The Dirty Truth

“What else did you do as a kid?” she asks, sliding a copy of The Scarlett Letter from the shelf. “Besides read anything and everything?”

“Kept my brother out of trouble.” I huff as I deliver her drink. “I lost track of how many times I had to bail him out of fights or cover for him. My father—when he was around—tended to use Will as his own personal whipping post.”

She takes the drink, eyes holding mine. “That’s . . . awful.”

“That’s how it was.” I return to my bar cart and pour myself a drink. “Will was a talker. He liked to run his mouth. He was always getting himself into some sort of situation.”

“Good thing he had you, then.”

I sip my drink. “I don’t know about that.”

“Scarlett showed me where you grew up—the house, I mean. She gave me a walking tour of Whitebridge Saturday night.”

“I’m surprised that place is still standing.” The house was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it two-bedroom postwar ranch that perpetually stank of cigarette smoke, spilled beer, cat piss, and general filth.

Home sweet home.

“Whoever lives there now seems to be taking great care of it,” Elle says. “They planted a bunch of marigolds out front. The lawn is lush and green. And Scarlett said it used to be a dingy tan color, but it looked like it’d recently been painted a bright white.”

“Well, isn’t that heartwarming.” I take another drink before returning to her side to slide a copy of Moby-Dick off the shelf. “This one is signed by Herman Melville himself.”

“It’s crazy how far you’ve come.” She doesn’t buy into my attempt to change the subject. “You’re truly one of those rags-to-riches, American dream stories.”

“Me and a million others.” I don’t mean to undermine my life story. It’s a hell of a story, and I’m damn proud of how far I’ve come. It’s just not what I want to be talking about at this exact moment in time.

“I just . . .” She turns to me, studying me as if she’s peering into the recesses of my cold, black soul. “You went from that . . . to becoming some internet overnight social media sensation . . . to building a print-media empire. But what drove you from point A to point B?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I offer a playful wink.

“Yes,” she says, exasperated. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Does it matter?”

“I told you, after seeing your hometown, I have questions,” she says, angling herself to face me head on. “There are a lot of blanks that need filling in.”

I stifle a chuckle at the serious expression blanketing her pretty face. “I can assure you it’s not as exciting as you’re probably making it out to be in your mind.”

“Then why keep everything buried? It’s like before you struck it big, you didn’t exist.”

“Isn’t that how it is for everyone who ‘strikes it big’? You’re a no one until you’re a someone.”

“Of course,” she says. “But aside from your very curated, very trimmed wiki page, the only readily available information about you is that you graduated from the University of Nebraska before growing your influencer following and founding your magazine. It doesn’t mention your family or your brother or even your hometown.”

“I told you before: privacy is priceless.” I take a drink, focusing on the vibrant blue gaze piercing back at me. “Besides, none of my followers give a damn where I came from or where I’ve been. All they care about is how they can get to where I’m going.”

“Fair enough.” She lifts a shoulder. “But I’m not one of your followers.”

“Clearly.”

“And I do give a damn where you came from and where you’ve been,” she adds. “Because I’m sort of fascinated by you . . .”

“Only sort of?”

She wrestles a smirk. “All right. Utterly. Utterly fascinated. Is that better?”

“No. Because it’s irrelevant either way. And a complete waste of your time.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not for you to decide.” Elle narrows the distance between us, though I’m not sure if she realizes it. “You’re a walking contradiction. Hard yet soft. Closed yet open. Shallow yet deep. The world’s most likable jerk.”

“Now that’s a compliment.” I toss back the rest of my scotch, but I’m so enthralled by the gutsy woman before me that I don’t taste a single drop.

“I’m barely scratching your surface.” Her head tilts as she examines me.

“You’ve scratched deeper than most ever have,” I say. “And I can’t be that complicated if you already figured me out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your article,” I say. “Your swan song. You captured me pretty well in those four hundred words.”

She squints, as though she doesn’t quite follow.

“I believe you used the words ambitious . . . attractive . . . intelligent . . . wealthy,” I say. “Really hit the nail on the head.”

Laughing, she moves to swat at my chest, only to let her hand linger over my thundering heart. I can’t remember the last time I felt this unencumbered in someone else’s presence. Every time I’m around Elle, it’s like the rest of the world melts away. My outside problems cease to exist. I’m simply present. With her.