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MY PUBLISHING TEAM has always been warm, supportive, and upbeat in our interactions. Today the faces filling my screen are somber, features arranged in neutral masks to conceal their disappointment, their distaste, if not their full-blown disgust. I hope my hangdog expression is suitably regretful, appropriately remorseful. I hope they will forgive me.

My agent starts the conversation off. “Camryn realizes she made a significant error in judgment by visiting that woman’s home. But she’s willing to do whatever it takes to make it right. Like all of us, she wants to move forward and focus on her writing. She’s such a talented author, and she’s eager to dig into her next project.”

“I am,” I say, a quiver in my voice. “And I’m so sorry. The online harassment got so personal and so invasive, but I never should have confronted Megan Prince.”

There are tense nods in response, conciliatory smiles that are almost pitying.

Holly continues. “Camryn and I spoke yesterday, and she’s drafted a heartfelt apology. Cam, did you send it to the group?”

“We got it.” Nadine answers for me. It was clearly not acceptable.

Olivia clears her throat. “We’ve been monitoring social media since we were made aware of the situation. We’ve had a crisis PR team draft a statement of apology on your behalf. If you’re satisfied with it, we’d like you to post it on all your social media channels.”

“Sure. Of course.”

“And then you need to go dark on social media,” she continues. “No posting. No responding. No commenting. Nothing.”

“I’ll delete my accounts,” I say. “I’m happy to.” It’s the truth.

“Just thinking out loud here,” Holly says, “but maybe there’s a charitable donation Camryn could make to offset some of the negative energy out there?”

“Good idea,” I say while wondering whether I can afford it.

“Megan Prince works at a cat clinic. Maybe some sort of abandoned cat charity?” Holly suggests.

“If Camryn posts about it, it could be seen as performative,” Olivia says. “And we need her to stay off social media altogether.”

Nadine, as always, is composed. “But by all means, make a donation if it makes you feel better, Camryn.”

“Okay.” I nod agreeably. “I will.”

Olivia continues. “I’ll send the statement through. It’s been thoroughly vetted in-house but of course we want you to be comfortable with it.”

“I will be,” I say gamely. “I trust you. I just want to fix this.”

“Great. Thanks, Camryn,” Olivia says. “Let’s hope this does the trick.”

Nadine smiles. “Most of these things tend to blow over on their own when they’re left alone.”

My voice trembles with self-pity. “I hope so.”

And then they say their curt goodbyes.

The statement comes through shortly after I’ve hung up. The wording is eloquent and diplomatic, but it doesn’t hide the gist:

I’m an idiot who should have known better than to harass an innocent person. I’m going to disappear now and work on being less of a psycho.

No explanations. No excuses. Obediently, I post the statement on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. And then I delete the apps, resolve not to check them. I will do as I’ve been told.

The day stretches long before me. Normally, I’d write, but I’m still waiting to hear back from Nadine on my new outline. Theo and I often see each other on quiet weekdays, but he said he had paperwork to deal with. It’s an excuse, I know it is. He didn’t come over last night. Like so many people in my life, he is disappointed in me, appalled by my behavior, likely wondering if I’m coming apart at the seams. I understand his frustration, I do, but shouldn’t my partner be firmly in my corner? Willing to stand by me no matter what?

Unbidden, Martha and Felix’s concerns about Theo drift into my mind. My initial reaction had been loyalty, defensiveness, but I allow myself to consider their issues, just for a moment. Is there something untrustworthy about my boyfriend of nearly two years? Have I been blinded by his puppy-dog exuberance, his gentle spirit, and his ridiculously chiseled body? He was angry when I went to Miami without him, but only because he wanted to be with me. Any discord we’ve had has been due to my reluctance to fully commit. I shake my head, dislodge the doubts. I trust Theo. I love him.

Martha had texted me amid the TikTok fiasco:

I’m sorry for what I said about Theo. Just forget it. You know him better than we do and I just want you to be happy.

Our friendship means the world to me.

And it does to me, too. With my family across the country, Martha has become my sister. We are close enough to have arguments and disputes, and to move past them. My response had been brief but heartfelt.

It’s fine. Let’s move forward. Friends forever.

So I decide to drive to Sophia’s coffee shop. The warm, familial atmosphere is what I need right now. I’ll bring my laptop, play around with a few chapters while I enjoy a pastry and a coffee. If it’s not too busy, Martha will sit with me and we’ll catch up, like old times. And if she can’t, at least my presence will demonstrate my forgiveness and dedication to our relationship.

The café smells of butter and flour, coffee and cinnamon. There are only a handful of tables, and I survey the room for a vacancy. Sophia’s is clearly a popular spot with the mommy crowd as clusters of women with little ones spread themselves across one corner. A smattering of college students peer at their laptop screens. And then, at a small table near the window, I spot her. Rhea, from my writing group, is handwriting in a notebook, head bent, brow furrowed in concentration.

I’m tempted to leave. Navid told me that Rhea is delighting in my online abuse; she does not wish me well. But Felix, behind the counter, has spotted me. “Hey!” He waves. I turn away from Rhea and move toward him.

“It’s so good to see you,” Felix says, and his delight—maybe relief?—is genuine. His face has mostly healed, and only the faintest bruising remains. “Thanks for coming by.”

“You can’t keep me away from your pain aux raisins,” I quip. “Is Martha here?”

“Getting supplies,” he says. “But she’ll be back in about an hour if you can hang around? I know she’ll want to see you.”

I glance at my watch. “I’m not sure…”

Felix lowers his voice. “Martha was really upset the other night. Is everything okay between you two now?”

“Everything’s fine,” I assure him. “We’re family. We can get through anything.”

“What I said about Theo,” he continues, his handsome face troubled. “It was ages ago. I got my back up about some stupid comment he made. I can’t even remember what it was, but I blew it out of proportion. He’s a good guy. And he cares about you.”

“Thanks, Felix. I appreciate that.” I change the subject. “Do you know that woman by the window? With the notebook?”

“Yeah, that’s Rhea. She’s a regular. Martha knows her a lot better than I do,” Felix explains. “They took a meditation class together. Why do you ask?”

“I was in a writing group with her,” I say, “before I published Burnt Orchid.”

“Small world. Are you going to say hi?”

“Looks like she’s in the zone. I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Maybe when Martha gets back, the three of you can have a coffee.”

“Actually”—I scrunch my features—“I can’t stay. I’m going to have to get that pain aux raisins to go.”

I drive home, the fragrant bun ignored in my console. Suddenly, I’m not hungry, an uneasy flutter in my belly. When I’d seen Rhea at Sophia’s café before, I’d thought it was a coincidence, but it wasn’t. Rhea and Martha are friends. They see each other regularly, take classes together. Why wouldn’t Martha mention that to me? It seems unlikely—practically impossible—that my name has never come up, that they wouldn’t realize the shared connection. Martha has kept this from me for a reason.

When I pull into the underground parking lot, I’m still obsessing. What has Rhea told Martha about me as a writer? I’m sure Rhea thinks I’m overrated, undeserving of my book deal. Navid told me she sent my bad reviews to the rest of the group; she likely shares them with my oldest friend. And what has Martha told Rhea about me personally? She knows everything… my secrets, my vulnerabilities, my hopes, and my fears. Something feels off here. Something feels like betrayal.

I make my way toward the elevator. When I pass the building’s garbage bins, I toss the pastry into the trash.