But are they? No. They’re far from it.
In fact, the people who make the biggest mistakes are generally the best kind of people. Because they’re the ones who admit to it, even if it takes a while.
By now you’ve probably read an article from the Whiskey Key Daily that details an eavesdropped conversation regarding a mistake Brett Walker made some twelve or so months ago.
What you didn’t read in that article is that the author of it was told to press publish.
That’s right. Told to.
By Brett Walker.
You see, it’s no big scandal. You’ll never see the tape that was made. The author of the article never saw the tape. In fact, until this moment, it was never confirmed that such a thing even existed.
Why am I confirming it?
Because I can. Because I know the facts. Because I know how he made this mistake.
And I love him anyway, just like so many other people do.
You can believe what you want about what you’ve been told by the Whiskey Key Daily. The article was embellished and wildly exaggerated. Six figures for a sex tape? He’s not a Hollywood superstar. He’s a Whiskey Key heir—one he has to split two ways, no less. Why would he pay such an extortionate figure to somebody for something nobody outside this town would care about?
Before you judge and point the fingers, remember what he does for the town. Remember how your child could be benefiting from a vegetable garden at school because he paid for it. Remember how your child may also get pleasure from the new gym equipment being installed for the new school year.
Remember that your daughter, friend, sister, mother, or even the people who serve you coffee or sit behind you in church may have their lives saved because of the charity he supports and almost single-handedly funds.
Remember the children who go into the shelter he loves without hope and leave with more hope than some adults struggle to conjure up on a morning.
Remember that this tape, this mistake, this accident, doesn’t define his character. The things I just mentioned do. They define him as a strong, capable person with a big heart, willing to help whoever needs it.
Ignore the stories. Brush away the rumors. Take a minute and look beyond what you believe a person to be and realize that nobody is who they seem. Everybody has a secret. Everybody has something they’d rather not admit to.
Brett Walker chose to admit to his mistake. He chose to take responsibility for it. To own it. To accept it. To live with it.
Just like thousands of people do every day.
Instead of judging people for making mistakes, perhaps we should celebrate them for admitting to them instead.
After all, you’re not a bad cook just because you burned your Thanksgiving turkey last year, are you?
I slowly turned my face to look at her. “But we did pay six figures to her for the tape.”
Lani blinked up at me, smiling. “What can I say? Lying. It’s a journalist’s worst trait, but it’s our most useful weapon. I just happen to use mine for good.”
“How is that using it for good?”
Her smile widened. “He printed the six figures—and he exaggerated the figure you told me.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Did you just play him at his own game?”
“No,” she answered, her smile turning cocky. “I beat him at it.”
I cupped her chin and pulled her face close to mine. “Have I told you that I love you today?”
“No. You’re slacking.”
I laughed and kissed her. “Well, I love you.”
“Love you too.” She grinned against my mouth.
“Ugh,” Camille said, getting up. “You two make me sick.”
EPILOGUE
LANI
Three weeks later
“Let me get this straight,” Raven said, her hand stuck inside a glass as she dried it with a cloth. “Nothing has happened. Literally nobody cared, and he’s still wondering why.”
“Pretty much,” I answered. “Honestly, I think his ego got a little big.”
“A little?” Camille snorted. “His ego was bigger than Texas. Of course he thought somebody would care.”
“To be fair,” I said, “We all thought it would be a bigger deal than it was.”
Raven put the glass down in front of me. “I think it was somewhat overshadowed by Anton’s sketchy tactics. You should have heard the conversations in here the day after you published your article. Nobody could begin to believe that he’d been so sneaky in his methods of finding out.”
I frowned. “But I didn’t say anything about how he found out.”
Camille scratched beneath her ear.
“Camille,” I said slowly.
She threw up her hands. “What was I gonna do? The guy screwed over my brother. Brett might be a giant pain in my ass, but he’s still my brother. We shared a womb, for Chrissakes.”
Raven grinned conspiratorially. “Did you tell everyone he eavesdropped on a private conversation?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“I may or may not have commented on his website article anonymously.”
I spun on the bar stool. “Camille!” I lightly pushed her. “What did you say?”
“That I’d heard he recorded it,” she murmured.
My jaw dropped. Oh my god. “That was you?”
“Hey,” she said, jabbing a finger in my direction. “Journalists aren’t the only ones prone to lying.”
“I don’t lie,” I protested, whacking her finger away. “I embellish. Tweak. Fiddle.”
“That sounds like you’re reading some fucked-up erotica out loud,” Raven told me, grabbing a cocktail shaker. “But I’m so fucking impressed, I’m pouring some lunch time drinks. Then I’m going to make you look over my prospective menu.”
“Menu?” Camille asked.
I nudged her. “Yeah. For the food. Don’t you listen?”
She looked at me. “As a rule, no.”
I rolled my eyes.
Raven did too. “Whatever. I need you to help me because I can’t find a goddamn chef. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Maybe your menu is too complicated,” Camille suggested.
“Nope.” Brett walked out of the back room, looking at a notebook. “This is all basic shit. Burgers, chicken wings, fries...Salads and all that healthy shit girls eat.”
“You ate a salad last night,” I said, whipping the notebook out of his hands when he joined us at the bar. I scanned her proposed menu. “There’s nothing wrong with this.”
“Good,” Raven said. “Because if the guy I’m interviewing tomorrow is no good, then I’m gonna have to swallow some pride and ask my brother.”
“Why would that be swallowing your pride? Isn’t your brother a good chef?” Camille asked.
“Yeah,” Raven said. “But he’s already working in Key West for the summer. He brought his best friend home, who I happen to hate. Think Lani coming home kinda hate.”
“Oooh,” I replied. “Let me guess. His best friend is a chef?”
“Yes.” She gritted her teeth. “And I don’t want to ask him.”
“Well, that sucks,” Brett said, pulling me off the stool. “But we’ve gotta run.”
I did a double-take. “We do? Where? Why? What?”