by Alisha Rai
“Yeah.” Annabelle had sat at a nearby table, hungrily staring at Joe. A year or so ago, Joe’s Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point where he couldn’t readily recognize Annabelle. If she spent much time around him, he’d grow agitated. When she was in town, Samson had gone out of his way to get Joe in her vicinity, where she could at least see him.
“When you went to grab menus, I walked up to the table. I knew I couldn’t stand there long, or he’d start to wrack his brain over who I was and get upset with himself. So I asked if I could borrow the ketchup. Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?’” Her eyes sparkled with tears. “In that moment, I was nothing but grateful. Grateful to have another moment with him, even if he didn’t remember all the other moments we’d had together.”
“Don’t cry.” He grabbed a tissue from the box on his nightstand and offered it to her. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
“I’m grateful for these tears. I’m grateful I was vulnerable enough to love him. I’d do it all over again, even knowing I would lose him eventually. Your mother would have said the same about Aleki. You would say the same about all of them, wouldn’t you? Aren’t you grateful to have had as much time as you did with them?”
He pressed his lips together. “Yes.” Even with his complicated feelings about his father, he was grateful.
“Being vulnerable is a risk. Love—romantic, platonic, familial, it doesn’t matter what kind of love—is a risk.” She closed her eyes tight, tears leaking out. “Because you’re right. They can leave. They can die or be hurt or simply walk away.” Her eyes opened. “But a moment of that love, child, is worth it. If you have a second, a minute, a month, a year, a decade with that person? You count yourself lucky. You can use that love and the lessons it taught you to plant more seeds for love. You can live off that love for a lifetime. Are we clear?”
His chest hurt. He unclenched his fist, laying his palm flat on his leg. “Yes ma’am. We’re clear.”
“Call Rhiannon. She’s perfect for you. I knew it from the second you chased her out of the hotel—” She bit her lip, cutting herself off, but it was too late.
Samson slowly straightened. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Were you going to say, when I chased her out of the hotel ballroom?” At CREATE? When he’d spotted her standing in front of the stage?
“No. Of course not.”
His aunt was such a shitty liar. “You said you didn’t know who I was chasing, Aunt Belle.”
She winced. “I heard her say her name when I was spying in the ballroom, before you took the mic. When you described her, I realized who you were talking about.”
His eyes narrowed, a thought occurring to him. “Did you fake your fear the next day? To throw me and her together at the interview with Helena?”
“I have many real phobias.” She fiddled with her earring. “Perhaps I didn’t try to fight that fear too hard, though.”
“Aunt Belle!”
“I was trying to help you! And I didn’t think you’d go work with her or anything. That was all you. I wasn’t in the country, remember? I put you two face-to-face once. You took it from there.”
“Did that push include inviting her here? The whole house party? So you could meet her?”
“Um . . . I mean, I did want to seriously meet everyone interested in the company . . .”
“Oh my God.” He dropped his head in his hands. If you waited long enough, everything made sense. “The test. The Matchmaker quiz. I thought that was weird. You made everyone take it, so you could check on the match between the two of us.”
“Okay, that part is true.”
“Aunt. Belle.”
“What?” His aunt’s eyes went wide. “I wanted to make sure she was right for you, Samson! Sue me for loving you.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe this.”
“Do you want to know your match percentage with her?”
“No!”
They sat in silence for a moment, until Samson cracked. “Is it over ninety?” He shook his head when Belle nodded and moved her thumb upward. “No, I don’t want to know.”
“Suit yourself. But rest assured, dear. You should call her. It’s a good match.” She slapped her thigh. “Should we think about what to have for dinner? I—” She frowned when her phone rang, and she dug it out of the pack slung around her hips. She plucked her reading glasses from where they were hooked in the front of her overalls and peered at the screen. When she gasped, Samson reached across the bed to touch her arm. “What’s wrong?”
