The Dirty Truth

My jaw slackens. “No.”

“No?” His brows knit.

“No,” I say again, louder. “I’m not letting you turn this around on me, as if I did you wrong. I did exactly what you told me to do. And it just so happened that in the process, I realized I didn’t want to work for Made Man anymore—a personal decision based on personal circumstances.”

“Funny, because your decision felt very targeted to me,” he says. “As if you were writing for one person in particular and not our millions of loyal readers.”

“The article was written with all readers in mind.” I leave it at that, because a beloved journalism professor once said explaining oneself is futile because every reader will infer their own interpretation anyway. “If what I wrote upset you so much that you had to show up at my apartment to tell me in person how wrong I am about you, then you’ve done nothing but prove my point. You’re not the man people think you are.”

His brows slant, yet the rest of his expression is unreadable as he examines me.

“My point in the article—in case you missed it,” I continue, “is that no one really knows who you are as a person—they only know you in pictures. And we all know pictures only tell half the story . . . the rest of the story is filled in with assumptions. So when your customers read your magazine because they think they’ll be the next you, they’re chasing after something that doesn’t even exist. Even you aren’t you.”

His silence is deafening and perhaps a sign that Vesuvius is about to erupt, but I can’t stop. The words find my tongue faster than I can process them. Years of pent-up frustrations are bubbling to the surface, and there’s no going back.

“You’re like the Fyre Festival,” I say. “Lots of hype but nothing there once you arrive.”

His mouth turns slack before his jaw tenses. And maybe that was a little harsh, but it’s true.

“You’re false advertising of the human variety,” I say. “What you see is not what you get.”

“Maybe your opinion would hold some weight if you actually knew a damn thing you were talking about.” He finally speaks, and his handsome face morphs into a handsome glare. “Tell me, Elle, are you satisfied? Flushing a promising career down the toilet, all for a couple of cheap digs?”

“My career was over the day I returned to the office last week,” I say. “My heart isn’t in this anymore. You just happened to provide the wake-up call I needed to realize that. And honestly, West? Part of me was hoping I’d inspire a bit of change in you.”

He scoffs, hands resting on his narrow hips.

“Between the pages of your magazine, you seem like this upbeat, fun-loving, larger-than-life everyman, but in reality, West . . . you’re an awful person,” I say, because what’s he going to do now? Fire me? “You’re cruel and cutting. Unapproachable. Distant. And at times, terrifying.”

“Thank you for that insightful and unsolicited opinion.”

“Fact,” I correct him. “Not an opinion. Fact. A fact no one else will tell you to your face because they’re so scared of what you’ll do or say. You know, when I first started, Tom specifically pulled me aside and told me to tell the readers what they wanted to hear, that they couldn’t handle the truth. But it turns out neither can you . . . because here you are, trying desperately to prove that I was wrong because you know I’m right.”

A group of twentysomething girls in high-waisted mom jeans and messy topknots passes by, nudging one another and pointing as one slyly pretends to take a selfie to get a shot of West in the background.

But he’s so incensed with me, so homed in on me with that unnerving teal gaze, that he doesn’t so much as notice what’s happening around us.

“I just think,” I say, “if you’re going to be influencing people, you should be yourself so other people can see that it’s okay to be themselves too. West, you have a platform of millions of men who all think the only way to have it all is to look like you and act like you and be like you, and that simply isn’t true.”

Cocking his head, he says, “What I do goes deeper than you know. And truly, Elle, believe me when I say . . . you know nothing.”

“Deeper? Really? Because all I see is surface-level bullshit. One minute you’re quoting the Stoics, and the next minute you’re selling the next hot sneaker and posing in front of the Taj Mahal. Please, tell me what’s deep about that.”

“Everything I do serves a greater purpose.”

“Ah yes. Right. To pad your pockets.” I thump the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Of course.”