Page 47 of The Playboy's Playbook

She sent me a link that leads to Adrienne Boyd’s page — a classmate I never particularly liked. Adrienne was rude, selfish, and the epitome of a mean girl. She looks just like she did in school, only older. Her brown hair falls in loose waves, and her brown eyes are heavily lined with mascara.

The link Erica sent me goes straight to a post from five years ago – Matt’s tagged in it.

My heart sinks as I click to read the post in full.

My Matty! I promise you that you will be free. They can’t keep you for a year! You don’t deserve to be in jail baby! I’m going to do whatever I can to get you out, I promise! I love you, Matt Foster!

There’s several comments calling for Matt to be free, that he’s strong, and he’ll be alright.

What. The. Fuck.

As soon as I got home, I let Nola out of her kennel so she could go use the bathroom. If Adrienne’s post was true and Matt was convicted, his arrest record would be public.

I should just call him and ask him about this because that’d be the right thing to do – to talk to him directly about this post and hear from him if it’s true or not.

But then again, wouldn’t the right thing also have been for him to tell me this information himself without me having to ask him?

Once my laptop powers up, I type his name in the search bar on Oakridge’s records page and I feel the tears well up in my eyes and my mouth goes dry.

Matthew was arrested on assault and resisting arrest charges five years ago. He was booked and released the same night but had to appear in court a month later for his hearing.

His mugshot is hard to look at. His bright blue eyes, usually so full of life, look sad and exhausted, the spark completely gone. His hair is matted, and his beard is unkempt, making him look like a shell of himself.

“No,” I mutter. “No, no. He would’ve told me about this.”

I do a search for any news articles that might have covered his arrest and find a fucking treasure trove of articles from the local news station and posts from who I’m assuming are his exes.

An altercation at Brody’s Bar between Matthew Foster, 21, and Randy McClain, 30, resulted in Foster’s arrest on assault charges. According to reports, Foster allegedly attacked McClain after McClain attempted to prevent him from approaching his girlfriend.

McClain is the son of Oakridge Sheriff Colin McClain. When speaking about the incident, Sheriff McClain said that he trusts the justice system to do right by his son and make sure that Foster “never sees the light of day in Oakridge ever again.”

I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t think I can logically make anything of this. I gave him everything, trusted him with everything, but he couldn’t trust me enough to tell me this.

I don’t know how long I’m staring at my computer when the first tear falls, but once they start, they don’t stop, no matter how much I wipe my eyes.

I continue down the rabbit hole and find more posts that follow the same wording as Adrienne’s. A girl named Chelsea says that Matthew is innocent. Another girl named Rachel said that Matthew was such a good time, she would hate to see him behind bars. There’s some asking if they can still see him in jail, how much it would cost to have him released, and much more vulgar things.

My phone rings in the kitchen and I abruptly stand from my computer desk and race to get it. I look at the caller ID and see his name. I answer the call, trying my best to level my voice.

“Hey, baby,” Matthew’s raspy voice says from the other end. I pull the phone away from my ear and quietly sniff and wipe my nose.

“Hey,” I say meekly.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice full of concern. I look up and put my free hand over my mouth to muffle the sob that’s threatening to come out.

I take a deep breath before answering. “Nothing. Listen, I don’t think we should have dinner tonight.”

“Laila, what’s going on? Are you okay? Talk to me, please,” Matthew begs.

I look at the time and realize that it’s his lunch break and he always calls me during his break. I shake my head as the tears continue to fall, staining my cheeks and my shirt. “I need to let Nola back in. Bye, Matthew.”

I hang up before he can respond and rush to the back door and let Nola inside the house. She jumps up and down, begging for me to pick her up. I bend down and grab her, cradling her close to me as I continue to cry.

“Why couldn’t he just tell me, Nola?” I ask. Nola cuddles closer to me and licks the tears falling from my cheeks. I walk over to the living room and sit on the couch, still clutching my puppy to my chest. Nola and I sit in silence for a long time before the doorbell rings.

In true Nola fashion, she jumps out of my arms and bolts to the door, barking the whole way. She sniffs at the crack, then starts to whine.

That’s enough confirmation to let me know that Matthew drove all the way to Oakridge after I hung up on him. He spent nearly an hour on the road just to get here, but he couldn’t spare a single minute to tell me the truth about his criminal record.

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