Chapter 38

38

Sarah

Life is pretty damn awesome.

After a huge family dinner last night with my parents and Cupcake, Charlie, Mackenzie, Beck's family, and his adopted neighborhood family—I completely understand why they called the band Bro Code when I watch him with all of his adopted brothers, not just the guys who were in the band—I stayed with him again, and now I'm on my way to work with plans to ask for the rest of the week off.

Nobody from the office texted about the media coverage of Saturday night. My video about Persephone giving birth has more views than any other video about the giraffe except for the zoo's official feeds, and I'm weirdly happy about my new nickname.

America's Geekheart .

I don't really care about being famous, and I know somebody will twist this and make it ugly before long, but they can't take away my self-worth.

They won't take me away from the people I love.

Not again.

I'm getting a ride from one of Beck's bodyguards, so I spend the trip texting with Mom, who's been taking care of Meda and making sure my bees and flowers have water since the dinner Saturday night.

She wants me to quit work and be a full-time science video blogger, because it's your passion, sweetheart, and you share it so eloquently .

Dad pops in with the occasional text asking if it's possible for a girl pig and a girl cat to have babies together, because he thinks Cupcake is in heat.

I think he's trying to see how far he can push me.

Either that, or he hit his head the other night while Persephone was giving birth.

Or possibly he's practicing for his role, which he has to report back to California for on Friday.

We reach the office early, and I slip in unnoticed around the other early arrivals. I'm sorting my projects to figure out what I need to get done this week and what I can push off, so I know how much time I can take off to go hang out with Beck in Shipwreck, when someone in the cube behind me gasps.

Thirty seconds later, another gasp goes up in the cubicle farm.

Followed a minute later by four in rapid succession.

And then there are footsteps.

Lots. And lots. And lots. Of footsteps.

"Unplug your computer," my boss orders.

Someone else dives under my desk and does it for me.

I look at the sea of white faces around me. "Did we get a virus?"

"Yeah, it's called the scourge of humanity ," one of them mutters.

"Your blog is really awesome. I didn't realize that was you until after…you know. But I've been following it for months."

"Those fuckers shouldn't—sorry, Gary. Those inbred shitheads who troll people shouldn't be allowed on the internet."

My phone buzzes, and Mackenzie's face lights the screen.

I gesture to it and look at my boss. "May I?"

His frown deepens. "Is it a friend?"

"My best friend."

"Then yes."

I swipe to answer. No one leaves my cubicle, and someone else bursts into the building shouting, "Did you see what those asswipes said? And what a total dick . I can't believe he?—"

"Shut up!" someone else yells.

"Hey," I say to Mackenzie. "Are you at work?"

"Yeah, but Sarah—listen, don't get on the internet today, okay?"

"Um, that's not exactly a problem right now."

"Can you get me in touch with that guy who was helping with your website?"

"Mackenzie?"

"No, that's me. I mean the guy who kinda looks like Cash Rivers. The one Beck set up to upgrade your servers? That guy."

"What's going on?"

"Assholes are going on. Just…stay off the internet. And can I have Beck's number too? Because… because … We'll handle this, okay?"

"Handle what?" I eyeball my coworkers. Some won't meet my eye.

One rubs my back. "We never knew you were so reserved because you'd been exposed to that before, but it all makes sense now. I just can't believe he's dumping you like this ."

My entire body freezes.

Just ices over.

Heart and all.

"The internet's being the internet." Mackenzie sighs audibly. "Will you please just send me his name and number? And maybe don't go to work today."

"I'm already here."

"Oh, shit… Just text me his name and number. And Beck's number. And promise you'll stay off the internet. Promise me . Like pinky swear on the Fireballs' winning streak."

"I can't hear you. We're going through a tunnel. Shh-wusshhh-sshhusshh."

"You just told me you're at work."

"I mean we just had a power surge. Ssshh-wussshhh-sshhussshhh."

Yes, I feel bad for hanging up on Mackenzie, but I'm tired of being treated with kid gloves.

I need to face this.

And know that it doesn't matter what random internet trolls are saying. That my worth isn't tied up in what gossips say.

It's tied up in how I feel about myself and in having people who love me unconditionally despite my quirks and fears and poor choices.

I pull up my site on my phone.

Or try to.

It won't actually load.

"Uh-oh," I mutter.

"Are you checking the internet? No! Stay off the internet!"

Someone lunges for my phone, but I twist and keep hold of my phone only because my normal tae kwon do classes have kept my reflexes relatively quick.

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?"

Gary scratches his bald head. "Did you want to maybe take some time off? You have lots of sick days you never use."

