthSeeker206: I don’t buy her explanation for publishing under her married name. I think she’s hiding something about her husband’s death.
A few were generous enough to consider that I might be the victim in this situation.
Dogsrthebst: I think she was scammed, but she’s too clueless to realize it.
Pinkbumblebee222: The first thing I would have done is check his phone number. I bet it’s a burner.
We’d traded hundreds of texts, and I’d never once considered that possibility. Heeding Pinkbumblebee222’s advice, I shot Frannie a text with Max’s phone number, asking her to do some tech wizardry and figure out if he’d been using a burner.
I couldn’t let my mind travel to that level of deception. Yet. But he still hadn’t responded.
Although I’d already given up on the relationship, the problem in front of me was now much bigger than hurt feelings.
There was no telling how bad things could get once the internet sank its teeth into a sordid mystery.
Suddenly, my career depended on proving Max was indeed an astronaut.
Or, if he wasn’t an astronaut, at least proving to the rumormongers that I’d honestly believed he was one.
A full-body shudder passed through me. I simply had to find him. And fast. But how?
Frannie had said a photo was the key to her doing an image search. I racked my brain. How could we not have taken a single photo together? That’s when I recalled the automatic photos taken at the end of each Space Mountain ride. We hadn’t bought any, but maybe they had an archive?
After I sat on hold for over thirty minutes, a Disneyland customer service agent informed me that all ride photos were deleted from the system after five days.
And no, they were not recoverable. I swore loudly, then apologized to the agent.
I knew a little something about bad karma—and turning the Happiest Place on Earth against me was not ideal.
What about our Barnes & Noble date? We’d been there for an hour, most of the time in the children’s section.
Perhaps they had cameras there for the safety of their young patrons?
After several tries, I reached someone in the administrative offices of Barnes & Noble and asked about obtaining security footage.
To my despair, they informed me they don’t make their security footage available to members of the general public.
I would need a subpoena for that, which would mean finding a lawyer and paying a small fortune I didn’t have.
An hour had passed with nothing to show for my efforts.
I had hundreds of texts and the one unusable sext.
None of it proved anything. I pulled up the photo again to confirm to myself that I hadn’t imagined him entirely.
I enlarged it, looking for a birthmark, a freckle, any distinguishing characteristic that might help me find him.
And then I looked up and remembered where I was. In my office, at the agency owned by my former in-laws, and all but drowning in a dick pic.
How in the world had I gotten here? To a place where somehow my entire writing career, my reputation, and my dignity hinged on whether I could somehow identify and locate the owner of this one particular penis? Maybe truth really was stranger than fiction.
That night, exasperated and desperate to spark a response, admittedly perhaps not the ideal mindset for making clearheaded decisions, I pulled off my pajama top, smooshed my boobs together creating the illusion of cleavage, snapped a photo, and texted it to Max’s number.
Within seconds, wavy dots appeared.
Yes! Finally!
I held my breath and waited. But no response came. And then the dots disappeared, too. Incredulous, I sent another pleading text: I’m begging you. I know you’re out there. Please answer.
“Mommy!” Lucy called out from her bedroom. “Can I please have a glass of water?”
“Sure, Jellybean,” I responded, setting down the phone with a frustrated huff. I delivered the water, stroked her hair for a few minutes while she fell back asleep, and then snuck out of the room to check my phone again.
Nothing. Perhaps I needed to try a different tack and appeal to his sense of decency, assuming he had one, rather than attempting to dazzle him with the B cups he’d claimed to be smitten with not long ago.
SOS! Nobody believes you’re real. I’m being accused of inventing you as a publicity stunt. My career, my public image, and my sanity are hanging in the balance. Even if you changed your mind about us, could you please show up for me just this once and then I promise never to bother you again?
Please Max.
Again, there was no response.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when my phone rang, but it was only Frannie. I picked up.
“Hey . . . I have some pretty bad news,” Frannie said. “So, the number you gave me was generated by a burner app.”
“What in the actual hell?” I cried out way too loudly before remembering Lucy was asleep. “Wait, are you sure? Were you able to trace it?”
“Unfortunately, yes, I’m sure, and there’s absolutely no way to trace who the number belongs to.”
“Oh my god, no.” My voice broke. “The first guy since Sam who I’ve opened up to and kissed and thought I might actually love was deceiving me this whole time?”
“I’m really sorry, Thee.”
I gulped. The full weight of his deception hit me like an anvil. This was so much worse than a garden-variety ghosting. “I gotta go. I think I’m gonna be sick.” I made it to the toilet just in time.
And then, as I rinsed my mouth in front of the mirror, an even more disturbing thought crossed my mind: To whom, exactly, had I just sent a photo of my boobs?