The Dirty Truth

I pick at a loose thread in my comforter. “I’ve wanted to work in journalism for as long as I can remember. I wanted to write think pieces and inspire change and scoop up the best, most-sought-after interviews based solely on my reputation. What I’m writing now is an insult to all of those things.”

“Fortunately, we live in a world where it’s possible to have your cake and eat it too. You can still do those things, babe.”

“Not if I’m putting in sixty-hour weeks at Made Man.” I puff a strand of hair from my eyes. “I wish you could have seen the way West Maxwell talked to his staff today. Unbelievable.”

“First of all, stop saying his full name, because you’re giving that man too much power in your life, and Lord knows he already has more than his fair share.” Indie swipes the unopened Dove from my hand. “Plus it’s weird. People don’t call Oprah Oprah Winfrey; they just call her Oprah. And second of all, I doubt he’s different than any other power-tripping douche in a three-piece suit—especially in this city. If it’s not him, it’ll be some other asshole.”

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe she’s wrong.

“He made me feel this small today.” I pinch my thumb and index finger together. “You should’ve seen me, all trembling and nauseous and obedient, letting him grind my confidence into nothing. He’s the worst, Indie, and he brings out the worst in me.”

“Only because you let him.” She spins the impostor chocolate between her fingers before sliding off the wrapper. “Don’t let him have that power over you anymore. Don’t give him that.”

“You’re right.”

“Always and forever.” Indie winks.

“Which is why I should quit.” The words send an anxious tingle to my lips, materializing from my mind to my mouth before I have a chance to stop them.

Indie sits up, hand splayed in the air. “Let’s not get all crazy, now.”

“For the past week, every minute I spend in that office . . .” My voice trails. “It’s like the life is being sucked from me all over again. Only slower this time.”

The day I died, I was leaving my then boyfriend’s Midtown apartment on a Monday morning, attempting to catch a spin class before work. He’d already left for an early-morning meeting, and I’d stayed to catch an extra ten minutes of sleep since we’d been up late the night before. No sooner did I grab my keys off the counter to lock up than the electric thunder shock of pain blasted through my skull like an anvil. I fell to the tile floor, legs useless and vision blurred. I was in too much pain to move, to think straight.

The last thing I remember before blacking out is the door swinging open and a raven-haired woman with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen standing frozen in shock, mouth agape.

Turns out that Matt, my boyfriend of eighteen months, was actually a married father of three from Jersey living a double life.

His wife, acting on a handful of hunches she’d accumulated over the past year, had recently hired a private investigator to have him followed—which had led to the discovery of his secret Midtown apartment, one he’d been paying for with money from her trust fund.

The entire thing makes me physically ill every time I think about it, and I’ve not spoken to Matt since he attempted to show up in my hospital room the following day. But the most bittersweet part of it all is the fact that had that poor woman not shown up when she did . . . I wouldn’t be here right now.

“I’m so tired, Indie,” I sigh.

“Then go to bed . . .”

“No, I mean I’m tired of living this weird, filtered version of life where every decision, every move I make, is rooted in fear or every word out of my mouth is some kind of filtered version of the truth.” I angle toward her. “We’re all guilty of it. Every last one of us. When was the last time you saw a picture online that wasn’t filtered and retouched to perfection? When was the last time you gave someone an honest answer when they asked how you were doing? And up until two months ago, I’d never missed a spin class. Not because I love spin. But because I was afraid of what would happen if I stopped going. I’d get soft, I’d have to spend a fortune on a new wardrobe, and what would people say? And that whole thing with Matt.” Saying his name out loud makes my teeth grit. “I never thought I’d be one of those people who were afraid to be alone, but even after things got stale with him, I was afraid of being that person who sat alone on a Friday night, missing out on all the fun. I was so scared, in fact, that every time a little sliver of doubt about him would creep into my head or the tiniest of red flags would surface, I’d silence them all with excuses.”