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THE BUZZ OF my phone wakes me up and fills me with dread. The alert used to signal positive news: Liza telling me about a good grade or winning the science fair; a call from Holly about a foreign rights sale, or interest from a film producer; Martha inviting me over for dinner or to watch Felix’s jazz performance. Now it’s more likely to be a prank call or something negative and ugly. But as last night’s disastrous dinner floods back into my memory, I fumble to answer it. It could be Liza demanding a verbal apology (in addition to the numerous written ones I texted last night) or Adrian, brokering a summit between us. But the name I see on the screen is my writer friend Jody.

“Hey,” I say, voice hoarse. Theo, sleeping next to me, stirs.

“Are you up?” she asks in response to my groggy greeting.

“Yep,” I fib, glancing at my clock radio. It’s 9:17 a.m., late for me, even on a weekend. Theo and I had ordered Thai food after the aborted dinner party, and I’d spent several hours trying, fruitlessly, to contact Liza, until my boyfriend convinced me to give her some space. We’d fallen into bed sometime after midnight.

“There’s something you need to see.” Jody’s voice is grave. “It’s on TikTok.”

“I don’t have TikTok.” As an (extremely) late adopter of social media, it was the one platform I didn’t even consider. I’m too old to be making videos of myself, too busy to learn the skills required to create and edit them. Also, my daughter said she’d move out if I started dancing or rapping or doing stand-up comedy… whatever people do on there.

“I’ll send you a link,” Jody says. “Cam… it’s bad.”

Fuck.

“Okay. Thanks.”

I sit up and wait for the text to come in. Theo rolls over, scrubs his hands over his face. “What’s wrong now?” There is frustration, even irritation in his tone, and I can’t blame him. I feel the same way.

“I don’t know,” I mutter.

Jody’s text arrives, and I click the link. It takes me to a TikTok page… Megan Prince’s TikTok page. The girl I met that day was pretty in a wholesome, approachable way. She is almost unrecognizable in her dramatic makeup, or maybe she’s using a filter that makes her look flawless and exceptionally attractive.

“Who’s that?” Theo asks, peering over my shoulder. But I don’t answer, I can’t. My throat is clogged with dread and despair. Soon he’s going to know everything.

Megan begins. “Have you guys heard about this book Burnt Orchid?” The cover of my book pops onto the screen above her head. “It’s not a huge bestseller or anything,” she continues, “but I guess it’s kind of popular. Or at least it was. Apparently, this author, Camryn Lane, is a high school counselor. And this book…”

She points to the image above her, which I must admit is impressive since the image was added later.

“… deals with all sorts of serious teen issues. So people got upset about it. They accused her of exploiting the students she works with by using their private information and writing about their personal problems. I don’t know if she did or didn’t. And I want to make one thing perfectly clear…” She leans closer to the camera, enunciates each word. “I did not accuse this woman of anything.”

The cover of Burnt Orchid vanishes, and a screenshot of Ingrid Wandry’s Instagram page slides expertly into its place.

Megan continues. “But someone using my photographs set up this fake Instagram account to troll Camryn Lane. Using my image, they gave her some bad reviews. A bunch of people jumped on the bandwagon. Obviously, that sucks, but I always thought that public people—like actors or authors or athletes—ignored online reviews. It’s all a part of putting yourself out there, right? Not Camryn Lane.”

Theo takes my hand and squeezes it. He pities me. But he doesn’t know what’s coming. He doesn’t know what I did. Megan Prince is about to tell him everything.

“She searched the background of my Instagram photos and found out where I work. She drove from Canada to my office. And when I came out, she followed me home.”

My heart is thudding in my ears, sweat pooling under my arms. Theo’s hand slips away from mine.

“And then this happened…” Megan says, and like a Spielberg movie, the footage of my tantrum seamlessly replaces the screenshot. Megan’s image shrinks so that I dominate the frame. There I am, on the front lawn, face contorted by rage and frustration. I’m screaming: “Someone you know is harassing me. They’re trying to tank my book and destroy my career. I’m angry and I’m terrified! But you’d rather protect them than help me. That’s cruel. And it’s heartless!” And then I turn toward the camera. “Is he filming us?” I yell, waving my arm violently. “You don’t have permission to film me!”

The image freezes on me then, flecks of spit flying from my mouth, eyes wild like a rabid animal’s. And the filtered version of Megan Prince returns. “Camryn Lane did send me this heartfelt apology…” Up pops my Instagram message, and I can see how phony, how self-serving it reads. “But I’m still a little upset,” Megan says. And then she brings it home. “So, that’s the behavior of an author who’s too much of a narcissist to accept online criticism. Who thinks it’s her right to lash out at someone because they don’t like her work. I’d think twice before buying a copy of her book… although she could use the money for some much-needed therapy.”

The cover image with a large red X through it pops up above my ghoulish image. And then I look at the views and my heart sinks.

402,400

“Jesus, Cam,” Theo says. “What did you do?”

“It’s not how it looks,” I murmur, but I know what I’ve done. I’ve humiliated myself, my daughter, and my loved ones. I’ve destroyed my career as an author and done irreparable damage to my job as a high school counselor.

I’ve ruined my entire life.