Page 110 of Love Me Tomorrow

And, trust me, I have alot.

If you’ve been living under a rock (or are still hungover from your weekend debauchery), then you may have missed theSAVANNAH ROSE SCANDAL OF THE YEAR. Her personal email account was hacked, and all her dirty laundry was aired just this morning, including hundreds of emails penned (but never sent) to Owen Harvey—more on him in a second. With thePut A Ring On Itseries finale coming this Wednesday, and the live reunion special to be aired next week, there is no doubt in my mind that many of the booted-off contestants will be spending the next twelve days deliberating on what exactly they’ll tell America’s (Disgraced) Sweetheart when they see her next. Bloodshed will be spilled, I’m sure of it.

Back to Owen Harvey, Savannah’s not-so-secret beau.

Things started innocently enough on Friday night when Harvey and Rose went out for a double date at one of Savannah’s family’s restaurants in New Orleans. Accompanied by Harvey’s twin brother, Gage, and his wife, Lizzie Harvey (YouTube Mega Beauty Influencer ThatMakeupGirl), the foursome seemed to be having a fabulous time.

That is, until Rose and Lizzie Harvey stepped away from the table.

An anonymous source—who has my undying gratitude for life—happened to be sitting next to the Harvey brothers when he overheard information that shocked him to his core:

New Orleans’ most famous tattoo artist iscolorblind.

Yes, Dear Reader, the tea has been spilled here first!

Now, much speculation could go into why Harvey decided to keep this secret to himself for all of these years, but I think we all know the answer to that question: would you truly trust someone with your skin when there’s averylarge possibility that they will screw it up? I’m not trying to be ugly, but don’t tell me you aren’t thinking it too. Harvey clearly knew how customers would react and, instead of seeking transparency with his clients, he opted to keep that integral information to himself.

If you ask me, it reeks of duplicity—but, hey, what do I know? I’m nothing but a journalist seeking the truth. #DoOrDieTrying

It remains to be seen what the fallout of this sort of news will entail for Harvey’s popular tattoo parlor, Inked on Bourbon. Will business continue to flourish? Will customers show up, but demand an artist thatisn’tour inked god fromPut A Ring On It?The ramifications for this sort of reveal are endless, but never fear: I’ll be here, ready to spill the tea as soon as it’s ready, and until then . . .

Please enjoy a special video clip submitted by our anonymous source. I hope Harvey is ready for all the speculation that will be coming his way.

33

Savannah

Iwatch from the backseat of Dad’s car as he and Amelie step out of the rotating doors at the airport. If there are any paparazzi waiting in the flanks, they’re really good at what they do because I don’t see the flash of lights or a swarm of folks holding cameras to their faces. Still, Dad has his arm wrapped around my sister’s shoulders, as though if he does so, he can protect her from the world.

Eight months ago, he couldn’t even protect her from himself.

Suitcase clasped in one hand, Dad guides Amelie across the junction where the cabbies wait, and then, finally, they’re here. Instead of hitting up the front seat, my sister yanks open the door I’m leaning against and motions with her bracelet-laden wrist for me to move over.

I scoot down the bench, reaching for my seat belt—and don’t even have the chance to buckle up.

My sister’s arms wrap around my neck, her breath warm on my shoulder as a shudder wracks her slender frame.

“I’m so sorry.” I hug her back, tightly, and fight a fresh wave of tears.Then get back up. Crying won’t solve this mess. It won’t rewind the clock and allow me to rewrite history. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and count to three full seconds. Only then, once I’m sure I’m not on the verge of another breakdown, do I say the words again: “I’m so, so sorry, Am.”

Her answer is a mumbled whisper in my hair. “Not your fault, Sav. This isn’t on you.”

Except that it kind of is.

At any point, I could have deleted all those emails sitting inDraft. There was no reason to keep them—except that I did. I kept them all, like they were a secret diary that allowed me to voice my deepest fears and my biggest regrets and my most desperate fantasies.

Nothing saysHere’s a Monday for you; have all the fun, like having your email hacked and all your innermost feelings exposed for the world to see.

I smooth a hand over my thigh and realize that I’ve yet to stop trembling.

The driver’s side door squeals open and then Dad slides in, already pumping the gas before he’s even slammed the door closed. In the rearview mirror, he meets my gaze, then searches for Amelie. He clears his throat. “Did you—did you have a good flight,cherie?”

Amelie lets me go but stays on the middle seat like she used to when we were kids. “It was great. Just, you know, absolutely fantastic until about an hour ago when a notification popped up on my phone.” She throws her hands up in the air. “Remember way back when, when we all used to bitch about not having WiFi on airplanes? Well, let me tell you,thisis the reason we should go back to the Dark Ages.”

Leave it to my sister to infuse a little humor into the situation. Smiling weakly, I nudge her in the side. “Is it really the Dark Ages when we’re talking about just a few years ago?”

She turns her head to stare me down. “Absolutely, one-hundred percent yes.”

In the front seat, Dad fiddles with the temperature. “Your mother will be happy to see you.”

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