The Dirty Truth, page 23
Before West has a chance to respond, two knocks at the door interrupt him.
“Did you order room service?” I ask. I don’t know who else it could be at 7:00 a.m. Certainly not Scarlett—she went home with my parents after my mother told her she could have my room.
“Did you see me order room service?” the smart-ass quips.
Hopping off the bed, I grab a hotel robe from the back of the bathroom door, slip it on, and head for the door. Only when I answer, no one’s there. It’s nothing but a Sunday paper and the July issue of Made Man, complete with a smirking Bradley Cooper on the cover.
“West? Did you . . .” I stop when I hear the spray of the shower coming from the en suite bath.
Plopping down on the bed, I flick through the glossy pages of his magazine, skipping to the section that once housed my column to see who’s writing for me now—or if he scrapped the feature entirely.
Only, to my surprise, The Dirty Truth isn’t scrapped at all.
Centered on the right-hand page, where my professional headshot once was, is a different image of . . . me. One that wasn’t taken in a well-lit studio by a professional photographer. One that hasn’t been retouched or filtered. One of me standing by the east window of his bedroom in nothing but one of his white T-shirts, my back toward him as I sip coffee and take in the sunrise.
And below it is a headline I never thought would see the light of day.
THE DIRTY TRUTH ABOUT WEST MAXWELL
by Elle Napier
What image comes to mind when you think of West Maxwell?
It’s okay if you need time. I’ll wait . . .
I know there are thousands of them in existence.
Maybe you thought of that Instagram picture from four years ago where he’s riding on the back of a camel, pyramids in the distance and an orangesicle sunset coloring the background? What about the one where he’s geared up and rappelling down some snowcapped mountain in Switzerland? Or better yet, maybe it’s the January 2019 cover of Made Man—the one in which West appeared shirtless, leaning against a gleaming Gotham-black McLaren Elva and looking like he’d just won the lottery, his dream woman, and a one-way ticket to paradise all at the same time, all while pushing his “Ultimate Guide to Your Best Year Ever.”
But who’s the man behind the filtered image? Who’s the man writing the inspirational captions that make you want to set your alarm for 4:30 a.m. so you’re not late for tomorrow’s grueling CrossFit session? Who’s the man that inspires both professional and interpersonal greatness with a single square-shaped, likable, shareable photo?
I bet you think you know who he is.
Or maybe you have a general idea.
Ambitious? Yes.
Attractive? Undeniably.
Intelligent? I’d say so.
Wealthy? Does Saturn have rings?
But what lies beyond that? What drives him? What keeps him going day after day? But more importantly, does it matter?
Spoiler alert—no. It does not matter.
I’m about to drop a dirty little truth bomb—you are not West Maxwell and you never will be.
The West Maxwell you see is a marketing machine’s carefully crafted version of the ideal man.
Let me drop another bomb on you while I’m at it: the average woman is not looking for her own personal Made Man. Not even close. She simply wants a partner who listens, who shares her interests, values, and life goals—and bonus points if they’re not a jerk and happen to be in close geographic proximity.
I’m oversimplifying, but you get the point.
You want the secret to having it all? You’re not going to find it in the pages of this magazine.
Save your money.
Save your time.
And simply be yourself.
There may be a million men trying to knock off West Maxwell, but there is only one you—and that, my friend, is what makes you a genuine catch.
Yours in truth—
Elle Napier
The shower water from the next room ceases, and I sit in stunned silence for an endless moment. A second later, West appears in the doorway, a white towel cinched low on his hips.
“You . . . published . . . my article,” I manage to say despite the confusion and bewilderment funneling through me.
“I’m thinking about taking the magazine in a new direction. The new Made Man is all about authenticity.” He strides to the bed. “Which means I’m going to need a killer co–editor in chief. Fair warning, I’m extremely particular about whom I work with, and I have ridiculously high standards. Also, I’m not the easiest jerk to work for, so this person has to be able to hold their own around me. Looking for someone who is fearless, outspoken, forward thinking, and brutally honest. Know of anyone?”
My lips twitch to the side. “Sounds like you already have someone in mind for the job.”
Never mind the fact that Connie Marsden with Winlock Media Group called me yesterday to offer me the position I’d interviewed for last month. She caught me off guard, and in the midst of all the wedding day hustle and bustle, I stammered a quick response letting her know I’d get back to her by Monday. We’ve been so busy I forgot to mention it to West. And to be honest, I haven’t had a spare second to give it much thought.
“I do,” he says before digging into his suitcase and producing a stack of papers.
I promised myself I’d never work for West Maxwell again—nor would I exchange my priceless time for meaningless work.
“I’m not sure what to say . . .” I press my lips flat, studying his chiseled face and the hopeful yet confident glint in his penetrating gaze.
“I expected some reservations from your end, so I came prepared should you need some convincing.”
When he hands the pages over, I feast my eyes on what appear to be printed emails upon printed emails, some of which date back years, others of which date back to as recent as a few months ago.