Worry was written all over her face. “The woman I talked to, the one who told me Peter harassed her. She went to the press.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
RHIANNON SAT in Helena’s green room and watched the news broadcast on television. The breaking-news banner, combined with Peter’s name, had prompted her to turn the volume up. She listened in increasing disbelief, then accessed the article in the national newspaper that the broadcaster had referenced and read it on her phone.
There it was, in black and white. Three women and one man, accusing the CEO of Swype of sexual harassment and misconduct. Two women had permitted their names to be used.
Some of the accusations were similar to what Rhiannon had experienced, some were far worse than she could have ever imagined. Peter, demanding sexual favors for continued employment. Locking his office door to ensure the victims had no way out, physically. Threatening to blacklist them if they didn’t comply.
Her eyes went back to a quote in the middle of the long report. I should have known better, because I was there when he bullied his former girlfriend out of the business. Everyone saw it. We all felt so bad for her. She was an executive, with some power. Why did I think he’d treat me any differently? I was nobody compared to her.
Rhiannon covered her mouth with her hand and scrolled back down to the end. Why come forward now? The reporter had asked one of the victims. I would have never said anything, but I guess Swype was looking to buy another company, and the owner of that company called me. It brought up all these old memories, and I couldn’t bear to live with them anymore in silence.
She looked up when the door to the green room opened and Helena Knight walked in, somber. They’d greeted each other an hour ago, when Rhiannon had arrived at the Manhattan studio. Helena had delivered the news that Samson had canceled at the last minute. Rhiannon had been relieved.
She didn’t feel relieved now.
“Darling, did you see the news?”
“I did.”
“Would you like to get your publicist on the phone?” Helena asked gently. “Because you know I’ll have to ask you about it. You worked for Peter.”
Rhiannon shook her head. Her phone was vibrating in her pocket, probably Suzie or Lakshmi, but she couldn’t deal with that now. She didn’t need them for this. “I understand. No need for anyone else. Let’s talk.”
HELENA PUT RHIANNON at ease first and gave her a chance to discuss Crush and build a rapport with the audience. Then she turned to the topic on everyone’s mind. “Today a story broke accusing the CEO of Swype, Peter Roberts, of multiple counts of sexual harassment and in one case, at least, assault.” Helena gestured to Rhiannon. “Everyone who knows Crush knows Swype. You two are the largest players in the app-dating business. You also used to work for Swype. Do you have any comment on the story?”
Rhiannon opened her mouth. The silence stretched, and out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the producer taking a step forward.
Her gaze fell on the first row, the people watching her intently. All in their twenties and thirties.
Oddly enough, a snippet of what she’d said to Samson as they stood in his home, surrounded by his memories, came to mind. You made your industry better for the young men who came after you, and the older men who came before you.
Helena cleared her throat and Rhi snapped out of it. Live television.
No time to fuck around.
It was my decision to tell someone about this.
Never again.
She clasped her hands in front of her on the table. “I saw the story. I believe those who came forward.”
“Across the board, no hesitation?”
“No hesitation. In general, I believe survivors. And when I say that, I don’t mean to say I blindly believe them or that I blindly believe the alleged perpetrator guilty. But the societal impulse is to disbelieve survivors, and we don’t really do that when it comes to any other misconduct. When someone claims they’ve been mugged, we don’t treat them with skepticism. We believe them. We investigate, but we believe them.”
Helena nodded. “And in this particular situation?”
“In this particular situation . . .” Rhi licked her lips and reached for her most coldly dispassionate tone. She might be speaking from the heart here, but she needed to sound like she was doing nothing more than reciting facts and figures. “I believe the survivors because I have personal experience. I was involved in a relationship with Peter. It wasn’t a secret. I ended things. Peter decided Swype wasn’t big enough for the both of us and harassed me out. He spread rumors. He made my life there so miserable, I begged to leave.” Her hands curled into fists. “I hated begging most of all. He knew that.”
