Social Media

by JA Huss

  So once I was adopted by the Chambers family, they let me decide if I wanted to continue wasting my days that way. And of course, I said no thank you.

  Things got better after that. I got to recreate myself. I got to choose a new name.

  In the hospital I was wild. And vulgar. And undignified. I lost myself in those eight months. So I chose Grace.

  I wanted to remind myself to be graceful. To act with grace. To never, ever let that freak win. He made me into a primitive and weak mess. He made me uncivilized and rude. Withdrawn and silent.

  I wanted to be Grace and so I became that girl. The yes girl. The girl who pleased people and fit in. I became… social. And perky and sweet and cute.

  I chose Kinsella because Sophie Kinsella is my favorite author. I read every book of hers while I was locked up that year. She kept me going. She kept me alive. She made me laugh again. I wanted to be the girls in her books. I wanted to live those lives. I wanted to be anyone but me.

  And so I am. I am a cliché of chick-lit females.

  Are you coming? a second text asks me.

  Am I coming?

  What would those girls in the books do? That’s how I’ve made my choices since I became Grace Kinsella. WWKGD? What would Kinsella girls do? Blow off the millionaire movie star one last time? Or admit they need him, and humbly ask for another chance?

  I throw my covers off and pull on a pair of jeans and grab a hoodie. Kinsella girls don’t wear hoodies to meet millionaires on the roof, but it’s dark. So who cares?

  I grab the keychain with my new house key off the foyer table and stick it in my jeans pocket, and then step out into the quiet hallway. I pull the door closed with a soft whoosh and listen for noise downstairs.

  Nothing.

  I take the stairs up to the roof and push through with the start of a smile on my face. I haven’t been up here since that dinner we had all those weeks ago. The roof is dark, but the lights from the building across Wazee Street backlight the palm trees. I bet they are gonna die soon if they stay here. It will be cold and snowy before long. I look for Vaughn as the door closes behind me but there’s no one.

  “Vaughn?”

  A foul-smelling cloth covers my mouth and I inhale before I realize what’s happening.

  My eyes look up and find his face.

  No, not his face.

  His mask.

  This time not the boy from camp. This time he’s the Invisible Man.

  “You’re mine,” he says, the voice taking me back ten years. “I told you, Daisy. You’re mine.”

  That’s the last thing I hear as my world goes black.

  Chapter Sixty-Three - Vaughn

  #BlueberriesAren’tNews

  LAUGHTER from a tenant and a sharp pain in my back pulls me out of my hazy slumber. Note to self—the lobby of Grace’s building needs better furniture if I’m going to be sleeping on the couch every time she gets angry.

  I chuckle a little at that. It should annoy me, but it doesn’t. It makes me feel… part of something. Part of a relationship. And I am, right? We are married. We. Are. Married. And I know she’s wary and I know she’s unhappy about how it came about, but the fact is, she married me. She said, ‘I do,’ and signed her name on the license.

  I realize now that we were both far too drunk. I mean, she has no memory, so yeah. I huff out a breath. She was definitely far too drunk to make that decision. But it’s done. And I’m not interested in getting unmarried to Grace. In fact, I’m interested in doing it all over again, only this time making it a huge production. Hollywood style, maybe. Hundreds of guests. Lavish place settings and those little bags they give out filled with items you don’t need but which have the bride and groom’s name on them.

  “Boss?”

  I want a huge cake as tall as her, with a different flavor filling in each layer. Dancing, of course. I’ve never danced with her. So dancing. And a honeymoon. A real honeymoon. Not the beach. Maybe Japan or Iceland or a cruise around the world. Something daring and new.

  “Boss? You awake?”

  And then house-hunting. Let her choose the neighborhood. Hell, the state. She might not want to be in California. I don’t need to be in California, that’s for sure. She might even want to keep her job. Or find a new job. She might want to live in Denver.

  Denver. Jesus.

  I’d live here though. It’s got an airport for my jet. Who cares where we live when we can be where we need to be in a few hours? It doesn’t matter.

  “Boss!”

