Page 70 of Show Off

My big sister stares like I’ve shoved sugar cubes up my nostrils. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Unease churns my gut. Part of me wants to say it. Just spit out the truth I’ve hidden for years. Since I was ten years old. What would it feel like to unburden myself? Just be totally, completely honest with everyone. With the people I love most.

I draw a deep breath. “Want biscotti to go with that?”

Lauren shakes her head. “Thanks, but I’d better run.” She hoists my mug as she heads for the door. “I’ll bring this back later.”

“Okay.”

“Love you,” she calls, and that feels nice.

“Love you, too.”

The second the door slams, my phone starts to ring. I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’m not. I’ve long suspected Mom stuck trackers under our skin at birth.

“Hi, Mom.” I squeeze my eyes shut and lean on the counter. “You want to switch to video so you can show me the dresses?”

I already know there’s no dress. No way to outrun what she’s been hounding me about these past few days.

“Christie Chaplin’s new book is a ticking time bomb.”

My stomach lurches. “How do you mean?”

“I mean,” she says slowly, “I got my hands on a copy of the chapter where she mentions me. Mentionsus.”

I sit down hard on the edge of the sofa. All my training, all my years in the PR spotlight, has trained me not to react. To show no fear when confronted with a twist.

I’m not in the spotlight now. I’m scared and I want my mommy.

But my mommy needs me more, so I paste on a smile. “Okay,” I say slowly. “Are we talking libel suit, or?—”

“She’s cagey,” Mom interrupts. “I talked to my lawyer, and they don’t think there’s anything we can do about it. She implies plenty, but doesn’t outright lie.”

“She tells the truth, then.” That’s not as comforting as you’d think. The truth is what we’ve been dodging. “Enough of it to be damning.”

“Yes.”

Mom’s eyes hold mine. For the first time in my life, I see the scared child inside my mother. I want to snuggle that girl to my chest and tell her I can fix this. That maybe it won’t be so bad if?—

“She’s such a bitch,” Mom snaps.

I let out a long, slow breath. “Send me the chapter.” That’s the first step.

“Done.” She clicks a few keys on her laptop. “That’s Christie’s whole book, if you want to read it.”

I don’t, but I will. “I’ll call the publicity team at Preston Publishing. See if there’s anything we can do preemptively.” Seeing fear in her eyes, I try to reassure her. “Remember that all press is good press.” I don’t really believe that, but Mom sometimes does. “And Christie stirring up drama can only stoke sales foryourmemoir, right?”

My mother has a look like she’s not really listening. “What if we start a counter rumor? Maybe she’s relapsed or something. Didn’t she have a coke habit in the early aughts?”

“This isnothow we operate.” I’ve never played that game, and never will. “Give me a chance to think.”

She bites her lip. “If we had adistraction?—”

“Don’t start with that again.”

“Well, why not?” Mom waves a hand ringed with diamonds and gold. “You have to admit, your chef friend is very buzz-worthy. If you’re dating now?—”

“I won’t use him like that.”

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