“I am so, so, so sorry,” CiCi says for the seven hundredth time. “This is all my fault.”
“It kind of is, but I love you anyway,” I tell her with a sigh as I throw another box of old newspapers into Brutus.
“I can’t believe he came to Tom’s apartment!” she says quietly. “And he yelled at you! This is like being trapped in some surreal reality show.”
I stop for a moment and look at her. “Shouldn’t you be at work? Like, I know you have a banging trust fund and all, but I still think it would suck to get fired because you’re rescuing your damsel-in-distress pal all the time.”
“Cupcake, you got verbally beat down by a celebrity last night, and it’s my fault,” she says. “This is what sick days are for.” She grabs a newspaper-stuffed box of her own and flings it into the truck. “The least I can do is help you out today. And buy you lunch. And dinner. And shoes. Do you want some shoes?”
“You don’t have to buy me shoes,” I say, laughing.
“I still think you should have let Tom kick his ass. He’s tougher than he looks.”
“No way. Caspian Tiddleswich is a big dude. You weren’t wrong about him getting all beefy for that space flick. And he’s got that whole dark-and-sinister thing going.”
“Well, I’m not going to see his stupid movie now. He’s a prick, and I hate him.”
“Amen. I don’t think I can watch him in anything ever again. Which kind of sucks, because I really liked Poirot. I was about to finish season three.”
My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. I’m determined to get this unit finished before lunch. The nervous anxiety of my brush with Tiddleswich has given me a newfound burst of determination to finish this damn job so I can focus on finding a new editing gig full-time.
CiCi’s guilt seems to have given her a similar surge of energy, and she’s being outrageously helpful today. If we keep this up, I’ll be down to nine units by the end of the day. Hopefully.
My phone buzzes again. Then again. And again.
I throw a stack of collapsed cardboard boxes into the truck and pull out my phone. Before I can even get past the lock screen, it buzzes again—I have a handful of texts from people I know casually. Ooh, maybe they have job leads!
CiCi pulls out her phone after a buzz of her own.
I open the first text and scream. An actual, full-lung scream.
There, in a text message, is a screenshot of a crappy gossip website, and in that screenshot stands Caspian Tiddleswich and me. In my jammies. In Tom’s living room.
“OHHHHHH MY FUCKING GOD,” CiCi shrieks.
I close the message and start opening the other ones—more screenshots. Former coworkers and acquaintances coming out of the woodwork, asking me if I know Caspian. Are we dating? Are we friends? Can I get him to narrate an audiobook?
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy fucking shit...” CiCi whines.
I drop to the cement and stare at the screenshots. One has a bigger picture with the caption, “TIDDLES-WHAT!? CASPIAN BREAKS GIRLFRIEND’S HEART WITH GAY SHOCKER!”
“OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD.”
“What is happening!?” I cry. “This is a nightmare—please tell me this is a nightmare! How did they even get a picture of him in the apartment!?”
“They’re saying you’re his girlfriend!” CiCi points out.
My phone starts ringing. An agent I’d done several deals with at my old job. Oh Jesus. I send it to voice mail. It immediately starts ringing again. This time it’s a former colleague who was laid off at the same time I was.
CiCi’s phone is also sounding off like a siren.
“CiCi, what the hell do I do!?”
Another text comes in.
This is Caspian. I need to speak with you. Immediately.
I scream like the phone has burned me and throw it onto a bag of old clothes. I collapse forward and hide my face. “This is it. I’m going to prison. He’s going to have me arrested. Oh my god.”
CiCi appears beside me. “What? Did he call you?” I weakly point to my phone, and she picks it up, reading the text. “Oh, shit. Um. Don’t go! Just don’t answer him!”
I grab the phone back and stare at the fatal text. “I can’t do that! He was ready to call the cops on me last night, and this is a million times worse! Where the hell did that picture even come from!? OH CHRIST, MY MOTHER IS CALLING! CiCi, help!”
She yanks my phone out of my hand and holds the power button down until it shuts off. Like holding a tiny pillow over its little phone face until it stops twitching and goes quiet. Then she puts her own phone on silent and stuffs both of them into her pockets. “Close this unit up. Let’s go drop off Brutus early, and get the hell out of here.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. We scramble to load everything into the truck, and I lock the unit up behind us. CiCi takes the wheel and all but squeals the tires as we flee E-Z Storage.
After leaving Brutus at the dump, we hightail it back to CiCi’s neighborhood. I’m not even sort of hungry, but she insists I eat something. “Carbs help with anxiety,” she tells me.
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say in a zombie voice.
“It is for me!” She shoves a fistful of french fries into her mouth. We’ve retreated into a little burger joint not far from her apartment and are currently hiding in a booth.
“I’m going to have to message him back,” I say. “Yesterday morning, my biggest concern in life was when I’d find a job and be able to sleep on my own goddamn mattress again. Now it’s that I might go to jail for extortion of a famous guy.”
“You aren’t going to jail,” she says through her mouthful of potato. “I won’t let that happen. And anyway, his lawyers can’t put you in jail. The prosecutor has to do that.”
I slam my head down on the table and moan. “I can’t afford a lawyer. Oh my god, CiCi, what did we do?”
“I’ll tell the cops it was me!” she says suddenly. “I started all of this anyway. I won’t let you go to jail for it!”
“I’m not letting you get arrested!”
“Well, I’m not letting you get arrested!”
We stare desperately at each other for a moment and then silently start eating fries again. She’s right. They are oddly helpful.
“I’ll message him back.” I swallow hard. “I’ll message him back, and we can talk, and I’ll beg him to understand. This all started as a huge misunderstanding anyway, but I definitely didn’t do anything wrong here. I didn’t take that picture. And he’s the one who just showed up at Tom’s apartment. And it’s not like I’m thrilled that a photo of me ugly-crying is now plastered on the front page of Perez Hilton, you know?”
“Maybe there were paparazzi outside?” CiCi suggests. “I mean, they are super sneaky and follow celebrities around. You said the door was open when Tom came in, right? Maybe one of them got the picture then?”
“Maybe?” I think for a moment. “That really could be! They have those scary cameras that can take pictures from, like, miles away, right? So if that’s it, this is on him! They wouldn’t have been there if he hadn’t stormed in like a big jerk!”
“Basically, yes. This is all his fault.”
“I...I don’t think we can go that far.”
CiCi sighs and shoves more fries in her face.