  “Shit, Ray. What the fuck do you want?” I drag myself out of my dreams and look up at my head of security. “What?”

  “She didn’t go to work today. The other tenants have all left, but she’s still inside her apartment.”

  “Well…” I sit up and rub my hands down my face. I need to shave. “She had a rough few days, Ray. She deserves some time off.”

  “I’m just telling you. It’s a workday, and she didn’t go.”

  “OK. Well, I’m gonna go grab some coffee and see if she’s ready to talk to me yet.” I stand up and clap him on the back. “Thanks, man. Appreciate your help.”

  I almost crash into Bigmy, Grace’s personal security guard, as I make my way towards the front door. “Do you need something, Bigmy?”

  “I think she’s asleep,” he says in his thick Eastern European accent.

  I nod. “OK.”

  “There’s no noise in there. Like nothing. Silence.”

  “Is that bothering you?” I ask, unsure of what he’s getting at.

  “Most people get up, go to bathroom. Make coffee. Turn on TV. She’s not doing that.”

  “Well, I guess she’s sleeping.”

  “Right,” he says. But he’s not convinced.

  “Look, Bigmy, if you think there’s a problem, just say so.”

  He stares at me for a few seconds and then shrugs. “No problem.”

  I grab my sunglasses off the coffee table and place them on my head. “OK, well, then, I’m heading over to the Starbucks—”

  “You should stay inside,” Ray says. “The media is out there.”

  “Ray, the media is everywhere. They’re not gonna go away until we resolve all this shit. And I refuse to be stuck inside because of them. Ray, you come with me. Bigmy—”

  “Yes.”

  “You stay here with Grace. I’ll be right back and we’ll see if we can’t coax her out with a muffin and some coffee.”

  “She likes blueberry,” Bigmy says.

  “I know that, thank you.” Fuck.

  Ray and I walk to the front door and the frenzy starts before it even opens. Ray’s a tall guy. Not massive, like Bigmy. But tall. And he’s got a look about him that says, I will kill you with my bare hands.

  The shouting starts as I exit, but I just flip my sunglasses down and push right through them. I’ve been doing this for twenty-seven years. Some encounters have been more stressful than others, but I’m not the kind of movie star who punches out photographers. They are making a living. Yeah, they are parasites who make a living off me, but fuck it. I really have no beef with them. In fact, most of them are nice when they’re not stalking you.

  But then I see that bitch from Buzz Hollywood. She steps right in front of me and sticks that microphone in my face. “What will Jasinda think when she finds out you’re cheating on her?”

  I actually stop to laugh. Ray grabs my forearm and tugs, trying to get me moving again. But I shrug him off. “I hope,” I tell the reporter as I look her in the eye, “she feels ashamed of herself. Jasinda”—I am facing the camera now, so I address her directly—“you’re a lying bitch. If you’re even pregnant, I’m up for a DNA test any time you are. I have a wife now and her name is Grace Kinsella-Asher.” And then I turn back to look at all of them as they hover close behind me. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get her a coffee and a muffin. Blueberry,” I add. “Grace likes blueberry. And she likes iced tall sugar-free caramel, nonfat, light ice, Starbucks double
shot on ice. At least”—I stop to have a chuckle—“when she has money on her Starbucks app, she does.”

  “Does she have money on her app, Vaughn?” a reporter from an internet blog asks me.

  He’s nice, and funny. And never too serious about what he prints. “Her coffee worries are over, yes.”

  Now they chuckle with me and I turn away and start walking down the street to the Starbucks. Half of them follow, but they stay behind me. Like a little train of leeches—annoying, but harmless.

  See, this is how you handle the media. You don’t have to give them what they want, you just have to give them something they can use. Now they have two factoids about Grace to run with. Tomorrow everyone will be drinking that coffee concoction and the blueberry muffins will be sold out.

  The day after tomorrow, they will be after the personal details of someone else and no one will give a shit about us until the next movie comes out, or I get nominated for an award, or Grace gets pregnant.

