Page 117 of Things I Overshared
“Go, Charles!” he yells. It may be the loudest I’ve ever heard him. He holds up his big hand to the car window, and I shield my face in my hands. Charles takes off like a sloth in molasses, dodging pushy photographers who keep jumping in the way. We have to take a long, silent, roundabout route to the back alley of our hotel.
In the sanctuary of our suite, we both unravel toward the kitchen. Emerson looks . . . bad. It’s all bad.
Nervously, I start to ramble. “I didn’t call them. I wouldn’t even know who to call. I know I was in the bathroom a long time, but it wasn’t me, I promise.”
“I know.” He doesn’t look at me. I sip at the water he handed to me from the fridge, and he chugs his.
“Em?” I squeak. Finally, he looks at me. “What is it?” I ask, sounding more distraught than I mean to. I have felt this shift from a man one thousand times, this subtle chipping away before something breaks. A woman, if she’s honest with herself, knows when a man is pulling away. It is excruciating, and I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to stop it.
“Nothing.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.” He steps over and wraps his arms around me. “Let’s just go to bed.” He kisses my head, and I nod. We get ready in our own bathrooms, and everything feels all wrong. But when I slip into our bed, his arms are there a second later, tight as a lock around my middle. I relax a tiny bit, but not enough to get any sleep.
For hours I worry, replaying the last few days in my head over and over. I start from the slippedI love youand fast-forward through the scenes over and over. So much of it is fine, but something, somewhere went off-track. I wrestle with my memories until the wee hours and finally sleep hard.
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I didn’t feel Emerson get up for his workout, didn’t hear him slip into the shower. But he must already be making breakfast, because he’s not in here with me when the early light seeps in. I hear my phone buzz with a text and do a double take, since all my sisters should still be asleep.
Oh.
No.
No no no no no! This is bad. Late last night, our photos hit all the US gossip sites. Susan and Sadie must get Google alerts, and they’re blowing us up. Everything is blowing up.
“American Princess Snags British Billionaire”
“Canton Sweetheart, a Yankee Gold Digger?”
“Billionaire Mystery Boy Emerson Clark Spotted with American Instagrammer”
Instagrammer?! What in the actual?! I have never in my life claimed to be an influencer. I don’t even have an account anymore! So much for journalism. And gold digger? I have plenty of money! My sisters all agree on that particular point in the text thread that grew while I slept.
The photos themselves are terrible. Emerson looks angry, and I look terrified. Maybe we should’ve just smiled and waved and taken questions. Sometimes that approach makes it easier on everyone. Except I’m talking about Emerson here—there’s no way he’d answer questions.
I keep scrolling and clicking. Apparently Emerson and Ben are at almost William and Harry status (when the princes were single). The comments are insane. The women of the United Kingdom hate me with a fiery passion. I was about to ask Trina if she knew all along, but her text sayingHe is THAT Emerson Clark?!?!?answered my question. Apparently, Emerson hasn’t been noticed or featured in London or it’s rag magazines for years.
Until me.
The stories range from simple facts—we were seen together at Flip’s in London—to outrageous. The biggest tabloid in the country has gone so far as to style our wedding and photoshop what our baby would look like. It would be almost cute if it wasn’t the most unsettling thing I’ve ever seen. The article zooms in on my necklace in the photo and details a lot of our trip, which is downright creepy. Where do they get this stuff? The article claims sources at the hotels.Lydia, you raging bitch!I am standing now and moving out into the kitchen, my hands shaking.
I open the door and see him.
He’s sitting at the table, hunched. He hasn’t worked out, hasn’t showered.
He looks wrecked.
And I know it’s over, before he says a word.
Still, I try. I should keep my mouth shut, save myself, guard my heart, but I just can’t.
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” I say, tears already threatening.
“Samantha.”
“No, this is bullshit trash that no one will remember tomorrow. You can’t let it get to you. I mean, you know how they are! You should understand!” He sighs at the table. I take another step forward. “You think I called them.”
“No.”
“Okay, then what? What is it?”
