Page 5 of Christmas Crisis
I halted at the mention of Miranda’s Instagram handle.
“I dunno,” Lisa replied. “But that Hawaii pic was from March, so whoever she is, she’s been in Stone’s pants a long time.”
Placing my toolbox on an empty pallet, I tried to act casual as I walked closer to the bench where they sat looking at their phones. “Hey. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, hi, Leo,” Amala said. “Just some hot celebrity goss.” She laughed lightly. “Not your thing, I know.”
“You never can tell,” I said with a shrug. Clearing my throat, I added, “You’re talking about Stone Caseman, right? … I, um, I’m a fan.”
Amala eyed me skeptically. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm.” I hung my thumbs on my belt loops.
She didn’t look convinced but answered gamely. “Well, you might be less of a fan when you find out he apparently cheated on Naomi Butler—you know they’re dating, right?—with some random hoochie mid-wannabe-influencer.”
“Oh, wow.” The shocked face I conjured wasn’t entirely contrived. Miranda had been so careful. “Do they know who the, uh, random hoochie is?”
“Nuh-uh,” Lisa replied. “Just her Insta handle. And the only thing you can tell from the profile is that she’s an action-adventure type. She doesn’t give away anything personal in the captions.”
“Her bio says she’s based in Los Angeles,” Amala put in.
I was familiar with Miranda’s Instagram feed. I looked at it more often than I probably should. In addition to amazing sunsets and lush landscapes, there were plenty of selfies. Itdidn’t sound like her identity was public yet, but obviously, it would be soon.
“Maybe it’s a misunderstanding,” I offered.
“Or maybe Stone is a rat bastard cheating bitch,” Amala said forcefully. “And this adventurous Miranda person is a ho.”
Ouch.
I wanted to ask more questions, but my coworkers were already looking at me like I’d been body-snatched.
After waving a quick goodbye to the crew, I hurried to my truck and pulled out my phone. I found several Reddit forums synthesizing what happened. Luckily, next to politics, crime, and news about bigger celebrities, the story of Stone and Miranda seemed to be a relatively niche topic. That it wasn’t dominating my social feeds was a good sign.
But even without dominating, it was still there.
I let out a groan. I’d known something like this would happen.
As soon as Miranda started dating that dipshit, a ticking clock began. Eventually, being with someone who got famous by drinking hot sauce and cannonballing off rooftops into backyard pools was going to blow up in her face.
Especially when that someone insisted on keeping their relationship hidden.
I’d only known Miranda for two years, but our bond was already truer and deeper than any other relationship in my life. From the beginning, she’d understood me like no one else. Her sister Maureen joked that our closeness stemmed from the fact that Miranda and I were essentially the same person, except I was the massive thirty-six-year-old male version, and she was the spritely twenty-seven-year-old female version. Miranda’s approach to the world mirrored my own—drink deeply from life, be happy, and express gratitude for whatever good you encounter. Don’t sweat the small stuff.
Stone coming into Miranda’s life nine months after she and I met had been a hiccup, further complicated when he started fake dating Naomi Butler, but mostly, we’d weathered it.
But ever since Miranda graduated from her MBA program and started working her first career job at a big marketing firm, something had been off. With both of us.
Things really came unglued a month ago, on Halloween.
The memory of our call that night still sat in my stomach like lead. We were as honest as we’d ever been, and we’d paid a hefty price for it. I’d clumsily said too many things she hadn’t been ready to hear.
The next day, I called her, hoping twelve hours to cool off had put us back on level ground.
Her phone rang three times before it picked up.
“Hey, man. I saw it was you, so I answered. Mir’s in the shower.”
“Stone?”
