Page 35 of Everyone Is Lying to You

“Be careful.”

***

I can feel everyone watching me in the hotel’s restaurant. I carry my laptop under my arm and set it up at a table in the corner to work. As promised, Olivia sent over information about the dealthat Bex was about to close with a very famous media company. There would be a TV show and a magazine. She would oversee a whole bunch of other shows on the network. The number of zeroes in the contract made me slightly ill, slightly jealous, and slightly resentful. I can’t imagine how Grayson would have felt finding out about all that money she was poised to make in an article written by me instead of finding out about it from his wife.

The piece I write is glowing and kind and not altogether true, but it’s what feels right for the moment and Alana texted me about nineteen thumbs-up emojis when she got it. I mostly talked about how Bex, who I called Rebecca, and I reconnected online after growing apart when we moved to different parts of the country. I wrote that we bonded over our children. The lie about the reconnection is intentional. I want Bex to read it. I want her to know that, for right now at least, I am on her side. I want her to reach out to me again and I’m hoping my lie signals that I am here to protect her secrets. I’m still not sure if that’s true.

I write about the deal and about how awed I have been by her success. I throw in a cryptic line about how she was worried Grayson wouldn’t let her take on such a big new job. But I don’t mention her bruises.

Alana is satiated for the moment, but it won’t last.

I go back to my room, slide into the plunge pool, and try to forget everything for a couple of hours. I call my babies. It’s irrational but I still worry they’ll forget me every time I go away. Ollie screams when I try to get off the phone and my heart cracks in two. I can’t stay here. I’m a terrible mother. The shame is a rock lodged in my stomach that remains until Peter texts meminutes later with a picture of Ollie happily gnawing on the corner of the couch. He writes:

Never forget that small children have less of a short-term memory than a hamster. We’re fine.

I keep digging and reporting. I go downstairs for dinner.

A shadow of the conference is continuing without the formalities. Many of these women probably couldn’t, or didn’t feel like, changing their flights. Plus, the hotel rooms were insanely expensive. Most of them remain, huddled in groups all around the dining room, still lounging at the pool, still walking the James Turrell–created meditation labyrinth.

From my online reading, I gather that Grayson’s political campaign was further along than I thought. He had an office in the city even though he hadn’t yet officially announced he was running. A snappy young man who referred to himself as a campaign manager for “Gray for America” released a statement about his intense sorrow, his thoughts, and his prayers and a call for justice. “We will do everything we can to catch this brutal killer and lock them up for the rest of their life.”

“Hey.” I look up to see one of the women who was talking shit about Bex in front of the elevator two days ago hovering above me. How was that only two days ago? She has a blond braid hanging over her shoulder and a white eyelet blouse with a high neck that looks expensive. She’s paired it with a long denim skirt and the vibe could either be the pastor’s wife fromFootlooseor the founder of a natural wine company. Fashion has gotten so confusing.

“Hi,” I say.

“Can I sit with you for a second?”

“Sure.”

“I’m Cricket.” She reaches out a hand to me. “Crazy name, right?

“So you were Rebecca’s friend from back in school?” she says. As she settles into her chair, I see a table of her friends watching us. I wonder if she lost a bet and they made her be the one to come over here to talk to me.

I nod.

“I saw that inPeoplemagazine.” All I can think is what a strange way for me to end up inPeoplemagazine.

“And you’re also a creator?” I ask.

“Oh yes. An OG. Since the early days.”

“What’s your specialty?”

“I’m a whimsical playroom mom.”

“Oh. That’s highly specific.”

“You have to be these days. People love my whimsical playroom. I built it from scratch. But I also have a lot of homesteading, homeschooling, natural crafting, but I try to make it funny. I’m also getting into chickens. I’d love to be a henfluencer one of these days.”

“I didn’t even know that was a thing until yesterday,” I admit. Now I know there is an influencer for everything. Much like porn, if you can name a kink there’s an influencer for it.

“It’s huge. Chickens are big for engagement. Audiences love them. Rebecca started a lot of that. She’s had them forever. Ithink I can even name all of them.” She starts ticking names off on her fingers—Mary Lou, Brynnsleigh, Coley, Aimee, and Hennifer Aniston.

“How well did you know Rebecca?” I ask, and then correct myself. I have chills that I used the past tense about Bex. “Do you know her? Are you friends?” I ask even though I know the answer is no.

“Such good friends.” She taps her perfectly manicured fingernails on the table and seems to forget that I overheard all the nasty things she was saying about her good friend Rebecca less than forty-eight hours ago. I’ve noticed that there are two camps of these influencers right now. The ones who are amplifying whatever modicum of friendship they had with Bex and the ones who are pushing forward all their conspiracy theories about her being a killer. Both camps are getting a lot of attention. Like me they’re all surely seeing their follower count and engagement on social media increase.

But I play along.

---