I head back to the car and Hollis follows.
“Still doesn’t mean he needed it in the first place. Probably has piles of money like Scrooge McDuck back in his mansion because he tricks nice young ladies into covering his daily expenses.”
I roll my eyes. “Mhm. Yeah. I’m sure that’s exactly the case, Hollis. Sounds like a super-efficient lifestyle.” The man gives me a wave from within his truck’s cab as he pulls away.
We’re back on the highway before Hollis speaks again. “I don’t understand how you go through life this way, trusting everyone to be who they say they are and want what they say they want. Doesn’t it ever come back to bite you?”
“Not often. But sometimes.” I make a sound that aspires to be a chuckle but mostly comes out a little sad. “It certainly did with Josh.”
“Oh,” Hollis says. “I didn’t mean to... We don’t need to talk about that.”
“It’s fine. I feel okay about it now.” I really do. I’m still stunned by a lot of the assholery that I somehow missed over the three years we were together, but I don’t dwell on it anymore. “There’snothing quite like finding out your boyfriend has been pretending to be you online to increase his own name recognition to make you realize you’re better off without him.”
“Hold on. He didwhatnow?”
“That’s the reason we broke up, the reason I came out of the party so upset that night. One of Josh’s acquaintances told me she justlovedmy Instagram. Except I don’t have an Instagram. In fact, I very intentionally stay away from all social media because, as you may have noticed, people have a lot of feelings about Penelope that I, Millie, do not necessarily want to know about. So I confronted Josh, and he confessed that he started an account in my name about six months before. He wanted to get me back into the public eye because he thought it’d help him sell more copies of his book. He felt like I owed him because he ‘put up with me’ or whatever.”
What Josh actually said while he had me pinned up against a wall in the hallway leading to the restaurant’s bathrooms was,If you’re going to be fucking weird, Millie, you should at least be fucking weird and famous again so I’m not with you for nothing.It was in that moment that I knew our relationship was over and that he didn’t love me. Probably never had. But despite knowing deep inside that those words say much more about him than they do about me, I don’t want to tell Hollis the whole truth. I’m embarrassed. It’s like my shame at the airport; sometimes I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible when men are shitty to me, but then I feel guilty for falling into that trap. And then the result is the same: me feeling bad about my feelings.
“So he like... posted pictures of you? I don’t think I understand.”
“Yeah. Hundreds of them. Of me, us, our apartment. Most ofwhich I didn’t even know he’d taken. But he captioned them as if it were me posting. Ten thousand people liking and commenting and... He gave people access to my life, access tome, without me even knowing.”
“Wow. That’s super scummy.” He’s not looking at me, since he’s driving, and he’s still frowning from back when we were at the gas station so I have no idea how genuine the sentiment is.
“Yeah.” I don’t tell him the worst part: that Josh revealed later that he was going to propose that night in front of everyone at the party. And I would have said yes, not even realizing it was all a big publicity stunt.
There’s a pause in the conversation as Hollis focuses on the road. We’re getting closer to Richmond. Rush-hour traffic on I-95 is always bad. But combined with the people heading to the beach for the long weekend, we’re going about twenty miles an hour. Every once in a while, someone slams on their brakes, just for fun, I guess.
We’re at a standstill when Hollis speaks again. “So are you completely anti–social media? Because I saw you take a picture with that prick at the airport. You know he’s probably posted it to Insta, Twitter, Facebook, wherever. Right? Or do I need to go track him down and break his phone?”
I can’t tell if that’s a sweet offer or if Hollis just really hated that guy. Not sure I’d blame him if it’s the latter. “Ha, no. It’s fine. I don’t want to participate, but I don’t mind popping up here and there. Besides, I can’t really avoid it, not completely. Whether I like it or not, acting when I was a kid means I’m always going to be considered public property in some ways. If I don’t pose for the pics, they take them stealthily. I’d rather at least look halfway decent. Choose what parts of me the public gets to consume. That’svery important to me. And that’s why what Josh did felt like such a huge violation.”
“Makes sense,” Hollis says, signaling to change lanes.
“I mean,Ithink so. But during the fight Josh said letting other people post selfies with me isn’t any different than what he did.”
Hollis shakes his head. I hear him mumble something that sounds an awful lot like, “Fucking asshole.”
“What was that?” I ask. Because I want him to say it louder, to know if he’s really on my side instead of Josh’s, even though that’s where his loyalty should lie. Probably. I don’t know the loyalty code for frenemies.
“I said he’s such a fucking asshole.” He crisply enunciates each syllable like a grittier version of the NPR correspondents he likes listening to. I can’t help but grin. “Your issue is with the lack of control over your image,” he continues. “Posing for a picture with someone is one thing. Having someone take pics of you and plaster them online, plus he pretends you’re the one posting? He’s either the least intelligent human on the planet or simply an asshole. And as little as I think of Josh Yaeger’s intellect, it’s clear that it’s mostly option B in this situation.”
A hopeful warmth blooms inside my chest. This is different from Dani reassuring me over and over after the breakup that I was in the right every time I called her in tears at three in the morning. And from Mrs. Nash’s endearing anger—after I explained what the hell Instagram is—that Josh would do such a thing. It’s different because Hollis doesn’t have a horse in this race. He isn’t invested in my happiness. I mean, I’m not sure he evenlikesme. So I can only surmise that that little speech and the way his jaw is clenched and his fingers are digging into the steering wheel translate to genuine indignance on my behalf. It shouldn’tmatter that Hollis cares that Josh hurt me, but it does. It matters so much.
Before I can say anything in response, Hollis’s grip on the wheel loosens, freeing his fingertips to tap out a short rhythm. “Hey,” he says. “You hungry?”
4
•••••
“José Napoleoni’s Rio Grande Trattoria?” That’s what the sign says, so I’m not sure why it comes out of my mouth as a question. Maybe just because I’m struggling with the concept of Mexican-Italian fusion, especially housed in what is clearly a former Pizza Hut just off the highway.
“It’s either this or fast food,” Hollis says. Before I can tease him for being a snob, he adds, “I don’t mind fast food, if that’s what you want. My tastes are pretty much the opposite of bougie. But I figure we can wait out some of the traffic if we sit down to eat here.”
He has a point. Fast food would be, well, faster. But it’s not like rush hour is about to magically disappear, and I’ll dwell less on the ticking clock if we’re eating a decent meal than if I’m sitting helplessly in the passenger seat with nothing to do but wait and imagine the worst.
There are only three cars in the restaurant’s parking lot, which isn’t the best sign. Then again, this isn’t exactly a bustling area—wherever it is in Virginia we even are—so maybe three cars is an absolute crush for slightly before dinnertime on a Thursday. I look the place up on my phone and find that it only opened within the last month and therefore has a whopping four reviews, one of which is inexplicably in Polish.
