Casanova(105)

“I think I have a headache,” I groaned.

“But you’re staying, right?” Camille asked. “That means you’re going nowhere?”

Lani laughed. “Like Connie would let me go. But yeah, I’m staying. Right, here you go.” She handed me the laptop. “Read this.”

“Did you publish it?”

“Yes.”

“Why am I always the last to read things about myself?”

She shrugged. “It’s more fun this way. Plus you can’t make me change things.”

I side-eyed her, but she grinned. The smile reached her eyes, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about the one that formed on my face right back to her.

She leaned her head against my shoulder and I turned my attention to the article she’d aptly titled “Mistakes.”



Mistakes. We all make them.

Sometimes they’re little ones. We forget a doctor appointment. We don’t put the empty shampoo bottle in the trash and so forget to buy another bottle. We don’t wash our socks and can’t find a matching pair.

Sometimes they’re big ones. We accidentally turn the fridge off before leaving for a two-week vacation. We leave the flat iron on—and not on a heatproof mat. We say things that could hurt other people.

Some people are more prone to mistakes than others. The reasons why are nobody’s business but the people who make the mistakes, but there is one thing almost all these people believe: A person is not defined by their mistakes.

They’re judged, sure. They’re ridiculed or belittled and perhaps even disregarded as bad people.

But are they? No. They’re far from it.

In fact, the people who make the biggest mistakes are generally the best kind of people. Because they’re the ones who admit to it, even if it takes a while.

By now you’ve probably read an article from the Whiskey Key Daily that details an eavesdropped conversation regarding a mistake Brett Walker made some twelve or so months ago.

What you didn’t read in that article is that the author of it was told to press publish.

That’s right. Told to.

By Brett Walker.

You see, it’s no big scandal. You’ll never see the tape that was made. The author of the article never saw the tape. In fact, until this moment, it was never confirmed that such a thing even existed.

Why am I confirming it?

Because I can. Because I know the facts. Because I know how he made this mistake.

And I love him anyway, just like so many other people do.

You can believe what you want about what you’ve been told by the Whiskey Key Daily. The article was embellished and wildly exaggerated. Six figures for a sex tape? He’s not a Hollywood superstar. He’s a Whiskey Key heir—one he has to split two ways, no less. Why would he pay such an extortionate figure to somebody for something nobody outside this town would care about?

Before you judge and point the fingers, remember what he does for the town. Remember how your child could be benefiting from a vegetable garden at school because he paid for it. Remember how your child may also get pleasure from the new gym equipment being installed for the new school year.

Remember that your daughter, friend, sister, mother, or even the people who serve you coffee or sit behind you in church may have their lives saved because of the charity he supports and almost single-handedly funds.

Remember the children who go into the shelter he loves without hope and leave with more hope than some adults struggle to conjure up on a morning.

Remember that this tape, this mistake, this accident, doesn’t define his character. The things I just mentioned do. They define him as a strong, capable person with a big heart, willing to help whoever needs it.

Ignore the stories. Brush away the rumors. Take a minute and look beyond what you believe a person to be and realize that nobody is who they seem. Everybody has a secret. Everybody has something they’d rather not admit to.

Brett Walker chose to admit to his mistake. He chose to take responsibility for it. To own it. To accept it. To live with it.

Just like thousands of people do every day.

Instead of judging people for making mistakes, perhaps we should celebrate them for admitting to them instead.

After all, you’re not a bad cook just because you burned your Thanksgiving turkey last year, are you?



I slowly turned my face to look at her. “But we did pay six figures to her for the tape.”

Lani blinked up at me, smiling. “What can I say? Lying. It’s a journalist’s worst trait, but it’s our most useful weapon. I just happen to use mine for good.”

“How is that using it for good?”

Her smile widened. “He printed the six figures—and he exaggerated the figure you told me.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Did you just play him at his own game?”

“No,” she answered, her smile turning cocky. “I beat him at it.”

I cupped her chin and pulled her face close to mine. “Have I told you that I love you today?”

“No. You’re slacking.”

I laughed and kissed her. “Well, I love you.”

“Love you too.” She grinned against my mouth.

“Ugh,” Camille said, getting up. “You two make me sick.”





EPILOGUE