Chapter 43: Ophelia

Chapter 43: Ophelia

I know the knocking on the door isn’t Xavier. He’s not coming back. Yet I’m still disappointed to open my front door to see Marley standing there.

I mean, she told me she was coming over, even though I’d told her not to. I’d also told my mom not to come, and also that I never wanted to speak to anyone in my family ever again.

I’m sure I don’t actually mean it, but for right now, I need some hard and fast boundaries, since my family—and their guests—see nothing wrong with complete and total violations of my privacy.

Maybe I’d let Aiden in, but he’s back in Vermont, so it’s not like he’s going to hang out here and cheer me up.

My mother actually tried to defend Carolina’s niece’s date by saying if I didn’t want the details of my life public, then I wouldn’t have been on ClikClak in the first place, and I certainly wouldn’t have written about them in a book.

I guess she doesn’t understand what fiction is.

Sundance looks at me with the judgment only a cat can. He really doesn’t care that my life has imploded. He’s still harboring resentment that I left him alone for the weekend.

Wanker.

The word makes me think of Xavier, and my heart breaks all over again. I can’t believe I lost him so quickly. I can’t believe my foolishness cost him everything.

I can’t believe I was so stupid.

This certainly takes the cake in the "dumb things I’ve done" column. Mic drop, I’ll never top this.

From here on out, I will be a hermit and only compute numbers all day, every day. It’s hard to get into trouble or ruin someone’s life doing that.

"Ophelia June Finnegan, I have no words."

I turn away, also bereft of words, and faceplant on my couch. Landing on my nose hurts, but at least it’s physical pain, rather than the emotional pain that’s been ripping me apart for two days.

"I screwed up." I finally manage.

Marley plops in my armchair, scrolling away on her phone. "Yes, you did, girl. You most certainly did."

I lift my head. "What’s the world saying?"

She laughs nervously. "You don’t want to know."

I sit up. "You know what makes me the most angry about this? My family. They rag on me endlessly about being impulsive and silly and frivolous, but then they take something and blow it so out of proportion, and then it causes real damage. I mean, all Owen had to do was tell his nieces to rein it in. Put a stop to it.”

Mom could have done that.

Xavier could have done that.

Hell, I could have done that.

But I didn’t. I chickened out and ran away, and now it’s cost Xavier his career.

And cost me the man I’m in love with.

I didn’t even get to tell him. Not that it would matter now anyway.

I flop back down. "You know I’m actually an accountant."

"Yeah, I know that. I’m just surprised you put your writing out there again. I’m happy you’re back to it. It always pissed me off that you let one or two stupid people influence your decision."

"Don’t you watch my ClikClaks?"

"You know how the app is. It’s random what it pushes out. I missed the first one where you announced it. And then, everything was blowing up. But damn, that’s some spicy shit there. I didn’t know you had it in you."

I sit up. "That’s what she said." I can’t help myself.

"I like this story. You should always write romance. You’re good at it. But seriously, how did you come up with some of that shit?"

"A lady doesn’t kiss and tell."

"Good thing you’re not a lady."

I throw my pillow at her. I have half a mind to throw the cat at her as well. "Xavier was the inspiration, certainly, but mostly for how I felt with him. Not the literal blow by blow."

Pun intended.

"Um, obviously. Anyone who’s actually taken the time to read it can tell that."

As long as I’m being honest I add, "I love him, Marl. I really do. He’s the most thoughtful and caring person. He doesn’t think I’m silly or trivial. He said he likes my topsy-turvy energy. To him, it’s a plus, not something I should try to change."

"He likes you just as you are?"

I sigh. "Oh, that line from Bridget Jones always makes me melt. But it’s even more than that. He’s like a real-life Mr. Darcy. Mark, not Fitzwilliam."

"This is real life, Ophelia, not a movie. Don’t you understand that? You’re not guaranteed your happy ending just because you want one."

"You mean I can’t write my way out of this one? I’m not Joan Wilder?" I reference Marley’s favorite old movie.

She sighs. "Dammit, now I’m going to have to watch Romancing the Stone again. You know I have a weird thing for Michael Douglas."

She does, and we’re friends anyway. She leaves the Brits to me.

