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“Yes,” Logan said, taking my hand. “Amelia’s.”
“No, no, no, no.”
“Olivia’s meeting us there,” Logan replied as if Mandy’s denial was
directed at the restaurant.
“What?” I asked, peering at her screen.
Instagram.
I recognized Renaldo immediately, then the woman he was kissing as
the actress Gertrude Evans. America’s Next Sweetheart. There was no
mistaking that picture for a friendly peck on the lips.
“Mandy…” I laid my hand on her arm to push the phone down, but she
pulled away to study the picture like an X-ray as we were jostled by the
crowd of people leaving the river path.
“Well—” Logan started, but I kicked him before he could say he told
her so.
“How could he?” She moved to the DMZ app, where Renaldo and
Evans were top of the news, picture after picture. “We just went public last
week. Everyone knows. He said he loved me. He promised…” She let her
arm drop. Her face contorted into a flinch against an oncoming blow. “This
is humiliating.”
Her chest heaved and she spit out a sob, dropping her phone before
emitting a wail.
I picked up the phone. The glass was cracked.
Logan put his arm around her, practically holding her up.
“Oh, look,” one in a cluster of half a dozen girls said, holding up her
cell phone, “the homewrecker herself! Say cheese, cunt.” She took a
picture.
Her friends looked up from their phones.
“Bitch can steal a man,” one of them said, displaying the Instagram
photo, a frog lantern looped over her thumb. “But bitch can’t keep him.”
“Better watch yours, lady,” a tall girl said, pointing at me, then my
husband.
“Watch yourself, you dumb twat, before I—”
Logan grabbed my arm with the one that wasn’t holding up Mandy.
“Let’s get out of here.”