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“Exactly. Anyway, I find he’s got Instagram. This is so foreign to me. Greg. Can you imagine? Greg has an Instagram account.”
“We set it up for him,” Myron said. “It helps with endorsement and branding.”
“No, not that one. I know about the public one. He never goes on that. Esperanza handles that for you, doesn’t she?”
Myron said nothing.
“This is another account. Greg had it under a pseudonym. Here. Take a look.”
Emily didn’t hand him the phone, so Myron went behind her and looked over her shoulder. Strange how the senses remember better than we do, especially smell. He wondered whether she still used the same shampoo, because for a moment he was back in her freshman dorm, her toweling off after a shower, wearing the raggedy old robe he’d brought from home. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t as though he wanted to act on it. But it was there and inescapable.
The Instagram profile picture had a University of North Carolina tar heel logo. Greg’s alma mater. The account’s name was UNCHoopsterFan7. UNCHoopsterFan7 followed 390 people—and was followed by twelve.
“It’s probably a sock puppet account,” Myron said.
“What’s that mean?”
“A sort of pseudonym. People pretending they’re someone else. Sometimes they do it for marketing. Like they’ll be the owner of a restaurant and pretend they’re a customer and rave about it. Or political numbnuts who will post ‘Oh I’m super independent’ and then they’ll defend whatever malfeasance their particular candidate is into.”
“That’s not what this account is. Greg never posted or commented.”
“Okay. So maybe it’s just a way to look at other accounts and not have anyone know.”
“He was direct messaging with someone, Myron.”
Emily tapped with her thumb and brought up an account for a very toned, very muscled, very oiled-up male “Public Figure” and “Fitness Model” named Bo Storm.
Myron’s eyes narrowed.
Bo Storm had six thousand followers and followed nine hundred people. Emily glanced at Myron over her shoulder. She wanted to see his reaction. Bo was shirtless in nearly every post in what they used to call beefcake poses. He had a rippling six-pack and the kind of smooth skin that can only come from a serious waxing regimen. His face stubble had been carefully cultivated. His hair was long and frosted. In the top pinned photo, Bo Storm was dancing on what looked to be a nightclub stage in only a thong.
His profile quote read: “Living the rainbow dream in Vegas. Guys, sign up for my OnlyFans account to see more.”
Myron had no idea what to make of this.
“How old do you think he is?” Emily asked.
“Twenty-five-ish?”
“Yeah. A lot younger than Greg.”
Myron nodded, trying to sort through where Emily was going with this. “So this Bo and Greg were messaging?”
“Yes.”
“Did you read the messages?”
“Greg came back into the room, but I saw enough. Heart emojis. Future plans. Intimate stuff.”
Myron said nothing.
Emily asked, “Are you surprised?”
“Who cares if I am?”
“I guess it shouldn’t matter, should it? I mean, I get it. Or I try to get it. It’s a new world, and our generation is still trying to figure it all out. And maybe Greg’s constant womanizing was some kind of compensation or outlet or maybe he’s bi or pan or omni or I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Myron said.
