ChapterThirty-One
Piper
My blaring cell phone jerks me awake. I haven’t been sleeping. I’ve been miserable, wondering if I’m too broken to trust anyone ever again. Wondering if I made a mistake. Knowing I’ve made a mistake.
I want Oliver. I understand why he did what he did, even though I wish he’d told me. He was protecting me. I overreacted. Ben showing up at my door threw me off kilter. My emotions were raw, my mind a tunnel of distress, and I took it out on Oliver.
Mindy and I reported Ben’s vague threats to the police, adding it to the report about the packages and texts. They didn’t seem to care very much, but at least I have his activities on record if he tries anything else. There’s a trail now.
On the bright side, work is going great. My Hope piece is coming together quicker than I would have thought possible. But my heart is smashed to shit.
I fumble for my phone and put it to my ear blindly. “Hello?”
“Piper? Wake up. You need to look online.”
I push my blankets down. “Taylor? What’s going on?”
“Google yourself and then call me back as soon as you can.” She hangs up.
Google myself? Confused, I pull up the web browser on my phone, blinking in confusion at the screen and the news results that pop up after I type in my own name.
Blake Bonham Cheating Scandal.
I gasp, sitting up. What? Did the press find out about Mindy and Blake? How?
I scroll down the results screen.
Blake Bonham Cheats with Reclusive Artist.
Wait.Artist? It can’t be… me?
I click one of the links. There’s a picture. Blake and I stand on the front stoop of the apartment, holding coffee and a bag of breakfast, our faces close together, both of us smiling.
Oh God. It was when he dropped the bag, and I picked it up, and we had that horrid moment. Yeah, we’re both smiling and laughing. Awkwardly. The shot captured the moment we moved away from each other, so it looks like we were canoodling.
I groan and keep skimming through articles. It gets worse. Blake Bonham Love Triangle with Oliver Nichols.
Oh shit.
There are photos of me and Oliver too. From his birthday—sitting in the grass, drinking champagne and eating cupcakes. From our food truck lunch—his hand on my back as I climb into his car.
I wince and wonder what Oliver is going to think when he sees this. What if he thinks I engineered all this to get back at him or something? He doesn’t trust people. He’s notoriously private. Regina Charles she blabbed to the press, and he broke up with her to avoid exactly this.
Part of me thought Oliver and I would work out, but now… this might ruin any hope.
I scroll down and skim the comments on one of the articles:
Who is this Piper Fox, and why would men like Blake Bonham pant after her? She isn’t even that hot.
I guess she’s an artist, but I checked out her stuff, and it sucks balls.
Piper Fox? Not really a fox. She looks like a ferret with a bad haircut.
So she’s a homewrecker and a slut. Got it.
My stomach churning with humiliation and disbelief, I back out of the article. I’ve had my fair share of criticism in the art world, but getting caught up in it is pointless and depressing. I continue glancing over headlines, and my stomach drops, my heart pounding frantically, when I reach the next link.
“There’s a video?”