“Helene said the same thing, that I didn’t do anything wrong, but I shouldn’t have told Dru about us. When she asked, actually, when she demanded that I set you two up, I saw red. Literal red. I had no idea what jealousy meant until that moment.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I just—I still can’t decide what hurts more. That I care what strangers are saying about me or the fact that I actually trusted Dru. I knew what she was like, but something in my head made me think I was somehow exempt from her poison. It was too much to think of her trying to use me to spread that shit. She had no idea how much I care about you. And this might sound how it’s going to sound, but I hated the idea of her hurting you, but I also hated the idea that she thought she was good for you. Like she’s what you need.”

“I appreciate that, Cha-Cha, but what about what you need?”

“Well. For now I need a job. Helene said she would make up a job for me and put me on her and Ignacio’s in-house staff payroll for a year.”

“That sounds great.”

“It was very kind of her, but I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I don’t want it to impact our friendship. What if I—”

“What? What if you take advantage of Helene’s kindness? Try and sleep with Ignacio? Sell stories about them to the tabloids?”

“Yeah, you know me.”

“Exactly. You wouldn’t do that to Helene ’cause you’re actually a good person and you’re a good friend. Someone tried to hurt you and me, and you didn’t try and scramble and point fingers, you’re sitting here thinking about my family and how they are handling this. You’re not Dru. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world—”

“Don’t tell Twitter that.”

“Actually . . .”

“Actually what?” Amanda asked as Sam pulled his phone out of his back pocket.

“I have a little something to show you. While Twitter is a garbage heap of a garbage fire, I found that you and I have a solid number of people who support our undeniable love.” Sam made a dramatic show of clearing his throat. “‘Starting the Protect Amanda McQueen at All Cost prayer circle. Who’s with me?’ There are four hundred responses, about ninety-eight percent positive.”

“What about the other two percent.”

“Bots. Russian bots. I’m sure of it, but wait. There’s more. ‘Wow. I didn’t know who Sam Pleasant was until about twenty minutes ago, but he’s fine and he clearly has taste.’ There’s a picture of us both. Several people agree with this assessment. There are more tweets about you crushing people with your ample thighs, but some of them were a little much and then I started getting jealous.”