  God. that makes me smile like an idiot and when I look over at Ray, he’s shaking his head. “What?” I ask him.

  He holds up a hand. “Nothing.”

  We turn right at 16th Street and head down towards the Starbucks.

  “But,” he continues, “you have a stupid grin on your face. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you are in love.”

  “I am in love.” I let out a breath. “I love this girl. I’m gonna marry her again and get her pregnant, and spend the rest of my life bossing her ass around and pissing her off.” I glance back at Ray. “She likes it. But she also likes to fight it.”

  “Mmm-hmm. If you say so, boss.”

  We walk the rest of the way to Starbucks in silence. The reporters stay outside as I go in to order. Ray blocks them and they don’t put up a fight. They figure if they’re nice, I’ll give them something else before I go back inside our building. And I probably will.

  Life is a give and take. I’ve always known this. You can’t always get what you want, so you have to just try to get what you need. And right now, I need for the media to leave us alone. Or at the very least, not be out to destroy us.

  I sign autographs while I wait for Grace’s drink. Cups mostly. I sign the apron of each employee and some napkins. And thirty minutes later—yeah, it’s a long time to be stuck in a Starbucks signing autographs when all I want is to think about the woman I love, but it only benefits both of us in the end—Ray and I walk back to wake Grace up with a nice iced coffee and her favorite pastry.

  I turn back to the media before going inside her apartment building. “I need a little advice.”

  “Sure, Vaughn!” I hear from the crowd. “Ask us anything!”

  “What kind of ring should I get her? We didn’t have time to get rings.”

  They start calling out suggestions. I nod for each and make a small comment like, ‘“Yes,” or “Oh, I like that idea.” That kind of thing.

  They eat that shit up. They’re happy now. I gave them two factoids and I asked them for help. They feel needed and necessary and none of what I actually said makes any difference to Grace, or me, or the world.

  But it matters. The media is a part of my life. The media is the reason Kristi’s brother called that hotline and let me know where she’d run off to.

  Sometimes I need them, sometimes they need me. And I never forget that, because that’s the secret to navigating this absurd world where what my wife eats for breakfast is print-worthy news.

  I scan their faces and come back satisfied with my performance… until I see that bitch from Buzz Hollywood. She’s not happy at all. She wanted to ambush me and she failed.

  I give her a wink to let her know I won, and turn to go inside. Smiling all the way upstairs. I pass Bigmy, who is standing guard at the top, and then I knock.

  Chapter Sixty-Four - Grace

  #HashtagSurvival

  THERE’S a knock on the door and I twist my head to try and see where it’s coming from, but the pain in my neck is sharp. And penetrating. It shoots down my arm like white-hot lightning and I moan.

  “Shut up.”

  My mind almost shuts down, that’s how badly that voice shocks me. It can’t…

  The knocking stops me again.

  “You know the rules.”

  “No,” I say. Or at least I try to say, but I can’t say anything. I realize I’m gagged and my heart starts to beat wildly. Erratic thumps inside my chest overtake all my coherent thoughts. I imagine all the ways in which this can kill me. I imagine my heart exploding and my breaths come faster, deeper, like I can’t suck up enough oxygen to save my life.

  I’m pulled up into a sitting position and he whacks me on the back like I’m choking instead of suffocating. “See,” he says. “You’d die without me. I saved you again. How many times have I saved you?”

  The knocking continues.

  I try to open my eyes but my head is swimming. This is not happening. This is not happening. I fall forward and hit my head on the floor in front of my feet. The tendons on the back side of my leg scream in pain, the stretch too much for me. I wiggle, realize I’m bound too, and then thrash around so I can change position and relieve the stress.

  “Sit up, Daisy.” I’m pulled into an even more uncomfortable sitting position and that’s when I know this is all real. That’s what makes it set in.

  Daisy.

  I’ve been running from this man for ten years. I’ve been trying to force myself to come to terms with what he is, what he did, what he wanted… and now that I’ve moved on and let it all go… he’s back.

  “No!” I say it a lot louder this time, and even through the gag, it comes out clear enough.

