Page 131 of Tips and Trysts

“I sent the evidence—”

“You sent your own kompromat.”

“Kompro—What the hell are you talking about?” Panicky, Felix grabs his phone. “It’s the same damn file. Same file names—”

“And it’s almost like…it’s not difficult to rename and doctor documents, is it? It’s what you did at Harvard, you lying piece of shit.”

His eyes widen. “Cora, what the hell did you do?”

“What did I do?” I question before letting out a laugh. “You sent a producer at the country’s preeminent news network copies of written testimonies from all eight women who participated in the study and gave interviews for your book. In those testimonies, they confirm you stole my work. And if the vein throbbing in your forehead is about to remind me that they signed an NDA, get over yourself. Everett already agreed to pay the breach penalties and any future legal costs.”

Felix starts shaking his head and he doesn’t stop. “You’re bluffing. That would be tens of millions of dollars in legal expenses.”

I nod emphatically. “Oh, we know. You see, secrets may be better than money sometimes…but usuallythey’re not.”

“Why would he do that?” Felix demands, slamming his hand on the table. “Why—”

“I would do anything for her,” Everett chimes in from directly behind Felix, startling him and making him jump. He’s wearing a brand-new green bandana around his neck and holding up his phone—and has been for a few minutes now. “I’d do anything for her, including another livestream. Say hey to my hundreds of thousands of followers, Felix. I got most of them after myfirstlivestream—you know: after you and my father forced my hand and made me reveal my secret relationship.”

Felix grabs for Everett’s phone and misses. “Turn it off.”

“Fuck no.”

“I said, turn that shit off,” Felix blurts out, before he faces me. “Cora, why—”

“It’s because I hate you,” I respond outright, shrugging. “That’s it. It’s not poetic. It may not even be rational.I just hate you. In fact, there’s nobody I hate more than you. Well, correction: I hate your mother for not swallowing you the night you were conceived, but that’s neither here nor there.”

The insult makes Felix’s jaw drop.

“Shit,” Everett murmurs. “Felix, she’s said thousands of cruel things to me, but she put you in the ground with that one.”

“Fuck both of you,” Felix finally spits, glaring at us with watery eyes. “If you think—” He stops and looks down at his phone, which is glowing with the nameDADon the caller ID. “Ohfuck.”

“You should take that,” I advise. “Your daddy will have to pull more strings if you want to weasel your way out of this. Or, you know, you couldwork your ass offagain.”

With that, I don’t wait for Felix’s response. I slide out of the booth and take the hand Everett offers, and as we’re leaving, I can’t stop smiling.

I just destroyed a man whose spun-glass ego once altered the course of my career.

And I destroyed him in a Cracker Barrel.

***

DC’s monuments loom in the distance as we cross the Arlington Memorial Bridge over the Potomac, finally reentering the District as the sun sets over another long summer day. The trip home has been quiet. Soft music plays from the car speakers as the sky shifts from blue to marigold, and although the daylight hours haven’t ended, lights already skirt the cluster of landmarks near the Tidal Basin. Crisp yellow illuminates the shadowy columns of the Lincoln Memorial, and glimmers of water and light play at the World War II Memorial fountains. There’s a combination of new and old, and even the bifurcation of the Washington Monument—a clear division between older marble and new—adds charm to a city entrenched in the swampiness of politics.

Everett’s hand rests on mine over the center console, inches away from our phones. Neither of us has looked at them, but they’re side by side in the cup holders, both vibrating nonstop with flickers of messages and calls and news alerts.

“Mine is going to die soon,” I mention, glancing at the red battery icon. “Yours too.”

“I have a charger in the glove compartment.” When I don’t move, he glances in my direction. “Everything okay?”

“We don’t have to go back yet,” I offer. “I bought those tickets to Manila for the holidays. We can move up the flight. We can get away where nobody—”

“I want them to see us,” Everett interjects before he turns off Constitution Avenue onto Eighteenth Street.

I don’t respond at first. I study his profile illuminated by the golden waves of sunset and trace the flawless line of his jaw. His expression is easy and the sigh he releases is deep, like it’s the first full breath he’s taken in a long, long time.

We come to a stop at a red light and Everett faces me. “I’ve had my moments—far more than I deserve. People are going to want to talk to both of us, yes, but the real story here is you.”

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