Page 52 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“You don’t have to do that,” he says. “You were scared. What he did was wrong, and I should’ve been there.”
“That was my choice,” I say, barely a whisper. Echoing his words from all the way back in September, that day at the Fast Freeze. We both picked this, but I picked it first.
“Ro,” Miller says. I’ve been tracing my scar with my fingertip, and I look up at him. His eyes are steady on mine, but there’s something else—anguish, maybe—in how he’s looking at me. “What do you want now?”
Tears burn behind my eyes. This conversation has felt like flaying myself alive, like peeling back my skin to expose the hole inside me where Miller hasn’t been all these years.
My voice comes soft and small. “What would you still let me have?”
His mouth opens at the exact same time as the door.
“Oh my god,” Willow says. She rushes toward the bed, dropping things as she goes. Her duffel, and her umbrella, and a plastic bag from an airport gift shop. “Honey.”
“Hey, I’m okay,” Miller says. Willow covers him, hides him from me, kisses his face. “Mom, I’m okay.”
“Oh my god,” she says again. She leans away and scans him, assessing the damage. Only once she’s confirmed he’s in one piece does she look up at me.
“Ro,” she says. Her eyes are red and puffy, like she cried the whole way here. She cuts around the bed and pulls me into herarms and it’s this, finally, that pushes me over the edge. My eyes fill with tears against the slant of her shoulder and I lift a hand to my mouth, break from her embrace, leave the room before Miller can see me cry.
30
I can see Central Park from the ambulance bay, which is where I find myself when I burst from the building. I smear my tears with a sweatshirt sleeve and sit on the low concrete barrier next to the sidewalk. A woman jogs past, blond ponytail swinging. I watch her cut across the street into the park.
My phone buzzes, another New York number. When I decline it, Maren’s text comes through:How’s he doing?
He’s awake, I tell her.They said we can leave tomorrow.
She sends a pink heart emoji, and then:How are you doing?
I surprise myself by letting out a sob. I squeeze my phone until it hurts, watching a cold wind move through the trees across the street. I feel rudderless, is the truth. I feel like a climber who’s missed her carabiner—like I am suddenly, fatally free-falling.
Vera is gone. MASH has wreaked havoc. This thing I made hurt someone enough for a horde of angry people to want to hurt us.Miller is stuck in a hospital bed in an unfamiliar city becauseof me. Miller is out of my reach because of me.
She released a statement.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a text from Jazz to Felix, Miller, and me. She sends a screenshot of Josie Sweet’s Instagram, where Josie’s posted a photo of her Notes app filled frame to frame with text.
I’ve tried to keep quiet as I navigate this deeply personal journey. Sharing my life and my love with you all has always meant so much to me, but sometimes feelings are too raw to share. For me, this has been one of those times. I’ve been away from my phone, trying to care for my heart. But I feel called to address what happened last night at Rockefeller Center. I need to say this clearly: What happened between Hayes and me happened between Hayes and me. It wasn’t MASH’s fault. I don’t blame MASH, and I don’t blame Ro Devereux. I’ve made the decision to end my brand partnership with MASH, but that’s a step I’m taking because it’s the right one for my personal journey—not because I think MASH is responsible for what happened to my relationship. I’m grateful that you hold me so well in your hearts, but violence is never okay. I don’t think it was anyone’s intention to hurt Alistair Miller last night, but that’s what happened. I am heartbroken over this. I’m sending my best to Miller for a quick recovery. Be well and love one another. xJS
I read it three times over, blinking tears from my eyes. SinceThe Tonight Showthe internet’s been a firestorm of MASH reactions: people going heart-eyed over what Miller said on-air, people calling for MASH to shut down over breaking up Josie and Hayes, people condemning Josie for siccing her fans on us like attack dogs.
When I open my News app, we’re right there at the top of the feed: “MASH Press Tour Turns Violent, Alistair Miller Hospitalized.” The photo is dramatic, black and red: the dark of the sidewalk behind Rockefeller Center, the glow of the ambulance signals as the paramedics load Miller into the back. I’m in the center of the frame, my hair haloed with light, my face unrecognizable with fear.
The story of the last twenty-four hours emerges, in pieces, across the internet. But no one is talking about the full picture. No one has shared the simple truth: that maybe I should never have done this at all.
That if I hadn’t signed that contract in XLR8’s office, Miller would be safe. That we’d be home.
That I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, and it’s getting hard to breathe.
“Josie Sweet sent flowers.” I look up, and Willow’s standing next to me on the sidewalk. She pulls her coat around herself and sits down on my ledge, smiling. “They’re very fancy.”
I glance behind her, toward the hospital entrance. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s asleep.” She looks just like Miller: dark hair in loose waves, delicate features, pale blue eyes. They find mine. “Are you? He was worried about you, running off like that.”
I shrug, biting my lip and looking down at my boots. Once, I would’ve told Willow anything. When I was small, and she was partway mine. But time has made us strangers, and I don’t know what Miller has told her.
“Lots of hospitals for you lately, huh?”
