“I don’t know. Soon?” I wander over to my bedroom blinds and peek through. A tall, brambly hedge divides my backyard from the one behind it. You’d think no one’s getting through that, and yet I could swear I saw the glint of a camera lens in the sunlight more than once. Maybe I’m just paranoid. “I’d really like to get this over with so I don’t have a hundred people videotaping me serving fries and filling ketchup bottles in my hideous uniform.”
“I’ll get right on it.” The grogginess in his voice has cleared. “You’re home now?”
“Yeah. I lasted at Diamonds all of twenty seconds.”
“Okay. Give me a few hours. We’ll get this set up and make it as easy as possible, I promise.”
The guy barely survived a car wreck less than two weeks ago. He’s got broken bones that have left him in agony. I just woke him up, and now I’ve got him arranging a freaking interview, when he should be lying in bed and watching a Netflix marathon and not moving. “I’m sorry to be saddling you with all this so early. I just—”
“Don’t apologize.” There’s a sharpness to his tone that catches me off guard, but he follows it up with a soft “Don’t ever apologize for any of this. I want to help you in any way that I can.”
I smile. There’s a sincerity about Brett Madden that I have to believe is impossible to fake. Plus, talking to him makes me feel like everything is going to work out.
Still, him calling me a “hero” makes my stomach churn. Would he call me that if he knew I almost left him? I hesitate. “Brett?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Shoot.”
I open my mouth. No, not over the phone. I’ll wait until I see him again. “Thank you.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, okay. I’ll call you back. Do me a favor and don’t answer any numbers you don’t recognize.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already learned that lesson.”
“Talk to you soon.”
I end the call and then let my body flop backward onto my bed, closing my eyes. Soon. Things will be back to normal soon.
Who am I kidding?
I have a feeling nothing will ever be normal again.
I must have dozed off, because I’m startled awake by my phone’s ringer. As soon as I see Brett’s name, I perk up. “Hello?”
His smooth voice fills my ear and instantly warms me. “We’re all set.”
“What?” I frown at the clock. It’s eight thirty-seven. It’s only been an hour since we talked.
“The interview. It’s all set.”
I pull myself up. “Really? Already? Oh, okay.” I pause, wondering what the right next question should be. “When? Where?”
“So, here’s the thing. I know you said you wanted something really simple.”
Unease slips into my stomach, churning it, as I wait for Brett to elaborate.
“But Kate Wethers of The Weekly called my publicist this morning and—”
“The Weekly? That’s . . . that’s not small. That’s not simple.” I’m already shaking my head before the firm “no” manages its way out. That’s pretty much the journalistic news broadcast. They report on major stories, like wars and political corruption. Lou always has it on the TV at the diner on Friday nights, until the regulars start bitching about wanting to watch sports. Why the hell would they want to report on me?
“I know. I was originally thinking People or Us Weekly, because this is more their thing—”
“People? Us Weekly?” My head is still shaking. No, no, no. Small and simple, I said. I did say that, didn’t I?
“Okay, hold on, Catherine. Just hear me out before you refuse. Promise?”
I heave a sigh. “Fine,” but it’s not going to matter. He’s not going to change my mind.
“Okay, so Kate Wethers thinks this is the kind of heartwarming, happy-ending story that the world needs right now. She’s smart, and she’s fair, and she hates shitty journalism, which is what she sees when she reviews the media surrounding this story. All the crap about that high school teacher—”
“I can’t talk about that with her, on national television!”
“Why not?”
“Because I recanted my statement.”
“Are you saying that nothing happened between you two?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to lie to Brett. “I’m not saying that,” I finally admit.
“You just didn’t want him to go to jail, did you?”
“Right.”
“I didn’t think so,” he says softly. “And I think you should talk about it. Just a bit. Just enough to let viewers see that a thirty-year-old teacher with a lot of ties to the community manipulated a seventeen-year-old high school girl and then tried to cover his ass. It wasn’t right, what happened to you. I mean, hell! The local newspaper made him look like a victim!”
I swallow. “How much did you read?”
“Honestly? All of it. Every article I could find online.”
I close my eyes as my embarrassment takes over. “I was a different person back then. I don’t want you to think that I’m . . . like that anymore.” How do I make him understand without saying the actual words?
“I don’t care if you nailed the entire football team, if that’s what you’re getting at, Cath,” Brett says bluntly. “It doesn’t change what I think of you.”
What exactly does he think of me?
“Kate wants to set things right. She wants you walking out of this interview able to hold your head high, because that’s what you deserve. Are you with me so far?”
“Yeah. I think so,” I answer reluctantly.
“The great thing is that they’re based here in Philly. The team can be at your place by three.”
“Whoa. Wait. Today? Here?”
“Yeah, they want to come to your house to film. It gives the entire story a much more personal, everyday human touch. You’ll also be more comfortable, in familiar surroundings. Trust me, I’ve done plenty of interviews, so I’m speaking from experience. Plus, I told them you likely wouldn’t be willing to leave your daughter. So if you two could spare a few hours—”
“You mean me and Brenna? No. There’s no way she’s going to be a part of this interview.”
“But they think—”
“I’m not exposing my child to this. I don’t want her on camera, or pictured, or even named. In fact, she’s not even going to be here.” I don’t know where she’ll go, because Keith has court this afternoon. But I don’t care. “This is nonnegotiable.”
A long pause meets my words. “You’re right. I’ll have Simone communicate that to them. But you’re willing to do it otherwise?”
I wander out of my bedroom and into my main room to survey the shabby curtains, the worn floors, the cupboard doors that don’t quite hang right. If this is what they want—to show the world the life of the single mom and diner waitress who saved their superman from certain death—and if it gets the rest of the circus off my back . . .
But. “There are things I won’t talk about.”
“Like?”
“Like my relationship with my parents. We’re finally at a point where we’re talking again, and I don’t want to ruin that with this interview. They’re the only family Brenna knows.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Brenna’s father. That’s off-limits.”
Brett hesitates. “So he’s not in her life at all?”
“No.”
“Got it. I’ll make sure they know those two things. And I’ll be there the whole time, too, just to make sure. If that’s okay?”