Chapter Six
AVIANCE
I have a best friend named Petra and a childhood friend named Remy who now lives in East Nashville, and between them and the comment section of a thread I did not personally post — but did provide screenshots to, through Petra, who manages the logistics of things like anonymous evidence drops with the focus of a military strategist — I have more support than I have known what to do with in the last seventy-two hours.
The thread has a hundred and ten thousand impressions by Saturday morning. My DMs — on an account I haven't touched in months, with fifty-three followers, mostly from a phase where I briefly posted my design work — are full.
I don't read most of them. I don't have the bandwidth. But Petra reads them on my behalf and summarizes: eighty percent support, fifteen percent nosy, five percent unhinged.
"The support ones are beautiful," Petra says.
We're at her kitchen table on Saturday morning.
She's got her laptop open and her reading glasses on, which she only wears at home, and she looks like a particularly stylish librarian processing interlibrary loan requests.
"Women sharing their own stories. A few people saying they recognized the pattern from their own relationships. A lot of people asking if you're okay."
"I'm okay," I say. "What's Vanna doing?"
"Her Twitter and Instagram went private about four hours after the thread. Her TikTok is still public but she's made no new posts." Petra pulls her glasses down her nose. "Smart of her. Also meaningless, since Carla's office has already served notice on her and the screenshots are preserved."
"Has she posted anything?"
"Not publicly. One of her friends posted on their own account something like 'people only show the side of the story that makes them look good' with a sunset emoji. Got eleven likes. The comments were not kind."
I wrap both hands around my coffee cup.
"I don't want her harassed," I say. "I need to be clear about that. I'm not interested in anyone sending her threats or anything genuinely cruel. The evidence is enough. The facts are enough."
"I know." Petra sets her glasses on the table. "That's why I gave the screenshots to that account specifically. They're documentation-focused. They presented it as information, not as a campaign."
"Good."
"Moore's work account has had some comments. His firm's Google reviews went from four-point-two to three-point-eight."
"That I didn't ask for either," I say, "but I also don't control it."
"No. You don't." She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. "How are you actually? Not performing fine for me. Actually."
I look out her kitchen window. East Nashville on a Saturday morning, dogwood trees just breaking into pink bloom, and somewhere across the city my marriage is legally unraveling and I am thirty-two hours into sleeping on someone else's couch and I should feel worse than I do.
"I feel like I can breathe," I say. "For the first time in six months, I feel like I can actually breathe."
Petra squeezes my hand.
"That's enough for today," she says.
"That's enough for today," I agree.