Page 16

IT’S TEN THIRTY in the morning, and Theo and I are tangled up in my damp sheets. We’ve only been apart for a few days, but we’ve missed each other. I got home too late last night to see him, and by “see him” I mean have makeup sex with him. Plus, Liza was already home from Adrian’s when I arrived. Now she’s at school, and I’m lying with my head on Theo’s strong chest, his heart beating against my cheek.

“No one’s taken credit for sending the flowers?” he asks. The unexplained events in Miami are on his mind. Mine too.

I’d called the florist from a coffee shop at the airport. “If a card wasn’t included with the arrangement, it’s against our policy to reveal who sent it,” the woman said. “It’s to protect the privacy of our customers.”

“You must do a great business with stalkers,” I’d snapped before hanging up. Then I’d texted my friends, my family, my publishers… all the possible candidates, asking if anyone had sent me a gorgeous bouquet in Miami. They’d all responded with some form of “Ooooh a secret admirer,” followed by an array of heart emojis. All except for Janine.

“Document it,” she’d advised. “If you need to go to the police at some point, you’ll need a record of the harassment.”

I respond to Theo. “No, no one,” I say.

“I’m sure someone will take credit.” Theo shifts out from under me, turns onto his side. “I wish I’d sent them. I should have.”

I smile at him. “It’s fine. I’m just happy we made up.”

“Me too.” But his brow furrows. “I was thinking about those calls. How could an online troll get your cell phone number?”

I’d considered this on the flight home. I’ve never included my personal cell number on any of my social media accounts, even as an extra security measure. “They couldn’t have. The phone calls can’t be related to the book.”

“It’s pretty immature. Maybe it was kids from school?” Theo speculates.

“I’m dealing with some mean girls right now,” I say, thinking of Fiona Carmichael and crew. “They could have gotten my number somehow. Through a parent, maybe.”

“You should have dialed *69.”

“Apparently it doesn’t work with blocked numbers.” I prop myself up on an elbow. “Janine Kang said I should document all this stuff in case I need to call the police.”

“The police? For flowers and prank phone calls?”

“I know.” I shrug it off. “It’s nothing compared with what she went through. It’s horrific what some people in the public eye have to deal with.”

“It is.” He leans over and kisses me. “But you’re home now and nothing else bad is going to happen to you. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thanks, babe. It’s good to be back.” I wait for him to mention moving in, the lack of progress in our relationship, but he doesn’t.

“I’ve got to get to work,” he says, climbing out of bed.

“Me too.” I hurry into my robe, shy about my naked body (a downside of dating a younger man with 6 percent body fat). “I’ve got a call with my publicist in an hour.” My tone is breezy, but I’m nervous. Olivia had initiated the conversation and I know it must be about my online reviews.

Theo pulls on his T-shirt, zips up his shorts. “Text you later.”

With a peck on the lips, he’s out the door.

As I get ready for my call, I send my friend Martha a voice memo via text. We often communicate through recorded messages because it’s faster, it’s more private, and we’re a hundred years old.

“Hey, pal… Sorry I didn’t get to call you when I was in Miami. Pitbull kept me out all night, and then we bumped into J.Lo. It got kind of crazy.” I chuckle at my own joke. “Seriously, though… It was a weird trip. Some of it was amazing but some of it was dark. And disturbing. Anyway, I hope you’re good. Let me know when we can catch up.”

I’ve been a negligent friend, but Martha will forgive me. In fact, she may not even notice. She and Felix own a hip little café in a cool east side neighborhood. Though the coffee shop is only open eight to three, they work around the clock. Still, she always makes time for our friendship, and I owe her the same.

When Olivia calls, I’m showered, dressed, and seated at my desk, a notepad in front of me like a keen student.

“How was the Miami festival?” she asks.

“Great,” I say, because I’ve decided not to tell her about the weirdness. She’s a publicist, not a detective. And overall, the experience was positive. Even amazing. “I met some of my favorite authors, and the panel went really well.”

“That’s good to hear.” She clears her throat, a sign our small talk is over. “I wanted to update you on the Readem situation. We were able to get them to take down some of the one-star reviews. The most abusive ones that violated their policy against personally attacking an author, not a book.”

A weight slides off my shoulders, pools at my feet. “That’s fantastic. Thanks, Olivia.”

“It is,” she says, and I sense the but coming. “But the removal of these reviews seems to have spurred a backlash.”

“What kind of backlash?”

“When a review is removed, Readem sends a notification email to the reviewer. People don’t like to be censored. They’re coming back… with a vengeance.”

“Shit,” I mutter, though I know it’s not professional.

“The one-star reviews are coming up faster than they can be taken down. They’re accusing Readem of policing free speech. And they’re blaming you for reporting the reviews. Some people feel you’re in a privileged position, and that you’re unwilling to accept fair criticism.”

“I accept it if it’s fair,” I say. “But I can’t accept lies about the kids I work with. Could I respond to those reviews at least? Just the ones making false accusations.”

“You don’t want to go on the site. Some of the reviews are getting personal. It’s not pretty.”

“But you just said that reviewers aren’t allowed to personally attack authors.”

“The review guidelines are complicated. And Readem doesn’t have the staff to monitor everything. Plus, their security is lax. There’s nothing to stop people from creating sock puppet accounts to drag you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“A user doesn’t need to verify their email address to set up a review account, so there’s nothing to stop them from creating dozens, even hundreds of fake accounts.”

“So this could all be the work of one person? Or a small handful of people?” I don’t know if this makes me feel better or worse.

“It’s possible. It’s also possible that one well-crafted review triggered a review bombing.”

“So what can we do?”

“We’re discussing that in-house now. But you have to trust that we will handle it. Do not try to wade into this yourself, Camryn. It could be extremely damaging.”

I swallow the dread clogging my throat. “I won’t.”

“And don’t read the negative reviews. It will only make you feel bad.”

But I already feel bad. Very bad. Because my career as a writer is on a precipice. For years, I ignored the inherent craving to express myself through fiction. I told myself being a wife, a mother, and a counselor was enough. When I was married to Adrian, he’d get frustrated if I tried to take time out of our busy life to write, so I put it aside. But after the divorce, I committed to my dream. I worked hard and I made it a reality. And now it’s crumbling before my eyes.

“I won’t,” I promise as I hang up.

And then, just for a few moments, I let myself cry.