  I get a closed fist against my head for my trouble and teeter over, almost in slow motion, until I’m lying on my side.

  The knocking continues and even as I’m wondering why he’s not answering the door, I know.

  It’s not knocking. It’s a tree branch. Slapping against the side of the house.

  I’m back.

  I’m back in my closet. I’m back in the prison he built for me when I was thirteen. I can smell it now. The cedar lining of the closet mixed with mice and old carpet. Bile stirs up in my stomach and I know I’m going to vomit.

  But I also know doing that with a gag in my mouth might kill me. Daisy, you can cope. No! Grace! Grace can cope. You are Grace!

  “I know you’re a good girl, right, Daisy?”

  I breathe evenly, trying to calm my pounding heart. I know what to do. I know what he wants. I know what happens if I don’t comply. Because I’ve been here before. I’ve been bound and gagged inside this closet so many times I’ll never be able to forget it.

  “Daisy?” he asks, squeezing my cheeks so my chin is cupped in his hand. “Tell me you’re good.”

  I know what he’s doing. Even though I never talked to them, I did see therapists for years after I was returned. He’s conditioning me. Or, since I was already conditioned, he’s re-conditioning me.

  Grace, as long as you know that, you’re OK. Just don’t lose sight of what’s happening. Agree, give him what he wants. You know what happens if you don’t.

  “Yes,” I mumble through my gag. “I’m good.”

  “Excellent,” he says, removing the gag.

  I swallow down the pooled saliva and take in deep breaths.

  “Come here.” He pulls me by the elbow, making it bend and stretch unnaturally until I stand. A new pain shoots up my shoulder and I hold in a whimper and scurry closer to him to relieve the pain. That’s two injuries in the first few minutes. I need to pay better attention or he might break something.

  My eyes finally open, though they are so heavy from the drugs I can only see a sliver of my surroundings. He tugs me along, making me stumble, but I recover fast because he will not slow down if I fall. He will drag me, and if I get hurt in the process, that’s my own damn fault.

  I’ve played this game many times.

  So I keep up and try to pay attention. I listen f
or sounds—birds mostly. But I can hear the whine of a small airplane engine too. Smells—now that I’m out of the closet, the mice and mildew have been replaced with the smell of a farm. Sight. The furniture is not the same. It’s all different. Gone are the tattered couches and scuffed wood tables and chairs. The floor out here is tile. New. The windows have curtains and aren’t covered in boards.

  I can see the sun.

  “They’re electrified,” he says. “If you try to go out the window, you’ll be shocked.”

  I say nothing. I’m not allowed to talk until I’m asked a question. At least that’s how it was last time.

  And even though this asshole is not going to get me to agree to his sick fantasy again, I look up at his masked face, gasp in surprise because it’s the Invisible Man and not some kid I knew from archery camp, but catch myself and nod in agreement.

  This is not good. He knows about Vaughn. That’s the only reason he’s wearing that mask.

  “Sit.” He points to a chair at the kitchen table, which is not the old chipped Formica with rusty metal chairs, but a new one made of glass. The chairs are trendy molded plastic. Something you might find in a high-end retro store.

  “I have a good job,” he says, noticing me notice the furniture. “I told you I’d be back and we’d live happily ever after.”

  No. That’s not what he said.

  I take a seat in the chair. He didn’t say that.

  “You didn’t want to go, remember?”

  “I was sick.”

  He slaps me in the head, this time not quite as hard. “You were not sick. You agreed to all of it.”

  “I was sick,” I repeat, and he smacks me across the mouth this time. I taste blood, but I don’t care. I spit it out and the red stains the pristine white tiled floor. “You brainwashed me.” Another smack. More blood. “Go ahead,” I tell him, all the inner warnings now absent. “Kill me if you want.” And then I look him in the eyes. He’s not wearing the Invisible Man goggles so I can see past the mask enough to discern that his eyes are dark brown. I see a part of an eyebrow, and that too is brown. That’s more than I ever saw with that other mask he wore years ago. That one was tight against his face. This one is looser.