"Ugh, that movie is so old. You need a newer favorite movie. I vote that you become obsessed with This Means War." I admit I have ulterior motives with this one. If it’s her go-to movie, then I still get to watch Tom Hardy—another Brit.

In a book or movie, this would be the sweeping grand gesture time. But Marley’s right. It’s not a work of fiction—it’s my real life. And Xavier’s too. I messed up royally in so many ways I could make a list.

One: I suggested we get married under false pretenses.

Two: I used his energy as my muse.

Three: I didn’t tell him I was writing a book and publishing it online.

Four: I didn’t stand up to my family and shut it down before this all got out of hand and caused a career-ending scandal.

Five: I didn’t tell him I loved him when I had the chance.

I don’t know that the last one matters to anyone but me, but I wish he knew.

It may not be possible to fix this situation, but the least I can do is try. Xavier deserves someone to stick up for him. He needs someone to defend him for once, the way he defends and protects not only the soccer ball but the people like me in his life.

"Marley, I’ve got to try and help. Somehow. At least get it out there that he’s not a drunk driver, and he’s not in cahoots with Tony. He deserves to play soccer. It’s all that matters to him, and he’s had nothing but the raw deal. That includes me."

"What are you going to do?"

That’s where my bravado starts to falter. "I have no idea."

If my life were a movie, this would be the montage scene showing Marley and me in various positions, sprawled about my apartment, trying to come up with the world’s most brilliant plan. There’d be snappy music playing in the background until one of us sits up, points skyward, and exclaims they’ve figured it out.

Seeing as how my life is not a movie, Marley eventually leaves, and I try to distract myself by scrolling on ClikClak. I don’t go to this app like I used to. As soon as I started going viral, it got a little—a lot—overwhelming, so I’d post, but not scroll.

It’s not possible to keep track of my followers or those who like my posts either. Especially not now, as there are several videos circulating rehashing the current scandal.

You know, this social media thing is wild. I’m probably one of the most boring people you’ve ever met, and now I’m bordering on celebrity—or at least notoriety—for no reason, other than my ex was a cheating louse.

But when a video pops up with Chassen Donato—aka Dude Number One—talking about it, I know I’ve seen enough. My first phone call is to Owen.

"Listen, you know this is all complete and utter bullshit, and I’m going to go Johnny Depp on his Amber Heard’s ass and sue him for defamation." I lead with that. As an afterthought I add, "Hello Owen, it’s your sister."

"Yeah, I got that, Ophelia. Your name comes up. Who are you trying to sue now?"

"Dude Number One. Chassen, what’s his name? You know, your guest who completely ruined my life. Xavier’s too."

"Your husband?" I can practically hear my brother’s sneer through the phone.

"Yes, your brother-in-law. His career is finished because of that article."

"I think his career is finished because he almost killed a woman, conspired with a thief, and committed fraud."

"But that’s the thing. He did none of those things, and it is irresponsible journalism to print them. Or publish them. Or report them. Whatever online news is called these days."

There’s silence on the line, and I’m pretty sure my brother is about to blow me off. I’m totally surprised when he says, "Do you have any proof?"

"Any proof of what?"

"What you claim the truth to be."

I run a mental inventory, but of course, my brain is like the attic on an episode of Hoarders. The only thing I know I have receipts for is the plotting of our fake marriage.

That probably won’t be helpful.

"I’m not sure what I have."

"Look into it and get back to me. I can talk to some colleagues and see what we can do."

You could knock me over with a feather with this show of support. "Why?"

"Why what? Isn’t this what you wanted?"

"Well, duh. Yeah, but I thought you’d just blow me off as being flighty and frivolous again."

There’s a pause on the line. "Ophelia, this could be huge. If what you’re saying is true, we could gain a lot of publicity if we take you and Xavier on as clients."

I should have known. He’s only helping me to further his career.

"Plus," my brother continues, "you’re my sister and no one picks on you but Aiden and me. We’re allowed and no one else."

I have to laugh. "That sounds more like it."

"So you need to do your homework. Call me tomorrow with an update."

We disconnect and I sit there, a surge of inspiration coursing through my veins.

It’s not a plan—not yet—but it’s a start.

Time to start finding receipts.