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She makes a face. “Whatever you like is fine with me.”

I can tell she would prefer we go out to dinner. She feels trapped here, and when I come by, it's the only way to go somewhere new. But the idea of being in public right now... I'm more likely to barf up my food than keep it down. Not a good look. “Thai it is, then.”

I'm pulling up UberEats—my phone beeps multiple times. I swallow the lump sticking in my throat.

My mom asks, “Who keeps trying to call you?”

“No one. It's nothing.” I poke at the list of restaurants, but the messages keep getting in the way.

“It sounds urgent, Honey...”

“Mom, really, it's just spam.” Power-walking to the kitchen, my shoes squeaking on the old tile, I stare at the messages. They're mostly from trolls. There's others, though, from Mikel and Juliet. A quick scan and I see:

:

Mikel: Please, answeryour phone.

Mikel: Are you okay?

Mikel: Where are you? Paige, please, I'm worried.

:

I loosen my grip onmy phone. His texts make me swim deep in a pool of love and guilt. He's worried? Not mad?

Then I look at Juliet's.

:

Juliet: Did you seewhat they did to Mikel's company? Check it out......

:

She's sent me screenshotsof Amazon and Yelp and Google, all of them reviews for Hause Industries or products they created. The reviews are cruel—some just slurs and swear words, others patiently crafted essays on how terrible the products are.

I'm shaking, breathing through little bursts that struggle to escape my clenched teeth. When I see the LinkedIn page for Mikel Hause, covered in accusations about him being everything from a pimp to a bully to a sexual abuser, I fall into a kitchen chair. I can't stand. My vision is flickering.

“Paige?”

I look up at my mother's worried face. She's standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning on her cane. It takes all I have not to start bawling. “Do you want Pad Thai or drunken noodles?” I ask.

Her patchy eyebrows lower on her forehead. “Talk to me, Paige. What's wrong?”

My lower lip trembles; I laugh without a hint of humor. “Everything. I messed it all up, Mom.”

“Messed what up?”

“I don't know,” I laugh again.

She moves closer until she's standing over me. “Did something happen with your internet job?”

The way she phrases that makes me smile for real, but it's not enough to remove the cloud of misery. Hanging my head lower, hands between my knees, I whisper, “Not just my job. I ruined more than that. My career is over... and so is his.”

“So this is about a boy?”

My eyes dart up, because she asks it so simply, like I'm not her grown daughter but some teenager wallowing in angst before Prom. There's nothing casual in her concerned stare, though. My mom watches me with genuine empathy. That makes everything hurt even more. “Kind of,” I admit. “He asked me to help him. Instead I destroyed everything he struggled to build. It's such a mess, Mom. And all because of me. I feel like the worst monster in the world.”

“Paige... you're not a monster.”