Helena took a sip of water, and Rhiannon could practically see her brain racing. They hadn’t gone into this much detail in the green room, but Helena was a good journalist. The cameras were rolling, and a juicy follow-up to a sensational story had landed in her lap. “This isn’t common knowledge.”
“One of the survivors in the newspaper article, she mentioned having been employed when Peter harassed an executive. That was probably me. Most likely me. I didn’t think anyone noticed, at the time. The rumors he spread about me are still prevalent. I still meet people in the industry today, who, despite my accomplishments, believe that I’m dumb and lazy and a gold digger.” She thought about William. An executive of a well-respected company who had viewed her with contempt. “My reputation was solid gold before I dated that man. And then after I left . . . I was radioactive.”
“Did you take money to leave the company?”
“I need to talk to my lawyer about what I can and can’t say about my separation agreement.” She smiled faintly. “I would have been far better off financially staying at Swype than I was leaving it, if that’s what you’re asking. I received no financial benefit from quitting.”
Helena crossed and uncrossed her legs. “Why didn’t you sue him when he started harassing you? You also held a position of some power.”
Rhi’s defensiveness kicked in, but then she caught the encouraging, empathetic look on Helena’s face. The woman was giving her the chance to get the jump on those who would rip her story, and her, apart limb from limb.
The magnitude of what she was doing, unplanned, unrehearsed, with no warning to anyone, not even the people of her own company, made her want to throw up.
Too late. You couldn’t stuff a cat back into a bag. Well, you could, but there would be blood.
Anyway, she wasn’t a company or a brand at the end of the day. She was a person.
The last thing she wanted to do was bring up the pictures Peter had held over her head to get her to quit. There had been other reasons to quietly leave. “When you’re a minority, in any industry, you feel so visible, and like the only way to get ahead is to be tougher than everyone else. You don’t cry. You don’t show weakness. You can’t be a victim.” Even now, she flinched away from the word. Victim. It was wild how, at the end of the day, even language was an elaborate ruse to keep hurt people compliant. “Victim” implied weakness; if she claimed to be hurt, she was a victim; ergo, if she was a victim, she was weak.
Bullshit.
She hadn’t done anything wrong, she’d merely taken a chance on loving someone. She hadn’t harmed; she’d had harm done to her. That didn’t make her weak. Peter’s behavior reflected only upon himself.
Helena gave her a second to compose herself, and then prompted her. “Why speak up now?”
Rhiannon looked at the rapt young people in the front row again. “I assumed no one would believe me then. Times have changed.”
“It’s only been a few years. You think our society has evolved so much since you left Swype?” Helena lifted a skeptical brow.
“We didn’t have movements then, or hashtags.” Rhiannon tugged at the cuffs of her hoodie. The blue one, her best one. The one she’d worn on that rooftop with Samson, when they’d been silly and cuddled in a waterbed cabana, and he’d kissed her against her car. “Even then, I wouldn’t have said anything, probably, if I’d continued to believe I was the only one. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no benefit to me coming clean right now, like this, except it might help someone else.” She looked directly into the camera, the red light hurting her retinas, but she didn’t flinch away. “I read that article today, and I feel so awful, for anyone Peter hurt after me and before me. Thank you, to the people who put up their hands first, who made me feel safe enough to tell my story. I hope, if anyone else is out there, what I’m doing right now helps you.”
Helena’s lips thinned. “I hope so too. I think it’s clear how much workplace harassment has been swept under the rug for years.”
“I was lucky. I happened to have a friend who stepped forward and believed in me and gave me the capital to start Crush. If I hadn’t had her, my career would have been, if not over, at least severely set back. How many people can say that? How many brilliant minds have been suppressed because a toxic workplace ended their careers?”
Helena glanced at her producer, then back to Rhi. “Is there anything else you’d like our audience to know?”
