Page 74 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

My mouth falls open.

“You mean,” I start slowly. “You didn’t know?”

Willow blinks. “Know what?”

“That he’s famous,” I say, because I can’t stop myself. “Like really famous. They call him the Lumberjack Artist.”

Willow’s eyes widen again—this time in a horror-movie way.

“They call him what?”

I nod. “It’s everywhere. The willows. The sunsets. People are obsessed.”

Willow’s face drains just a little. “Oh my God,” she murmurs. “Did I do this?”

I shake my head quickly. “No. I mean, he was kinda famous before. But those accounts definitely helped with younger people.”

“So, you found him because of me?”

Willow exhales slowly, staring at the table like she’s seeing all her cute little posts as potential crimes.

I swallow, because the truth is sitting in my throat like a stone.

“Well, I might have, um, used my connections,” I admit, voice tight.

Willow’s head snaps up. “Connections? Girl, are you in the mob?”

I wince. “No! But my parents are kind of a big deal.”

Willow’s expression flickers into curiosity. “Okay?”

“And they use this security company,” I say, because there’s no way to make this sound normal. “A team really. And I—” I swallow hard. “I know it’s an invasion of privacy, but I just needed to meet him. I needed something real.”

Willow goes quiet.

Not judging. Not angry.

Just listening.

I talk anyway, because once the dam breaks, the words pour out.

I tell her about Geoffrey—the dinners with his coworkers, the way I always felt like I was being sized up and found lacking.

The way he’d make little comments about food and clothes and my health that weren’t really about health at all and were more about the size of my ass.

I tell her about how I’ve been living a lie so long I didn’t even recognize it as a lie until I walked in on him with his secretary.

And then I tell her the part that embarrasses me most.

“I wanted to talk to the artist,” I confess, cheeks hot. “I wanted someone to tell me something good and real. Because I felt like I was going crazy.”

Willow’s eyes soften.

“Clara,” she says gently, “you’re not crazy.”

I let out a shaky breath.

She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, warm and steady.