Page 74 of The Devil Gets His Due

It’s the childhood I would have had, probably, if my mom and I hadn’t been so busy dreaming about fame and fortune. How strange that I might be on my way to those things at last, only to find myself dreaming about the boring life Graham will have with someone else.

Upstairs, everyone gushes over me:“your hair is so thick, your lashes are so long, your baby bump is so cute.”Ice water and snacks are procured. Both Mills and Mindy pop by on their way outside, bubbling over with excitement about the interview, and my video, telling me how impressive I am.

I gush back, of course, claiming I’m thrilled to be here. But out the windows I see thousands of people, and when I close my eyes for the makeup artist, I dream of being anywhere else.

Graham is sitting far across the room, reading on his phone, probably bored and irritated. I send him a text.

Me: You can go.

In the mirror our eyes meet. Whatever he sees in my face makes him smile as he texts me back.

Graham: I want to stay.

Thank God.I need him here and I have no idea why. It’s as if this whole experience is a stormy sea, and he’s my one bit of dry land.

The roar of the crowd as the show begins is deafening. My head jerks and the makeup artist laughs. “Don’t worry. They get worked into a frenzy when we do these shows on location. It’s crazy.”

I’m not sure why she thinks I’d find that comforting.

When I’m finally allowed to get out of the chair, one of the producers is waiting to lead me to the stage.

Graham crosses the room to us, determined to stay by my side as long as possible, and I don’t know if I want to smile or cry. I’m scared if I do either, I’ll ruin my makeup.

I wish he’d grab my hand like he did in the elevator, but that moment seems to be over.

We make our way downstairs, through a hall, and then…outdoors. The walkway to the stage is cordoned off, but just to the other side of the barricade is a solid wall of people. I realize they’re not here for me—they simply want to say they saw Mindy and Mills in person and perhaps get on camera themselves—but none of this is what I wanted. I don’t like what I’m doing here, but I wouldn’t want to be the hosts either, facing a massive, faceless crowd of people they’ll never get to meet.

I turn to Graham, swallowing down my panic. “I guess I’ll see you afterward.”

He hears the uncertainty in my voice, and though he’s clearly tense, he leans down, his lips right beside my ear. “In an hour, you’ll be back home. I’ll order us both steak frites and we’ll watch the movie about the kidnapper. You’ll think it’s sexy and I’ll be horrified by your taste but a little turned on. Focus on that.”

Warmth rushes through me. There are ten employees here whose job is to make me feel cared for, but it’s this, it’s Graham knowing just what I need to hear—or maybe the idea of Graham turned on—that actually succeeds.

“Will you give me back my sweatshirt?”

“Now you’re pushing it,” he growls, and when I laugh, he does too.

I climb the stairs to the stage as I’m introduced and there’s a roar from the crowd, which is so vast I can’t even stand to look.

I make it to my seat without tripping. Mindy and Mills both exclaim over the video again and then start asking questions:Was I scared? What went through my head? Do I now get free chicken tikka for life?

I chat away, smiling, making jokes, but I feel like I’ve been kicked into a higher gear than I’m meant to go in—electrified, but not in the “this is where I was always meant to be” way I expected. It’s more like my body is flooded with something toxic, something that can’t be good for me or my daughter. I’m sweating, my heart is racing, my core temperature way above normal.

This is what my mother wanted for us: the attention, the adulation, people saying some version of, “Keeley, how are you so amazing?” and all I want in the entire world is to get the fuck off this stage, to have it behind me. Even if they were lauding me for something that warrants it—my current breast size, for instance—I still would hate this. And if I hate the thing I thought I wanted most, then what, exactly, is left?

“Guess what?” asks Mindy. “We found a secondvideo of you.”

I stiffen—if I got married while drunk and forgot, I could easily be on film doing a whole lot of stuff IwishI could forget. I breathe a sigh of relief when the clip plays on the screen behind us and Zuma Beach comes into focus. We were surfing there when this guy got a nasty cut on his shin—clear down to the bone. I used the leash of his board as a tourniquet, which was really all I could do until the paramedics got there.

So it’s fine that they have the clip, but I had no idea I was being filmed, and I wish I hadn’t been. They’re making me out to look like some doctor superhero who runs around LA looking for people to assist, rather than what I am: a very lazy girl who just wanted to surf and eat chicken tikka masala in peace and was compelled to intervene because of a medical degree she sort of regretted possessing on both occasions.

“Honestly, it was just a very uncomplicated delivery,” I tell them. “And anyone could have done what I did with the leash.”

“Isn’t she cute?” Mills asks the crowd. “You’re sohumble.”

If she had any idea how many times I’ve thought my ass looks amazing in the Zuma Beach video, she’dknowI’m not humble.

At last, it’s over. I step off the stage, sweaty and dazed, overwrought. I used to drink when I felt this way, and I’m not sure what to do with it now that I can’t.

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