Page 22 of Bombshell

It was just a dream. Just another nightmare.

How can anyone sleep as much as I have and still be so tired? What time is it, anyway? Day? Night? Dream? Nightmare? It’s all blending into one endless black stretch.

I know my phone died a couple days ago. I forgot to bring a charger from my place on campus. I know I’ve been at Windfall for about five days, meaning it’s been two since Sterling came by. So it’s...Wednesday?

“Adair, can you hear me? I’m coming in.”

“No!” I yelp, trying to leap up from the bed, but my body is stiff and slow to respond. I’ve barely managed getting my feet on the ground when Poppy’s golden silhouette appears in the door.

“Jesus, it’s like a cave in here! How do you see?”

My eyes, acclimated to the dark, have no trouble seeing Poppy stalk across the room toward the blackout curtains blocking the outside world. “Don’t!”

“Hush. It’s for your own goo—” Her foot clips a stack of pizza boxes sitting on the floor, and she almost falls face first on them. The smell of mushrooms and cheese waft over to me, and my stomach grumbles so loudly Poppy can actually hear it.

She reaches the curtains and pulls them back a little, letting sunlight in the room. “There. That’s better.”

The light is headache-inducing, forcing me to squint. “What time is it?”

“Do you even know what day it is?” Poppy says, her brow creased in a way that reminds me of mom.

For a second, I let myself pretend she is Mom, that we’re about to talk—that things are about to get better. But it only hurts more. “Wednesday, I think.” I leave Poppy standing by the window and shuffle toward the ensuite to brush my teeth. I love a supreme pizza, but the onions are killer the next morning. So, is the heartburn.

“It’s fucking Friday!”

I bite back a rare smile at the sound of fuck coming from her. There’s always just a second of hesitation before she curses. “Alright, already. I’m up. What more do you want?”

“What’s going on, Adair? Sterling and Cy tried to come by and see you, but Windfall security threatened to arrest them both. They were going to pepper spray them! You aren’t returning anyone’s calls. People are worried.”

I knew this moment would come. I can’t keep avoiding people forever. But here, in my room full of all my things, with the doors closed, with the gates of Windfall manned by security—at least I feel safe. “One sec, let me brush my teeth.”

When I come back into the bedroom, Poppy has fully opened the curtains, grabbed all the pizza and takeout boxes littered around the room, and plopped them in the hall outside my door. I nearly start to cry. Other than Felix, no one’s bothered to check in on me. I feel more like a prisoner than a victim.

When Poppy sees me, her expression softens. She sits on my bed, patting the space next to her. “Whatever it is, I’m here for you, hon. No judgem—”

“I have a sex tape.”

“Oh,” she says, all color draining from her face. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words get lost in transit. Apparently, I found her mute button.

“Yeah. I found out from my father. He received a blackmail email.”

“Oh.”

“The message was sent anonymously, but it instructed him to send $1,000,00,000 to an address in Queens.” I list each fact as emotionlessly as possible, because that’s what these are: facts. I can’t change them. Sleeping hasn’t changed them. Ignoring them hasn’t changed them. Time to start facing them. I watch Poppy’s expression like a hawk. I’ve turned everything over so many times, I don’t know what I think anymore. Because, although, these are the facts, I can’t quite decide if I believe all the information behind them. Maybe Poppy’s reaction will help me figure out what’s real and what’s a lie. God knows I haven’t been able to figure it out on my own.

“Oh.” Or maybe she’s caught on repeat.

We sit in silence, and then, after a long pause, she says, “Isn’t that where…”

“Yeah, it’s Sterling’s address.”

“Oh.” Poppy’s face is inscrutable. I watch her wheels spin, but there’s nothing there. Figures.

“Would you please stop saying that. It’s not very helpful.”

“That bastard,” she says, but her eyes dart to me when she says it, like she needs me to signal how I feel about it before she can figure out how to be supportive. She’s taking my side—just as soon as I show her what side that is. So far, this conversation is as illuminating as talking to a mirror.

“I don’t know what to believe. I’ve seen the video. It was taken the night of my brother’s wedding.”