Page 24 of Living Hell

“I’m funny, huh? I’ve been called a whole lot in my life, I.D., but funny was not one of them.”

“I didn’t only write about you. I also wrote about Cara and some of the actors and actresses I’ve worked with over the years. I was careful to disguise names . . . except for you and Cara. But since you two weren’t famous, I figured you wouldn’t care.”

Wow. That sounded so much better in my head.

I cringed and awaited the firing—and the threat of future lawsuits. Not to mention the total destruction of my life by one of the most powerful people in Hollywood.

“I’m not famous?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t mean at all. You’re famous in the entertainment industry. I meant here.” I pointed at a random guy seated at the counter. “I’m sure he doesn’t know who you are, but he might know me. And, fame isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. I mean, sure, when I was young, I fantasized about being famous. But now that I am, it’s not that great.” I held up the fake hair and crooked glasses as proof.

Babette let out a puff of air as the corner of her mouth curled. That was her laugh, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or petrified.

“I want to see the emails. The little stories you sent that waitress.”

Shit.

I nodded. “Yes, of course. No problem. But just to clarify, you mean all the emails? Like, even the ones from eleven years ago?”

“Yes.”

The bell over the diner door rang, and I turned to see who would be stopping by. Not that I cared or was waiting for anyone, but to avoid having to look at Babette I had to appear interested.

It’s not that I wrote bad things about her. I may have exaggerated her taste in sexy masseuses a little too much but nothing illegal or inappropriate.

It’s what I said about Tyler that had me concerned. I confided in Debbie because she was like the trusting aunt I never had. I could tell her things I wasn’t comfortable explaining to my mother.

A beautiful woman with long blond hair walked in. I was struck by how stunning she was despite her unusual laughter. She was like Grace Kelly, if Grace Kelly snort-laughed.

When I saw who was coming in with her, chuckling like a fool, my ears started to ring.

I turned around so fast, my wig didn’t have time to catch up.

“Fuck.” I pushed and pulled at the terrible mop on my head.

“Oh look, it’s Dr. Tyler Ferguson. Let’s have him join us,” Babette said and didn’t give me time to respond. I was tangled in a web of cheap blond hair and hoped I’d be free before they came over.

“Dr. Ferguson, just the man I wanted to see.”

Too late.

“How do you even know what he looks like?” I plucked at the ticklish hairs that fluttered over my face.

“It’s called Google, honey. You are the most Internet-illiterate twenty-nine-year-old I ever met. Do you even know what social media means?”

“Hardy har har, I know what social media means.”

I tried to avoid what’s out there. If I didn’t know it existed, then how could it hurt me?

“Hello. You needed to speak . . . with . . . me?” Tyler asked as his smile faded. Concern etched his features as he stared at me.

Babette waved toward my side of the booth. “Please, join us. It’s about the house.” I groaned but scooted over until I was as close to Babette as she would allow.

“That’s very kind of you, but we were going to get a table—”

“Oh my God! Aren’t you I.D.? I have followed you ever since you had the What The Hell vlog. My sister and I thought you were hilarious.”

Combing the mess of hair out of my face, I saw the beautiful blond sit in the booth and scoot closer. Her hair was perfect, pulled back in a thick French braid. I bet hers wasn’t a wig.

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