To: letterstotheeditor@mademan.com
From: Jake Trotman (jaket3399@mailmail.com)
Subject: Dirty truths
Just wanted to take a minute and tell you how big of a fan I am of your magazine. It has truly changed my life. Specifically the dating advice column. I always thought it’d be cheesy, getting advice from a magazine. But your Dirty Truths column is different. The advice is legit and useable. I’m happy to say that because of the August 2018 article, THE DIRTY TRUTH ABOUT BLIND DATES, I finally let my sister set me up on a blind date with one of her coworkers—who is now my wife. We are currently expecting our first kid and couldn’t be happier. I never would’ve gone on that date if it weren’t for that article. So thank you, Elle Napier and thank you Made Man.
To: letterstotheeditor@mademan.com
From: Chandler P. (thislimehasnojuice@redmail.com)
Subject: on ghosting
Just wanted to say how much I liked the December article—THE DIRTY TRUTH ABOUT GHOSTING. I’ve suffered with chronic low self-esteem my entire life. Being perpetually single and in my thirties, it has only gotten worse. After a while, it takes a toll on a person to go on a sling of “successful” dates only to be ghosted when you least expect it. I spent far too much time analyzing what I could’ve said or done differently. I can’t tell you how much money I’ve wasted on gym memberships and self-help books and seminars. But then I read Elle Napier’s article and it changed everything. I now know not to take it personally when someone ghosts me because it’s almost never about me or something I did—it’s almost always about them. And taking it a step further, why would I want to build a relationship with someone who is that flippant about other people’s feelings anyway? Elle’s two-pronged perspective was exactly what I needed to hear. In fact, I’ve gone so far as to laminate her article so I can read it any time I need a reminder.
To: letterstotheeditor@mademan.com
From: Derrick Pollastrini (dpol73dpol@gotmail.com)
Subject: Doing God’s work
Hey, just wanted to say I’m a huge fan of Elle Napier. Wanted to let her know if she’s ever in Philly to look me up. Would love to take her out for dinner—as a friend (because I’m sure she’s got a man plus her article on long-distance relationships was legit eye-opening). Just want to pick that big beautiful brain of hers. Every month I read her column and I think she can’t possibly do better than the month before. And every month she hits it out of the park AGAIN. If dating is my religion, Elle’s column is my church. Anyway, offer stands. Dinner in Philly!!!
“This . . . this is all fan mail?” I ask, fanning the endless pages of the thick stack.
“Every last one.” He narrows the distance between us, gathering the letters from my grip and placing them aside. “Your work at the magazine was never meaningless. You changed a lot of lives for the better. Maybe not the way you’d always imagined, but your work inspired people to change. You’ve made a difference in people’s lives, Elle. You always have.”
Pulling me off the bed, he gathers me into his arms. Inhaling his damp, clean scent, I bask in his warmth, and I lose myself in the very same aquamarine gaze that once unnerved me to my core. Only this time, I’m disarmed. I’m malleable. I’m smitten. And I’m utterly his.
“I love you, Elle,” he says.
“I love you too.”
It turns out West Maxwell isn’t the worst after all . . .
He’s the best.
EPILOGUE
WEST
Five Years Later
“I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s like I can’t shut these tears off.” My very pregnant, very hormonal wife dabs a tear with the back of her hand for the dozenth time today as we walk from Scarlett’s dormitory building to our rental car. “I’m not sad—I’m happy.”
I slip my hand over hers and pull her close as we stroll among young adults clad in Dartmouth gear, emotional parents, and a handful of movers hauling TVs, plastic totes, and oversize boxes.
A tearful mother snaps a picture of her young son in front of the entrance to Woodward Hall, stopping to straighten his forest-green baseball cap. He waves her off in annoyance as a group of pretty blondes walks past, eyeing his situation.
“She’ll be fine,” I assure Elle. “Remember last year? She made a new friend before we even pulled out of the parking lot. I bet she’s up there right now giving her new roommate an earful.”
Elle chuckles, resting her cheek against my arm as we head to the car.
“I still think of her as that lost, lonely little fourteen-year-old,” she sighs.
“Me too.”
It took a solid year or so of living in the city before Scarlett truly grew into her skin and started accepting that Manhattan was her home, that I was her home. Of course, Elle played a significant part in that transition. But watching her bloom into the Maxwell woman she was always meant to be has been one of the most fulfilling journeys I’ve ever had the privilege to witness.
But she wasn’t the only one who “bloomed” during that period. Elle likes to remind me of this as often as possible. I changed just as much as Scarlett—growing into a man who accepts that controlling every single person in his life is no way to live. Together, the two of them showed me the difference between pushing someone to do the right thing and simply giving them advice and guidance.
“She sent me her schedule,” Elle says. “Eight a.m. classes every day. Can you imagine? When I was a sophomore, I was doing everything I could to avoid those.”
“She’s become quite the go-getter, hasn’t she?”
Nudging me, Elle chuffs. “Can’t imagine where she gets it from . . .”
