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How the Mighty Have Fallen
It’s beenfour days since I lost my head, my job, and let Meaghan Slaughter down. Four days since Jake came by to weasel his way back in, for whatever reason, and then paid my rent when I didn’t let him. His version of an apology, I guess, since he never actually said ‘sorry’.
Just throw money at it. That’ll fix it.
I’m as confused as I am angry. Have debated asking the management office to refund him. Screw his olive branch. But every time I work up the nerve to go down there and do it, I can’t. And I honestly don’t know why.
The doorbell rings to alert me that the Doordash guy has arrived, so I collect my Chinese from the floor in my sweats and unkempt hair, then promptly shut the door and lock it. Shuffle back to the couch where a glass of whiskey awaits.
Game of Thrones blasts in the background. I’ve already seen it through to the finale, but I’m watching it again.
It’s nice to see other people’s lives go to shit that aren’t my own.
The Red Wedding episode this morning was particularly helpful for that. So much carnage…
And what an appropriate day. Today was the day my article was supposed to run.
As I shove a bite of shrimp fried rice in my mouth, my phone rings. I assume it’s Mom calling to check on me again, but this time it’s Daphne. I’m not up to talking, so I send her to voicemail. I’m sure she’s concerned because I disabled all my social media accounts. When the news stations eventually figured out who the Mystery Woman was in the TMZ photos, my social media imploded, as well.
She calls again.
I sigh and answer. “Hey,” I say.
My phone chimes, and my mom’s text pops up: Turn on the news.
“Are you watching the news?” Daphne says.
“Nope. Game of Thrones.”
“Turn it on.”
“Why?”
“Just turn it.”
I grab the remote to do as both of them ask. “Which one?”
“Any of them.”
I go still. “What’s going on?” I say as I turn it to a local channel.
And then the fork falls from my hand and clatters on the floor.
“It’s Jake,” she confirms.
I just stare at the screen with wide eyes. Jake’s at a podium speaking.
A podium? Camera flashes illuminates his blond hair. He squints against them. Men in suits stand on either side of him. There’s no live icon flashing anywhere, so this must have already happened. A banner at the bottom of the screen reads, Jake Mitchell comes forward about a fatal car crash in his teens. Claims his affluent family covered it up.
“Scar?” Daphne says. “You okay?”
“I’m here,” I say, distracted.
I watch in awe as he says everything he can that his lawyers are allowing him to say: That his mom and dad and Ruby ruined a girl’s life to save their reputation and secure his future. He’s recently learned the truth from a source he won’t name, has some evidence to back it up, and is ready to help this person get justice.
“Do you know what this means?”
I take a huge swig of whiskey. Wince against the burn. “I’m still deciphering.”
