Mom: Honey, what is going on? How much trouble are you in? People are saying horrible things.
RJ: Who do I need to hunt down?
Kat: Britta, are you okay? Don’t respond to anything—I know it will blow over.
Del: Can I borrow your cheese grater? Oh, and there’s something going on on social media. Kat and RJ left me like 20 texts about it.
Wes: We need to talk.
I replied to the messages from my mom and my friends, telling each I’d check in later.
Britta: They said we shouldn’t be seen together.
Wes: Fine, but I need to talk to you. My place at noon?
I bit the side of my thumbnail, trying not to notice the three interns passing my cubicle in a flurry of whispers and giggles. I wanted to escape back into the cocoon of his arms, to hear him tell me I was beautiful and strong, but I doubted that’s what we need to talk meant.
Britta: Yeah, I can be there.
He didn’t reply.
52
WITH MY MOM, with Kelsey, I was always looking out for an agenda, there was always some angle, but I’d never felt that with Britta. Now I questioned everything. We’d been working together for months. I thought back to the jokes and texts, the runs in the park and mornings at the gym . . . the entire time, she’d been writing about the coaching program, and I couldn’t shake the thorn that she’d known this could put my business at risk and still lied, presumably for her own benefit with this Body FTW project. I’d lied, too. Everything that had felt so perfect twenty-four hours earlier felt sordid and regrettable now. Another mistake, only this one was entirely public.
I’d stopped scrolling back to the message thread with Libby so often. For years, it had been a habit and ritual, and I found myself doing it again. Checking. Worrying. Willing her to answer.
Wes: I hope you’re okay.
After a few seconds, I set my phone aside and clicked through the posts. Every word was Britta popping off the page. Even as I seethed at her betrayal, at some asshole making what we had into something that looked dirty and suspicious, and at myself for leaving so many boxes unchecked, I marveled at how she was so raw, so vulnerable, so . . . her in every single post. Titles like “A Few Things to Remember About Spandex,” “Crunches Are as Awful Now as in High School P.E.—Here’s Why You Should Do Them Anyway,” and “Dear Running Shorts: Get Out of My Butt” made me laugh.
Other posts like “The First Boy Who Told Me I Was a Mistake,” “Falling and Failing,” and “I’m Just Not That Into You: The Scale, the Mirror, and Another Salad” made me want to hug her. She left everything on the page about pride and guilt, shame and confidence, strength and power, and about feeling hopeless and feeling seen.
Cord stepped in and closed the door behind him. “You want to talk now?” He plopped into the chair.
“I’m meeting Britta at my place.”
His jaw was set, and he gave a grunt in response and nodded before asking, “What are you going to do?”
“Are you asking if I can keep it in my pants?”
“No, jackass.” He shot me a rueful look—one I deserved. “And don’t act like I shouldn’t. What is going on with you? Sleeping with a client? This is a big deal, and not just for the company. You’re looking to be distracted so much, you put our company at risk. I’ve been your best friend for ten years, and you lied to my face.”
“I’m sorry, but I swear she’s not a distraction. I’ve never felt like this with someone.” I met my friend’s hard stare. “I know you warned me. I should have told you.”
Cord’s expression softened. “Well, tell me about her now.”
“I can’t believe she was writing about us the whole time.”
“You said she told you she was a journalist this weekend?”
“She did, and I swear I thought it was for this one-and-done article. I thought she’d known for maybe a couple weeks. But six months?”
Cord looked thoughtful. “You love her?”
I had known the answer four hours earlier when I kissed her on the sidewalk outside my building. Except we both lied for months. I glanced at the pages and pages of the members of #TeamBritta without answering, but he must have read my expression.
He nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Thought so.”
I glanced back at the screen, where I’d been scrolling through to a flood of comments on one of her posts—people saying how much they needed to hear about her struggles, how they’d thought they were the only one not knowing how to feel good about their body, with self-doubt and uncertainty, and that her posts made them notice warning signs in others. I pointed to the screen. “I can’t shake the thought that if Libby had something like this, maybe she would have found other ways to cope, or would have felt she could ask for help.”