Scarlett was halfway through her senior year at Highland Prep when she announced she wanted to major in social psychology at Dartmouth with a minor in human development. Marching around my office with a college-admissions booklet in her hand, she told me all about her big plans, and I sat back, listening in awe and marveling at the driven young woman she’d become.
Last year, during winter break, Elle and I shared the news that we were expecting our first child together, praying Scarlett wouldn’t feel displaced in any weird sort of way, only she blew both our minds when she squealed with joy and said she couldn’t wait . . . to help us raise the child. Teasing that we were two of the most intense people she’d ever met (in our own special ways), she quoted some professor and declared that it was paramount that we not “mess this child up.”
As soon as she’s finished with her undergrad, Scarlett intends to pursue a graduate degree in clinical counseling. She hopes to specialize in adolescents and teens who struggle with abandonment issues or major life changes, much like she did.
Something tells me she’ll make one hell of a therapist. She never used to miss a thing—and she still doesn’t.
Approaching our rental car, I trot ahead to get the door for my wife, getting her settled before skipping to the driver’s side and cranking the air the second the engine roars to life. Should she melt in this ninety-degree heat, I’ll hear all about it from here to the airport. She claims being pregnant in the summertime is like having someone bump your personal thermostat up ten degrees every time you step outside.
I’ll take her word for it.
“Think we have time to stop at that Thai place off Main Street?” she asks as we pull away from the dorm parking lot and head toward the heart of Hanover. When she rubs her swollen belly, her diamond glints in the midday sun. “Little guy’s extra hungry today.”
Warmth blankets me as I reach for her hand, giving it a squeeze.
“What kind of man would I be if I deprived my beautiful wife of her favorite som tum?” I wink, flicking on my turn signal.
Our scheduled departure isn’t for a few more hours, and even then, I have half a mind to cancel it and stick around here for a few more days. Something about going home to an empty town house devoid of Scarlett’s blaring pop music, shuffling sneakers, and toast crumbs in the kitchen makes me want to linger in this place a little longer. Besides, the hectic schedule that awaits us back in the city isn’t going anywhere. Work will be there when we get back.
“What do you think about naming him William?” Elle asks, turning to me. “We could call him Liam for short. It’d be a way to honor your brother while also letting him be his own person and blaze his own trail.”
I contemplate her suggestion in silence.
For months, we’ve been mulling over a mile-long list of monikers, researching meanings and scribbling the ones that go well with our last name. We’ve come close to settling on a few, but ultimately we end up with reservations and go back to the drawing board. The names never feel right. They’re never special enough. They never give us that spark of contented perfection we’re looking for.
I thought about suggesting it to her before, but I know this woman’s heart, and she’d have said yes for the sole purpose of making me happy. This child is just as much hers as it is mine, and his name should be a reflection of that.
“It’s brilliant,” I say, settling into the idea. “Liam it is.”
Bringing her hand to my lips, I deposit a kiss.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you more.”
“It’s not a competition . . . ,” she teases.
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s not a competition. It’s simply the truth.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my editor at Montlake, Lauren Plude, for her contagious enthusiasm and unwavering love of shaping ideas into the best versions of themselves. And to my developmental editor, Lindsey Faber. Your knack for finding little details to bring full circle is unparalleled, and this has truly been an enjoyable developmental-editing experience. The two of you together are an editorial dream team, and I am so excited to do this all over again soon!
To my incredible agent, Jill Marsal, thank you for your tireless efforts and for making this happen. I can’t wait to see where we go from here!
To my readers, who have supported me from day one and have stayed with me through this whirlwind journey I’ve been on since 2015, thank you, thank you, thank you! I could not do this without any of you. I read all your reviews, all your messages, and all your emails. I’m beyond grateful that you make time in your life and space in your head for my stories.
To Neda Amini of Ardent Prose and to the bloggers and bookstagrammers, librarians, and reviewers who help spread the word about my work, thank you! You are such a vital part of the book community, and your efforts do not go unnoticed.
To my parents, friends, and family, and to my husband and our three kids—your support gives me life. I love you.
Lastly, to you, dear reader. Thank you for making room in your life for The Dirty Truth. I hope you enjoyed my book from the minute you cracked the spine to the second you read the final word.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2017 Jill Austin
Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her notebook and laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s thinking about writing. And when she’s not thinking about writing, she’s living the American dream with her husband, three kids, the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi, and a busy pug pup that officially owes her three pairs of shoes, one lamp cord, and an office chair.
Winter also writes psychological and domestic suspense under her Minka Kent pseudonym. Her first book, The Memory Watcher, hit #9 in the Kindle Store, and her follow-up, The Thinnest Air, hit #1 in the Kindle Store and spent five weeks as a Washington Post bestseller.
She is represented by Jill Marsal at Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
Visit her website at www.winterrenshaw.com, or connect with her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/authorwinterrenshaw or on Instagram (@winterrenshaw).
Winter Renshaw, The Dirty Truth
