Amanda holds her phone out to me as Amy stares at her and whispers, “Tentacle p**n ? Do I even want to ask?”
@jesscoffN says: Lesbians who date billionaires to make big business deals. Sounds like a reality TV show or a trashy romance novel
“That’s it?” I laugh. “No one cares.”
“Look at the stream that follows,” Amy says in a voice you’d use to tell someone they’ve walked around in front of the CEO of their corporation with their skirt shoved in the waistband of their pantyhose.
@bigdealmkr: Let me guess. SJ? Unbelievable
“SJ? Shannon Jacoby? What? People talking about me online using my initials? C’mon, guys, this is…” My voice disappears as I read the rest. Bigdealmkr is Steve. I remember the day he picked his username.
@jesscoffN: @bigdealmkr I guess some people are so desperate they’ll stoop to anything, even cheating on their wife to make a business deal
“What? What?” I scream with laughter. “This is f**king hilarious!”
“Keep reading,” Amanda urges, nudging my elbow so I’ll drink more coffee. I suck down half the now-cooler cup and my eyes scan the page as I scroll through.
About twenty people asking Jessica to “dish” or “spill.” Obviously scheduled tweets from Jessica for places to eat or shop.
“This is nothing!” I insist. And while a creepy, cold electric feeling is growing in my gut, I stand by that. I mean it. This is just stupid online social media crap that doesn’t affect me in real life. Right?
“Look at the one that Tweets Declan.”
“Declan?” That cold electric feeling sparks like someone’s flipped a breaker.
@jesscoffN @anterdec2 How’s business?
“That’s no big deal.” But my voice is shaking. I’m quivering, the vibrations deep inside, like a flock of birds has been scared by a distant gunshot and needs to flee, flying straight up without a plan or a pattern. Just panicking and needing to move.
Thousands of birds inside me begin their sudden migration, but there’s no way out. They bang into my bones, my skin, my muscles.
“He never responds,” Amy says quickly, eyes wide and so blue I want to swim in them.
“Why would he? He knows it’s bullshit.” But that’s the problem, I fear: does he? When you don’t know what people are saying about you to others behind your back, all you’re left with is your own crazy imagination. And I have a penchant for self-torture that is so strong I should headline at a masochists’ convention.
“Check your messages. Maybe he texted or called.”
My fingers feel like icicles as I fumble with my phone. No voice mail. A quick scan of my email shows a few communications with mystery shoppers who encountered problems, a couple who lost receipts, and a ton of junk mail.
157 text messages.
I open the app with a finger that feels like I’m pushing the nuclear war button.
I’m getting tweets from people in high school who didn’t bother to acknowledge I existed back then. People who openly mocked me. And is that my former orthodontist? Christ. Who’s next? My gynecolo—
Yep. @openwide123—that’s the gynecologist, not the ortho.
Most of the messages, though, are gibberish from people I don’t know, all from Twitter. I opened an account a few years ago but barely use it. Did someone loop me into the @jesscoffN conversation?
Amy explains. “Steve did it. He referenced you. You can see it in his feed.”
“We can explain this to Declan,” Amanda whispers as I groan.
I ignore her, searching my messages. Nothing from Declan. Nothing. Not a word. Silence is worse than outrage.
Much worse.
“We have a meeting today with him,” Amanda adds.
“Who?” My voice sounds like it’s coming from the end of a very long tunnel.
“Declan. We’re meeting with Anterdec today.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Oh, God.” I pull the covers over my head like it will accomplish something. Inside my white, billowy pretend cloud of escape, I wish I could go back to being five years old, when the worst thing that could happen to me was to have to wear the wrong colored ribbon.
Amy comes back in. “Shannon? Come out from under there,” she insists. I pop my head out like a turtle checking it out after an atom bomb’s been dropped.
In my panic I hadn’t noticed she took my empty coffee cup and now she’s returning with a full one. When did she become so servile? Ever since I met Declan she’s been waiting on me. Not that I mind—coffee in bed is best served by a na**d man who smells like sex, but a close second is, well…anyone delivering hot coffee in bed.
I reach for the cup, grateful. “Thanks.”
“No text from Declan?” she asks, pointing to my phone.
“Nope.”
“You’re sure? With a bazillion messages you might have missed one.”
“Go ahead.” I point my chin at my own smartphone. “See for yourself. Or,” I add, taking a long sip of coffee, “don’t see. There’s nothing to see. He’s dumped me, hasn’t he?”
A big, tight wave of pain and lust billows through me. It’s the feeling of tidal waves pulling back from shore, exposing all the starfish and hermit crabs to the sun and air, helpless and at the mercy of a force of nature so much stronger.
Jessica Twitterhead Coffin.
“That Tweet wasn’t so bad.”
“It’s pretty incriminating,” I mumble. I can’t believe my life has imploded because of comments made in 140 characters or less. If brevity is the soul of wit, then Twitter is the steaming pile of manure at the end of the horse. Yeah, I know that comparison made no sense, but I’m sitting here in bed with 157 text messages, most of them from people with Twitter handles like @lebronsux4ever and @mygunmyheart and I’m supposed to have a cogent reaction?
And not one damn message from Declan or @anterdec2 or…
“Wait.” I snap my neck up at Amanda, who, I realize, is now a redhead. Her hair is the exact same color as Amy’s. I narrow my eyes. “You said we have a meeting with Declan today?”
“And James and…Andrew.” I can see long strands of drool coming out of her bright-red-painted mouth when she says that last word. Great. Now my best friend wants to hump my boyfriend’s brother. This could be a sitcom.
Except a good sitcom needs a crazy mother to invade at just the right moment. I pause, because if ever there were a time for Mom to appear, it would be now. I close my eyes, cross my legs, and just…wait.