Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Finn.
What he must be experiencing right now.
“I did this to him,” I mutter, barely coherent. “My … My selfishness. I ruined everything.”
“Stop,” says Anya, suddenly at my side—and with a grimace she turns on the sink to let everything wash down. “This is the media monster. Not the River monster.”
“His face, Anya. His fucking face. And us …”
“I know.”
“He’s gotta be so wrecked. He has to be so … so …” I push away from the sink with a sickening thought. “His … His sisters. His dad. His house is probably …” I hurry to the other room and snatch my phone off the coffee table. It is an absurd fact that the only numbers I have in my phone for the Hopewells are the guest line and Brooke. Not Finn. “Pick up, pick up, pick up …” I groan, foot tapping on the floor like I’m jackhammering concrete.
Anya has meanwhile gone back to her own phone call, lifting her tablet and scrolling through it frantically. “Yeah, Jane, I need you to connect me to Roland. Situation just got even more fucked up the fuckin’ fucker.”
Brooke answers. “River??”
“Brooke! I’m so sorry. I just saw the article.”
“Me, too. I’ve been trying to call you, but everything here’s really …” A woman is shouting in the background. Heather, most likely, though I can’t make out any words. “… interesting,” she decides on. “Cats are out of the bags. All the cats. All the bags.”
“News vans and crowds outside your windows, too?” I ask with a peek through the glass, then inching away when I see phones lift up, likely noticing me.
“And just when everything online was turning around,” she complains. “Now we’re back in the other direction. All the comments saying how insincere you seem, ‘chasing ass on the Texas coast’ instead of facing the music, I think was the wording. Entitled coward this, horny runaway that. Oh! Sorry. It’s likely a tad insensitive of me to be reporting all of that to you like this. I have a mouth. It runs.”
“Don’t worry, I have heard a hundred times worse,” I assure her, “but it isn’t me I’m concerned about. It’s Finn. Is he okay? Can I speak to him?”
Her tone changes. “Wait, what? He’s not with you?”
If my stomach couldn’t drop further … “Uh, no …?”
“Shit! He went to the gym earlier. On foot! He’s not picking up his phone, either. I hope he’s hunkering down there. He knows the owner. There are lots of weird people outside our house right now. We can’t step out if we tried.”
“Don’t try to. Stay inside and safe—all of you.”
“For a second, I thought the worst news was you being spotted here in Dreamwood. Then I saw my brother’s face and the articles about your illicit ‘island lover’ and, phew, I about shat my—”
Her sister’s voice cuts in like a knife. “That him? That River Wolfe? The asshole who’s been fucking my brother behind every nook and cranny on this island? Hey! You!”
Brooke whispers, “Stay safe yourself. I’ll keep trying to get ahold of Finn.”
Then she hangs up in the middle of Heather shouting out another pleasant term of endearment.
My back slams against the front door. I nearly drop my phone, breathing heavily, slumping in despair. Anya’s loud words from the kitchen as she speaks with all her industry contacts encircle me like a fog of gnats. I crumble down to the floor in pieces, feeling absolutely fucking hopeless.
“Hey, don’t do that,” snaps Anya to me, cupping the phone. I’m literally hyperventilating. “None of that. Get up and call your people.”
“People?” I ask, like it’s a word I never heard before.
“The whole world knows where you are now. Only a matter of time before your own people show up. Might as well call them for the first time since fleeing that big press meeting that never happened. Daddy Agent is likely mad.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t think this would happen.”
“No paradise lasts forever, bub. Up on your feet.”
“I’ve been such a selfish moron. I’ve ruined his life. Is it just what I am? A ruiner? Do I destroy everything I—?”
Anya is in front of me so fast, it’s like she teleported. “You know what I find to be the most annoying trait about you? As an actor, you have the power to inspire worlds into existence. And yet you abandon that power the second you leave the set. Why hasn’t it occurred to you to use that gift in your day-to-day life?”
“Because I’m a fraud,” I mutter, deranged. “I only got my first gig because I lied and said I could sing opera in Italian. I faked it. Looked up videos online and sang Figaro in the shower every night, mimicked it all, faked it all.”
She pats me on the cheek firm enough to shut me up, halfway to a slap. “Wanna hear the big midseason twist of Cissy Sees? They lied about their profession to impress the parents of their fiancée, said they were a surgeon, but in fact they’re a struggling painter holed up in an old studio apartment. Fake it ‘til you make it, huh? And boy, if you could see the ‘picture’ they paint by the end of episode 8. The murderer dad doesn’t see it coming. No one does. Like painting with a scalpel and zero fucks. I shall say no more, I’ve spoiled enough. But Riv …” She draws close. “You can still turn this around. For everyone. Just use your gift.”