Second and third source? Not much better, but still reasonably inaccurate.
It was the fourth article that had me breaking down, a well-known, widely read, televised gossip column that included my name, age, occupation—and a vomit-inducing headline.
BEST RBI, UGLIEST MUGSHOT
“With a face like that, Noah Harding is lucky he’s worth 80 million dollars…”
“I’d fuck him too for that kind of money.”
“Is that girl blind or just desperate?”
My jaw hits the ground as tears well in my eyes.
“Match made in heaven—she’s ugly, too.”
I stare at those words in the comment section Knowing they’re not true, but feeling their sting just the same, the tingling in my eyes stronger, threatening to break through the dam holding back the tears flooding my eyes.
They think I’m ugly too?
First of all, that sentence implies Noah is ugly, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Second of all, I’m ugly too? Fuck you, Walter from Philadelphia! Mind your own goddamn business, asshole.
I hiccup, swiping at the tears on my cheeks, indignant.
Tilt my chin up defiantly.
How dare they call me ugly! How dare they even comment on our looks—they have nothing to do with the article! Except…they do, because the headline screams Ugliest Mugshot.
Don’t look at the comments, Randi—close the search window and get it out of your head.
But I don’t, because I can’t, because I cannot unsee it.
The floodgate is open.
The damage has been done.
So now what?
I’ve been searching and reading, cell phone still in my left palm, and I remember it then, needing to hear Noah’s sweet voice. I need him to tell me what I should do.
What we are going to do.
This happens all the time, he said. He’ll know what to do, so I text him.
Me: Noah, call me please.
Ten minutes go by with no reply, no response, and I check the time—nearing eleven o’clock. I wonder if he’s working or at home. Maybe he’s in the shower?
What do professional baseball players do all day? Does he have a game today? Is Claire wrong—is it possible he hasn’t seen our faces splashed all over the news?
When I try calling him, it goes straight to voicemail, and the knot lodged in my throat turns into a sob so intense I can’t find my voice to leave a message.
Me: Why aren’t you picking up? Please, Noah, I just want to talk to you.
I’m pacing now, back and forth across the empty shell of my office.
Me: I’m not mad, but I need to talk through this, please call me.
Me: Noah this ISN’T FUNNY. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
Defeated, I put my head on my desk and let myself cry.
15
Miranda
I wake up to a pitch black room, the only light shining in from the streetlamp outside the window.
Not my bedroom window.
My office.
How on earth did I end up falling asleep and staying asleep this long?
I lift my head, groggy, stomach growling from hunger, and frown at the scroll of notifications on my lock screen. There are dozens.
Dozens.
My head pounds and the salt stains on my cheeks pull my skin tight, the tears having long dried up, but present nonetheless. My hair sticks to the side of my mouth and I spit, sputtering, to dislodge it.
So hot, I know.
Drool. Tears.
Blinking against the bright ray of blue light from my cell, I crack an eyelid to peer at the messages, one at the very top from an unknown number catching my eye. Not only have they texted me a few times, they’ve also called, one in a long list of many concerned—I’m assuming—friends.
Not a word from Noah.
I blink back more tears, sniffing, inhaling a cleansing breath like my friend Jennifer would tell me to do. She’s the friend who’s always trying to get me to meditate, so I’ll relax a bit and chill out.
It comes in handy now as I go through and skim messages, keep some, delete and block others.
Unknown: Miranda, it’s Buzz. Give me a buzz when you get the chance.
Oh, he’s a funny guy alright with the play on words, even knowing I’m probably a ball of nerves at the moment. But this is Noah’s best friend, so maybe he’ll know where Noah is? Or why he hasn’t called? Or if something has happened to him?
Should I call him or text him back?
Call or text, call or—
The phone starts ringing, and speak of the devil, it’s Buzz Wallace lighting up my phone with his fourth call in a single day. How he got my number is a mystery, but I have others I want to solve, so I hit accept.
“Hey.” That’s the best I can muster up as a greeting considering how shitty I feel, how hard my head is pounding, how heavy my heart feels.
“Miranda, it’s Trace Wallace.”
“Who?”
“Buzz—Noah’s friend that you hate.”
Trace? His name is Trace? That’s a new one—a first name I’ve never heard before, especially for a man. Not that I think it’s feminine, but it’s not common.
I like it.
“Hi.” I’m not in the mood for small talk. “What’s going on, Buzz? Where is Noah?”
“Listen, I’m not going to lie to you—he’s not in a good place.”
What does that mean?
“Noah is…” He clears his throat and I sense his discomfort. “He’s sensitive.”
“Sensitive?”
“Yeah, like—some people are built for the limelight and he isn’t one of them. When shit like this happens to someone like me, I let it roll off my back, ’cause fuck everyone, right? Excuse the language.”
If I wasn’t in such a mood, I might laugh at him for apologizing.
“But he’s not me and he can’t just shrug it off. That’s not how he’s wired. Harding is in it for the game, not the fame—being in the paper is the last thing he wants and this bullshit? He’s going to run from it, not toward it.”
“But why is he running from me? I didn’t do anything!” I can’t keep the panic out of my voice, the sound a bit desperate. “I just want to talk to him. I’m freaking out, Buzz. Trace.”
