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“Your breasts are amazing,” I say. “I haven’t even seen them, and they’ve already made me come.”
“What?”
Okay, maybe not the best approach to that particular topic.
“Fuck. Anyway, so Annaleigh is the editor ofThe Heatstroke Hit Piece, and she doesn’t like me.”
“I think that’s the opposite, but go on.”
“They published this.”
I unlock my phone and slide it over to her.
Marci starts reading, and her eyebrows lift. “This is… Is she serious? Aretheyserious? How is this news?”
“Apparently, Davis took what I said at the picnic and ran with it. He doesn’t want to compete. He wants to win.”
“You have to fight back,” Marci says. “You have to.”
The screen goes black from inactivity, and she taps it to wake it up, but it’s got a passcode.
“0120,” I say.
“What?”
“My passcode. 0120. Don’t tell anybody else.”
“You’re giving me the passcode to your phone?”
“Yeah. I trust you,” I say.
She types it in and keeps reading, casting nervous glances my way.
“What do you want to do about this, Taylor? We can’t let them keep— Oh. Oh no. Oh, no, no, no.”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“There’s no way,” Marci says. “I mean, this is interesting, but I don’t want toactuallymarry you. Like for real, marry you.”
“I get that.”
“I don’t see myself marrying anyone,” she says. “I don’t even believe in marriage.”
“Me neither,” I say.
Marci falls silent and stares down at the screen, reading and re-reading.
“So, the problem is that we don’t have a legitimate marriage license and that anyone with a brain stem and two fingers can pull up that website and find out if we’re legit or not. And when they see we aren’t, then the protection I offer you falls away, and my ‘good image’ does too.”
“Yeah, but we can’t get married for real.”
“We can,” I say. “People get married and divorced daily.”
“I—This is a big deal.”