"Gary…"

"I don't understand it. They loved you yesterday. America's Geekheart. Really cute name. But then Beck…" He trails off, and the ice threatens to grab my heart again, but I know Hollywood.

I know the game.

"I knew he was playing her," someone mutters, and I ignore her, because I have to.

"Shut up," someone else hisses.

I sigh and pull up Twitter.

And—yep.

Here we go.

And my parents are probably seeing this.

Dammit .

I swallow hard to keep the panic at bay, because panic is exactly what's rising like bile in my throat.

America's Geekheart back when she was just a geek , reads one post, complete with a picture of me with ketchup smeared across my cheek when I was probably not quite in high school.

Geekheart? More like FREAKheart , reads another with a picture of me, this one from late high school, contorted sideways and looking at the gum on my own ass, my hair tilted at an odd angle that makes me look like an octopus is growing out of my head, and a list of cities in the Binary Babes rock band's tour on the back of my T-shirt.

Finally, the truth: Underwear model's new girlfriend FAKE. Sunny Darling blackmail scheme EXPOSED .

Beck Ryder PR rep confirms: Model and daughter of Hollywood power couple part as "good friends;" ask for privacy.

It's the last one that sends a quake through my bones.

Because that one was issued by Beck's official Twitter feed.

The same feed that not ten days ago drew me back into the public spotlight.

That's the line. It's what we're supposed to say.

But not until Friday.

"Yeah," I say to Gary. "Sick time. Aaacchoooo. I might need a—a week. Thank you."

"We're not answering any calls from the press," he tells me while he walks me out to the parking lot, my knees threatening to give way while more camera crews are pulling in and Beck's bodyguard is waiting by the front door in a standard black Audi. "And that's a really gutsy thing you're doing, going public when so many people are being fu—ah, I mean, inhumane."

I won't cry. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. "I'll email you what I'm having to put on hold."

"Thanks, Sarah. Sarah, right? You don't want to be?—"

"Sarah," I confirm, and I climb into the car.

"All okay, Ms. Dempsey?" the bodyguard asks.

"Yeah." No.

"Home or to Mr. Ryder's place?"

"Home, please." I want to see my cat. And check on my bees for myself and see if I need to harvest any honey. It's still early, but my hives have been pretty active this summer.

I slink low in the seat and pull up Twitter again, even though I know better.

It's rolling.

It's rolling up a freaking storm .

That picture of @must_love_bees makes her look like a monkey squished in a suit that's about to burst.

Only whores get off on watching animals give birth. Get a life, @must_love_bees.

I know @must_love_bees in person, and I can promise you this thing with @Beckett_Ryder is all a hoax. She's gross.

I breathe slowly to calm my racing heart, because this doesn't matter.

It doesn't.

I can't believe @must_love_bees hacked Beck Ryder's account to get her fifteen minutes of fame. #sweetheartforever

Can't wait to hear @Beckett_Ryder's announcement Friday! I hope he's auctioning off a date. Come to mama! I got the $$!

I don't care if his heart isn't really broken, I'll comfort @Beckett_Ryder any day .

I shake my head, because I know this is just the public version of events. It doesn't mean anything.

One call to Beck will clear this all up.

So why am I not calling him?

Why is he not calling YOU? an insidious little voice whispers in the back of my head,

I glance down at Twitter again.

I dated @must_love_bees a year ago. Coldest fish EVER. Ryder can have her, the lying bitch. But I guess he figured her out, didn't he?

My jaw drops.

Because that's not some random internet troll making up a story about dating me.

That's Trent .

And he added a picture of me from when we were dating. Out for seafood. I have butter smeared on my cheek, my hair's falling in a gravity-defying flippy-do thing, one eye is half-closed, and my teeth are doing some weird thing that makes me look like a braying donkey as I open wide for a bite of crab.

"People are so shitty," I mutter.

"Only the shitty ones, ma'am," the bodyguard says. He glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Sure you wanna go home?"

I nod.

My parents should be there. They've been here. They've done that. They'll know all the right things to say.

And it doesn't matter what an ex-boyfriend says, or even what ugly pictures he wants to post.

Especially since he's not wrong.

I was cold.

I wouldn't even tell him who my parents are.

I probably deserve that.

But I'm better now. I'm stronger. I'm owning it.

A dark whisper of because you had to flits through my mind.

Along with another whisper of and you're still that dork that gets butter all over your face and can't take a good picture to save your life .

If Beck hadn't shown up to apologize for that tweet, I'd be the same old boring Sarah, hiding from the world, lying to my best friend, dating guys who snap ugly pictures of me, quietly working at making a small difference instead of contemplating how to make a big difference.

So does that really make me better?

Or just opportunistic?

Either way, I'm starting to wish I hadn't eaten breakfast.