Page 85 of Well, Actually
How do they know? Embarrassment hooks in my chest, threatening to crack me open rib by rib. Was I truly the only one who didn’t realize I was being fired this morning?
Another text buzzes through. This ones from Rylie.
Eva, honey, please let me know where you are and that you’re okay? I have my team looking into things, but we need to talk. Let me come to you.
His team? What would his team have to do with my firing?
In a horrible burst of memory, I remember what Landry’s assistant said to me before I went in. With trembling fingers and hands so slick with sweat that I drop my phone to the sidewalk twice, I search my name and Rylie’s. A series of recently released posts and stories pop up, each thumbnail showing the same image.
Despite knowing what will happen when I click on the linked video, the way it will destroy me, I tap it.
It’s me. It’s Rylie. It’s the elevators of the beautiful hotel.It’s his body caging mine against the wall, the arch of my back and desperate thrust of my hips as I press into him. The way he kisses me like he’ll consume me. The whimper of need like I hope he will. The way he maneuvers me into the elevator and the greedy way I can’t stop touching him.
It’s our private moment caught on camera.
And it’s trending on the internet.
Chapter 23
My plan is to hole up in my apartment, delete every app, and put my phone in airplane mode for at least a week. I’ll curl up in bed and cry about what a fucking idiot I am and how I’ve ruined my career. I’ll scream into my pillow in rage and embarrassment that something so private and personal is circulating in group chats and DMs and, from the limited scrolling I allowed myself on my pitiful walk home, branding me as a slut that sleeps her way to any sort of recognition.
My plan is to ignore everything and everyone, including Rylie, until I can look at my reflection and not want to break the glass.
But Rylie fucking Cooper has a keen knack of disrupting all of my plans, and he only grants me a few hours of solitary confinement before he’s knocking on my door.
“I know you’re home, Eva,” Rylie’s muffled voice calls fromthe hallway. I gave him a key last week that lets him into the building, and while I appreciate the fact that he didn’t use it to come into my apartment, I’d appreciate him a lot more if he left me alone to my misery.
“Go away,” I croak back, staring at the peephole from a few feet away. I can’t bring myself to look at him. Loneliness curls around me, arms cradling me to its chest as distance stretches between me and him.
“Let me in.”
“Don’t think I will, thanks.”
“Goddammit, Eva. Don’t do this. Don’t push me away.”
An uninvited tear rolls down my cheek. How else will I stay whole unless I push him as far away as possible? How am I supposed to drown in my shame, if not in isolation? Am I expected to let him bear witness to something like that?
But there’s a disconnect between my reasoning and my body, and my wobbly legs drag me to the door. I stop in front of it, reaching out a shaking hand, fingertips glancing over the wood before my arm falls to my side. There’s a leaden silence. It stretches and bends for so long, I wonder if he’s walked away. Part of me hopes he has. Part of me will break if he has. I lean my forehead against the door, a sharp, quick sob breaking out of me before I can bite it back.
“Please, Eva,” comes Rylie’s fractured beg. “Let me in, sweetheart.”
I shouldn’t. I’m a mess. This is a mess. I’ve never felt so succinctly wrecked. I shouldn’t let him see me like this.
I internally scream as I watch my hand move to the deadbolt. I flick it to the left, the snick of the undone lock echoing around me. I stumble back a few paces. I can’t do more thanthat. I can’t open that door. I can’t willingly give him a clear view of my inadequacies.
My heartbeat stutters, pulse pounding in every joint. With a definitive turn of the knob, the door swings open. Rylie stands there for a moment, only a step inside, his face lined with stress, eyes heavy with weariness. He’s drained of his usual spark; I’ve sucked all the energy from him.
“You’re dressed like a bruise,” I whisper, eyes flicking up and down his maroon pants and indigo crewneck that saysPHILADELPHIA WOMEN’S ROWING SCHUYLKILLS IT.
“Thanks.” A smile ghosts across his face. He shuts the door. “It matches how I feel, I suppose.”
The silence is back, heavy and weighted, pulling me under. “I’m sorry,” I say at last, needing to break up the quiet, a final kick toward the surface before I fully sink under. I stare at the taut lines of his throat, the clench of his jaw, unable to meet his eyes.
“You’re sorry?”
I nod, a bone-deep exhaustion carving through me. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