Rhi twined her fingers together and summoned all her public speaking skills. Whenever she ended an interview, she did it with the knowledge that the sound bite she gave would be used again and again. She needed to close this out with something simple, but powerful. “I built Crush on the platform that the world needs more accountability. Peter should be held accountable for what he did. He shouldn’t be allowed to ever do that to anyone again. No one should. Every industry needs to be cleaned up, so we can all get back to work. Let’s start here.”
The crowd broke into applause as the taping wrapped, but the noise was filtered through a thick layer of Vaseline. Her brain was fuzzy, like she’d been enveloped in a fog.
She accepted Helena’s fierce hug and nodded when the other woman whispered in her ear. “I’m sorry. I believe you, and thank you. Please let me know what you need from me. I can put you in touch with a Times reporter or . . .”
Reporter. News. This interview was originally supposed to have been a fluff piece in a millennial- and Gen Z–friendly format. When she walked out the door, her life would change.
Or it already had, she realized, as she caught side-eye from the crew backstage.
She deliberately didn’t pull her phone out of her purse. The show had arranged for a limo to take her to the airport, and she stared out the window at the garish neon lights, bright and colorful. She shivered at the blasting A/C in the car and turned it down. All she wanted was to be home on the left coast. Curled up in front of the firepit in Katrina’s backyard or gazing out at the downtown skyline from her loft.
Unfortunately, she was scheduled to fly from here to western New York for her brother’s engagement party. Her departure time was still a few hours off, but she could settle into the airline club at JFK and hide as best she could.
The lounge had small private offices, and one was blessedly empty. She closed the door and pulled out her laptop to start an email. She should call Lakshmi or her lawyer . . . but she didn’t know what to say to them. Hi, I know I set off a not-so-small public relations bomb.
Instead, she dug through her archives. She didn’t send the email, but attached every document she could find with meticulous attention to detail.
After she had that ready, she
dug out her phone. She ignored all the calls and messages filling her notifications, and video-called Lakshmi.
“How mad is Suzie?” she asked, when Lakshmi answered. Her assistant had kept Crush’s colors in her hair and added a rose gold septum ring.
“Not mad.” Lakshmi’s tone was incredibly gentle. “You want to see? We’re at my place for a watch party.”
Rhiannon almost groaned. She’d forgotten that Lakshmi had arranged a watch party for the staff. “Fine. Yes.”
Lakshmi flipped the camera and walked her out of her kitchen. “Guys, Rhiannon is on the phone.”
Rhiannon nearly dropped the phone when the roar of approval came out of the speaker. The frame was filled with her people, smiling, misty-eyed, crying, but so . . . on her side.
She’d thought she felt like she belonged in L.A. because she was anonymous there, but no. She belonged because these people were her family too. Family she paid, but family.
Her cheeks were wet, and she almost covered the camera to block anyone from seeing her cry, but she was too tired.
Suzie came into view and took the phone from Lakshmi. The permanent frown on her head of marketing’s face was etched deeper, her short platinum hair standing straight up, like she’d run her hands through it. “Bitch,” she said, and her smoker’s voice was rougher than usual. “Don’t you ever go do something like that without me physically by your side to run interference. It’s my job to protect you. But you did an amazing job without me, come back soon so I can lecture you in person.” She handed the phone back to Lakshmi.
Rhiannon sank deeper into the plush seat. Lakshmi walked away from the crew, her tone turning brisk. “Peter’s lawyers have already called legal. They’re threatening to sue for defamation and theft of trade secrets.”
Rhiannon hit send on the email she’d prepared. “Tell them to go ahead. Show them a couple of the attachments I sent you.”
“What are they?”
“Every email Peter sent me telling me I’d never work in this industry again if I didn’t get back together with him. Calling me a bitch and a whore.” Rhi paused. “I’m still debating releasing them no matter what. But if Swype wants to go the lawsuit route, all those words are definitely getting released to the public. Tell them I saved my text history and voice mails too. Those are even better.”
