Page 97 of No One But Us

James’ parents released the voicemails late yesterday afternoon, saying we needed to be sure we’d shut Edward down before he could put another alternate version of the truth out there. I spoke off the record to The New York Times. My name won’t be mentioned, but it still seems to me that this could backfire.

James reaches over to the nightstand and grabs his laptop. I wait, my heart pounding so hard that I swear I can feel it echo. As he pulls the article up, I feel increasingly convinced that this is going to go as badly for me as pretty much everything else has this summer.

He scans the article briefly before he slides the laptop over with a small smile.

I read and begin to relax. She’s relayed the story like I did, following chronologically a little girl who believes herself surrounded by trustworthy adults, who continues to believe it long after it ceases to be true. And she then describes a system in which celebrities evade restraining orders and a whole network conspires to keep their big money-maker free from harm.

It doesn’t just skewer Edward—it takes down the whole show, the network, even the justice system for failing to protect a citizen when there’s a celebrity involved.

If anything, Edward is almost unfairly vilified; he sounds like a pedophile who’s been targeting me since childhood.

Tears well up in my eyes as I finish the article.

“Why are you crying?” James asks, mystified.

“I don’t know.” I laugh. “It’s just… I’d stopped believing things would ever be fair, that any part of the system still worked. And I’m so happy it does.”

Max makes us all breakfast, and we wait impatiently for the voicemails to air on morning TV. The anchors repeatedly promise the segment is “coming up” and instead present us with hard-hitting features about a Jurassic Park-themed wedding, an 80 year old completing her high school degree, and a fashion show with babies dressing up like historic figures.

Finally the female anchor does a live intro, putting on her Very Serious Face to let viewers know this is important. “Last June, rumors began to swirl about Edward Ferris,” she intones. “He was accused of having an affair with a 19-year-old intern. In truth, the affair was merely a figment of his imagination. And at its center, a teenage girl he harassed and stalked to the point that she feared for her life. What you’re about to hear next may shock you.”

I snort a laugh at this. “Personally, I’m shocked to hear that I feared for my life.”

Then the voicemails begin playing, the words transcribed on the screen in case anyone has missed a single crazy-on-top-of-crazy word.

I wish I hadn’t had to release them. It was necessary, but I could do without having the whole world know the things he thought about, even if most people don’t know they were about me.

“Jesus. I can’t believe he was saying that shit to you,” says Ginny quietly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I raise a brow, and she nods. “I guess I wouldn’t have told me either.” She pushes James’ arm off me and puts hers in its place.

“That guy is so fucked,” says Max.

I wish that were true, but I’m not sure. Celebrities have come back from worse.

It’s announced that afternoon that Edward will take a “leave of absence” to deal with “addiction issues.” My guess is that they’ll wait to see if he can recover from the bad publicity, and it’s entirely possible he will. But all that matters is I will too.

Chapter 58

ELLE

By midday, every network except Edward’s seems to be discussing him around the clock. Then it’s a running gag on the late night shows. One comedian does an entire skit dressed as Edward, pretending to hang outside a high school and ask girls to prom in his gravelly voice.

Edward might have stood a chance at recovering from the whole thing if he’d followed the advice given to me—if he’d laid low, waited for it to die down. But instead he insists he is coming into work, and he has to be removed from the building by security. And then he stands in front and announces to all the camera crews outside that he never left those voicemails—not the best argument to make when the entire country recognizes your voice.

So it seems safe to conclude that my gamble paid off, but there’s one last hurdle to deal with: my father. No news has been released about his correspondent’s position, and in this case, no news probably is not good news.

I brace myself when he calls, for his anger and his threats. And possibly worse.

“I read the article,” he says. His voice is stern, emotionless. A newscaster voice.

I’m not going to apologize. His behavior this summer has shown me who he is. And if he refuses to pay for college now, he’ll just be confirming it.

I’ll be okay I’ll be okay I’ll be okay. I’m not entirely sure I believe it, but I repeat it just the same.

“Those voicemails. You should have told me,” he says, and there’s a tiny unevenness to his voice that I’ve never heard before. “How could you not have told me how bad it was?”

For some reason this unexpected shift, him acting like a parent for the first time in months, or even years, makes my eyes sting.