Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
“It isnnnnnnnnnn’t,” sobs Isabel.
“It issssssssss,” Elana half-barks back. “Because the world is full of goldfish. Nobody remembers anything for more than five seconds, tops, and by the time next week rolls around this will be totally not-news-worthy. I promise."
“Don’t not-news-worthy me! You know this’ll be the thing for months and months. Maybe forever!”
Elana sighs on the other side of the line. “Alright. Maybe. It’s juicy. It’s sexy. It’s all the things the press loves, true. But so what?”
A simple question. But a solid one. The question stills Isabel’s sadness a little, and she blinks, looking down at her little toes in their sandals.
“What do you mean, so what? So this mess.”
“Circle back with me again there, babes. So what?” Elana repeats. “The only thing that matters is that you are happy. Are you happy?”
Isabel wipes away her tears and smudges her makeup in the most adorably messy way. “Yes. I am. We all are.”
“So there you freaking go, buttercup. Do what you want. Pursue your passion. Fuck ‘em.”
Both Flint and I chuckle. Because that right there is legit high-level best-friend advice. Fuck ‘em, for sure. Isabel laughs, too, her cheeks extra pretty and pink from all the tears.
“You think it’s that easy?” Isabel’s eyes are starting to regain their sparkle.
Elana scoffs. “I’ve seen the photos. Those two guys can take care of anything, girl. So just let them. Just trust them. Okay?”
Isabel swallows and nods at the phone, like Elana can see her. “Okay. Love you, friend.”
“Love you, too,” Elana says, and ends the call.
Isabel lets the phone slide into her lap. Flint takes her hand, rubbing it gently, and I kiss her temple again. The body-shaking sobs have subsided, but Isabel is still a ball of sadness and upset.
And I get it. Because it’s time for some serious damage control.
I blink calmly at Flint over her head. Isabel sniffles into my chest and I smooth her tear-dampened hair.
“Your PR guy is for shit,” I growl, keeping my voice low and calm. “So I’ll call mine. Deal?”
Flint nods. “Deal, definitely.”
I press a kiss to Isabel’s hair, inhaling her sweet scent, and then hand her off to Flint, who wraps her up in his arms and scoops her legs over his lap so she’s nestled in close and safe. He grabs a throw blanket off the far end of the sofa and bundles her up in it tight.
In three taps, I’ve got my PR guy on the phone. He doesn’t answer with a hello, but instead says, “I know what this is about.” All business. My kind of guy. “So these rumors. True or not true?”
And I’m all business myself. “True. And the world is just going to have to fucking deal with it.”
“Understood,” he replies and I can almost see him nodding because he knows when I dig in, I get my way.
Now for the big question. If the answer is no, that’s fine. Fuck ‘em, indeed. But if it’s yes, that would be even better. “So, can you spin it?”
I hear him take a long, slow inhale and then ice cubes clink in a glass and I hear the pouring of liquid and I’m sure it’s whiskey. “I can do a hell of a lot better than that.”
CHAPTER 11
Flint
Back in Michigan, there’s some kind of ice-snow-bullshit from the sky and it’s cold as fuck, but it doesn’t matter at all because here’s the situation: she’s between us on the couch, the fire’s roaring, and the clusterfuck has passed. The press wouldn’t go for “a threesome,” nah. They wouldn’t go for “a ménage à trois,” nope. But they sure as shit went for “ethical polyamory.”
It’s a relationship style that’s going mainstream. The fucking thing is even a trending hashtag on Twitter, right this minute. And so is #flintisabelhale4ever.
Boom!
But no need to pull up Wikipedia; I had to do some reading on it myself. It’s a relationship between more than two people where everybody is informed, everybody agrees, and everybody is open about how they’re feeling at all fucking times, no matter what. Total honesty. Total openness. Totally fucking awesome.
It’s all over TMZ and every other shitty gossip site and social media platform. All sorts of people are coming out of the woodwork to support us; bestselling self-help authors, TikTok influencers—whatever the fuck they are, fucking Oprah, MSNBC contributors, ESPN contributors, even goddamned Bono himself. Everybody is loving it.
Especially us.
Isabel tucks her legs under her, laying them over Dad’s lap, and snuggles up with her fleece blanket in my arms.
I’ve got a whiskey in one hand and Isabel in the other. And on the other side, so does my dad.
“If I’m fucking dreaming, I’m going to be so pissed.”
Isabel giggles and I see my dad’s laugh lines out of the corner of my eye. It feels so fucking good to be happy. And feels so fucking good to see him happy, too. But most of all, it feels good to see Isabel happy. Because her happiness is our purpose.