If their fingers were in the dam, at least for tonight, if the New York Post and Food & Wine and all the press at the party tweeted our side of the story, we could deal with this tomorrow in some way. Couldn’t we?
The truth was, as I asked myself the question, as I tried to breathe in the possibility of the answer being yes, I knew it all came down to convincing the world that my relationship with Ryan was platonic. If there was one thing women couldn’t forgive each other for—if there was one thing they didn’t want to forgive—it was another woman being adulterous. You could abuse drugs (an addict, not your fault) or railroad someone at work (it’s business), but if you slept with another woman’s husband, it was like you slept with everyone’s husband. It was like you betrayed all womankind.
Until, of course, it was you who found yourself in the role of adulterous bitch.
And, for whatever it’s worth (and if you’re even able to believe me), my situation with Ryan was more complicated than the naked bathroom photograph would initially suggest. I only slept with Ryan once. Do I sound like a politician trying to get out on a technicality? Perhaps. So let me be clear. From day one, we flirted. We were more involved than we should have been, spending time together that we should have reserved for our spouses, and sharing pieces of ourselves that they longed for and we too easily gave up to each other instead.
The hotel in the photograph was the St. Regis in Aspen. We had been there for the Food & Wine Classic last year, so I could judge a new chef competition. At the party that night, Ryan drank too much champagne and lost his hotel room key and ended up on my floor. And when he got up and climbed into the bed, I let him in.
How had we gotten there? Into that hotel room together? Ryan was the only one who knew—truly knew—all my secrets. Maybe it was a justification, but it didn’t feel like a justification. Sometimes you create a world so intricate, so nuanced, that only the two of you can understand it. And that was what we did. It was never about love or anything like love. It was about something that felt completely real.
And the point is, the very next morning, I told Ryan it had been a mistake. Did I confess the transgression to Danny? Why tell him? It would only cause him pain. I guess that’s what all cheaters say. But in this case, it was true. Nothing had to change between us. I moved on and, with the exception of a little leftover weirdness, Ryan moved on too.
The hacker apparently had not.
My phone buzzed again, shaking in my pocket, and I looked down at another tweet.
A Farmers Daughter? #idontthinkso
And a link to: aintnosunshine.nyc
I clicked the button, an entire website up and running—my yearbook photo from high school, front and center, my real name, Sunshine Stephens, underneath. And all the details too:
“Sunshine Stephens grew up in Montauk, on prestigious Old Montauk Highway, in a cliffside mansion. No small farming town, no home on the range. Her father was a famed composer. She had quite a cushy childhood.”
The description was wrong. We’d had no money, it wasn’t a mansion, and my childhood was the opposite of cushy—but it didn’t matter. Everything I had sold on the air was a bill of goods, and everyone would know it now. It wasn’t just strangers who would feel betrayed hearing about who I used to be. It was friends and colleagues—everyone whom I’d never told who I really was. Since Sunshine Mackenzie’s inception, I’d kept my past from all of them. As for the people I’d grown up with, I had theories as to why they’d stayed quiet—theories about how my town stopped caring about you as soon as you walked out the door. Ryan dismissed that reasoning though, saying they’d stayed quiet for the reason everyone stayed quiet: People only spoke up about something if it benefited them. I palmed my phone angrily, not sure what to do. If I could find out who was doing this, maybe there was a play to be made. But how on earth was I going to do that?
It was as if the freak had heard me contemplating. My phone buzzed, and I looked down at the alert, a text from a blocked number.
Tough Night? #aintnosunshine
I wrote back quickly. Who are you?
I could ask you the same thing.
Pls. What do you want?
The little ellipsis started going like crazy. What do you think I want?
I was shaking, completely furious. Whoever this was, he was enjoying it. Enjoying the discomfort I was in. He was punishing me in every way he could think of.
Are you after money here?
Wrong question.
The little ellipsis started going again. Then, suddenly, it stopped. And started again.
How much money?
I thought of what Danny and I had in savings. After the apartment renovation and the money he’d put into his business, it wasn’t a lot.
Forget it. Bye 4 now.
I looked down at the phone, horrified that this horrible person had ruined my birthday, my marriage, my career. He wanted to play games? I could play games too.
A little game of telephone, specifically. In which I palmed my phone and hurled it right over the railing and into the Hudson River.
7
When I got back to the loft, I heard someone rummaging around in the kitchen. And for a second, I thought Danny was there. I didn’t think he’d forgiven me, but I thought maybe he had forgotten something—that he’d come home to get clothes for the night. That I’d have another chance to win him over. To get him to lie down and talk it through. To get him, for the night, to stay.
“Sunny?” I heard from the kitchen.
It was Ryan.
He walked into the living room, a bottle of scotch in his hand. “Where have you been?” he said.
“Nowhere. Why are you here?”
“It’s nice to see you too,” he said.
I was gutted and all I wanted to do was get into bed. Wake up, like in Groundhog Day, get to start this birthday again. But there was Ryan, a terrible reminder that that wasn’t happening.
“I thought you could use some company,” he said. “And I was sure I could use a drink.”
“What if Danny was here?”
Ryan sat down in my egg chair. “Danny is not coming back here. Tonight took care of that.”
“Please get out of my chair.”
Ryan moved toward the couch. “So Meredith’s a wreck, but after I sent her back to Scarsdale in an Uber, I was able to go back in and calm everybody down. And it actually worked. I mean, Danny helped a lot, I’ve got to say. Did you propose the idea of that speech?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m impressed. Didn’t think he had it in him.”
“I don’t want to talk about Danny.”
“Do you think I want to talk about Danny?”
I sat down in my chair, weary and miserable. I wanted Ryan to go, but I was too exhausted to press it.
“Point is, after a little finagling and hand-holding, I got everyone buying that it was a misunderstanding. I even suggested that Meredith was actually angry about something else.”
“What’d that be?”
Ryan poured some scotch into a glass. “A woman friend I made upstate.”
“Thanks for taking that hit,” I said.
“The little hacker fucker is a pain in my ass.”