Brett Madden reunites with MMA fighter Courtney Woods.
I read the article, my heart sinking with each word. According to ESPN, Courtney arrived in Toronto this afternoon and was seen pulling up to the gates of the Madden family residence in King City, a rural community north of the city known for its rolling hills, prestigious horse farms, and wealthy estates. Paparazzi snapped a shot of the tall blonde at the airport, and an inside source has confirmed that they’ve reconciled after breaking up last fall, after a nearly year-long relationship. His recent near-death accident sparked the reunion.
And there, at the very bottom of the article, I’m mentioned. Specifically, that despite wishful rumors of Brett and me being linked romantically, we remain nothing more than friends who shared a traumatic event.
I frown at the number of comments to the article below. That many people have something to say about this reunion?
What exactly are they saying?
Despite my promise to Simone and my better judgment—my day can’t possibly get any worse—my curiosity finally gets the better of me.
“Cath?”
I cover my mouth with my hands, trying to smother my sobs. After a moment, I manage to call out, “I’ll be out in a sec.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
The door to my bedroom, where I’ve been hiding out for the past half hour, creaks open and Jack pokes his head in. I turn away from him, but it’s too late to hide my tear-streaked cheeks and my puffy red eyes. Pushing the door shut behind him, he quietly sits down beside me, my bed creaking under our combined weight. “What’s going on?”
I hold up my phone, my bottom lip wavering. “Why are people so mean?”
He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him in time for me to start sobbing uncontrollably against his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’ve stayed away from it up until now, but I was curious. I just wanted to see what people were saying, so I clicked on the comments . . .”
A lot of people have a lot to say.
And most of it was about me.
So many of them call me brave and kind, label me an angel, proclaim that I was touched by God’s will to manage what I did. They thank me over and over again, for risking my life to save such an incredible man. A man they’ve never met but obviously dream about meeting one day. A man they idolize. Many of them are praying for me and wishing me only happiness after what that teacher did to me. They don’t think it was right, the way I was treated, the way Scott Philips got away with it. They’re disgusted by it. So many people wholeheartedly agree with Kate Wethers—Brett and I would make a beautiful couple and they want to see it happen, because it would make for such a happy end to the story.
But all those kind words and well wishes quickly fade into oblivion, next to the other comments that have been floating around since the interview aired.
The ones that label me ugly and stupid, a white trash whore who’ll be serving fries for the rest of my life. That I need a nose job and a boob job, that my eyes are too big, that I’m too skinny. That I should be cut off welfare, that I’m the problem with America today. That I deserve what happened with Philips because I must be a slut if I got pregnant so young. That I’m lying about everything that happened the night of the accident because I just want the attention. That they hope Brett gave me a pity fuck before he returned to Courtney. That even if Brett and I had gotten together, he’d have ditched me the second his leg was working and he was back on the ice, banging hot puck bunnies.
Those are just words. Then there are the pictures, the memes. Still shots that people actually pulled from The Weekly interview, of me sitting on my couch next to Brett, my face contorted in midspeech, and hurtful little captions to go along with them. I guess they’re meant to be funny.
They only made me cry harder.
People actually took time out of their lives to make these.
Jack groans. “You never read the comments! Those people are fucking trolls. Losers with sad, small lives and nothing better to do than spew crap and hate. It’s all bullshit.”
“And yet it hurts so much when it’s about you.” When almost everything they’ve said, I’ve thought at some point or another. “This feels like seven years ago all over again. Except worse. I can’t handle this.”
“Yeah, you can. You’re the strongest person I know.”
Me, strong? “No I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re way stronger than Emma, or Mom.”
“Mom’s a rock.”
“No, Mom just doesn’t take risks, she always plays the safe card.”
I simply shake my head.
“I still remember when you walked out of the house with your backpack slung over your shoulder. It was like you’d been sitting in your room waiting until the stroke of midnight.”
“I was.”
“You set out to survive on your own, with no job and no money, and you did. The day you moved out, Mom and Dad had a huge fight. She guaranteed that you’d come running back within two weeks with your tail between your legs. But, stubborn ass that you are, you didn’t so much as call. And then, when she found out you were pregnant, she actually brought a contractor in to give an estimate on a basement renovation, for when you came running home with the baby because there’s no way you’d be able to hack it. You never did. You handled everything life threw at you and you did it all on your own.”
“With the help of a few people,” I correct, though I offer him a small smile, appreciating the words. I flop back on my bed, suddenly exhausted. I feel like I could sleep for the next week.
“You can handle this, Cath.”
I stare up at the ceiling. It’s in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Jack leans back beside me, the accompanying creak making me think we’re about to break the frame, which was a garage sale purchase. It hasn’t had to bear the weight of a man lying on it since before the day Keith loaded it into his truck and brought it here for me six years ago, sad as that may be.
“Did you want what Wethers said to be true?” he asks softly, a rare seriousness in his tone.
Yes. Clearly I did, if this stings so much.
“He just feels indebted to me,” I say instead. Not answering the question.
“Maybe.”
“Misty thinks I’m an idiot for not throwing myself at him when I had the chance.”
“Misty’s good at throwing herself at guys.” He pauses. “Has Singer said anything?”
“No. Nothing about that, anyway. He’s texted a million times to see if I needed anything.”
“I ran into him the other day when I was jogging. He wasn’t really himself. I think he finally realized he doesn’t have a hope in hell with Madden as competition.”