“Yum!” Brooke said, pushing her vanilla-scented eggs around the plate. She spritzed her untoasted bread with the butter spray and held her can up high. “Cheers!”

“Cheers! To—” Brooke could see her mother stop herself, probably from saying something about being together, or new beginnings, or some other none-too-subtle reference to Julian. Instead she said, “To gourmet meals and good company!”

They ate quickly, and Brooke was pleasantly surprised that her mother still didn’t ask her any questions. Of course, it had the desired effect of making Brooke desperate to discuss the situation, something her mom must have known. Regardless, Brooke couldn’t get the electric kettle plugged in fast enough. By the time they both settled into the couch with mugs of Lipton and a plan to watch the last three episodes of Brothers & Sisters off the DVR, Brooke thought she might explode.

“So, you’re probably dying to know what happened last night,” she said after taking a sip.

Mrs. Greene pulled out the tea bag and let it drip for a second and then rested it on a napkin on the table. Brooke could tell she was taking great care not to look directly at her. Things must be bad, she thought to herself. Her mother was definitely not the no-pressure type. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said vaguely, waving her hand in a totally nonbelievable I’m laid back gesture.

“Well, I guess . . . my god, I don’t even know where to start. The whole thing is such a mess.”

“Start at the beginning. Last I spoke to you was around noon your time and you were getting ready to put on the dress. It sounded like everything was great then. So what happened?”

Brooke sat back on the couch and rested a foot on the edge of the glass coffee table. “Yeah, that’s about when everything went to hell. I had just put on the dress and the jewelry and everything when Margaret called.”

“Okay . . .”

“Well, there was some huge screwup that’s not worth getting into right now, but the long and the short of it is that she fired me.”

“She what?” Her mother snapped to attention. She had the same expression that she used to get when Brooke would come home from elementary school and explain how the mean girls had made fun of her at recess.

“She fired me. Told me they couldn’t count on me anymore. That the hospital wasn’t confident in my commitment to my career.”

“What?”

Brooke smiled and sighed. “It’s true.”

“That woman must be out of her mind,” her mother said, slamming her hand down on the table.

“Well, I appreciate that vote of confidence, Mom, but I have to admit that she’s got a point. I haven’t exactly been giving an A-plus performance these last few months.”

Her mother was quiet for a moment as if she were trying to figure out what to say. When she spoke, her voice was low and measured. “You know I’ve always liked Julian. But I’m not going to lie—seeing those pictures made me want to kill him with my bare hands.”

“What did you say?” Brooke whispered, feeling ambushed. She hadn’t exactly forgotten about the pictures—the ones her own husband had described as similar to the Sienna/Balthazar spread—but she had managed to push the idea of them to the far back recesses of her mind.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it’s none of my business, and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t say anything, but you can’t just pretend nothing happened. You need to get some real answers.”

Brooke was irritated. “I think it’s pretty clear that he and I have a whole lot of things to figure out. I don’t recognize this Julian anymore, and it’s not just because of some horrible paparazzi pictures.”

Brooke looked to her mother and waited for a response, but she was quiet.

“What?” Brooke asked. “What are you thinking?”

“You haven’t seen them yet, have you?”

Brooke was quiet for a moment before she said, “I want to, but I can’t. It’ll all be so real as soon as I see them. . . .”

Mrs. Greene folded her legs up under her and reached across the sofa to take Brooke’s hand. “Sweetheart, I hear what you’re saying. I do. You must feel like you’re on the ledge of a tall building. And it kills me to have to say this, but . . . I think you need to take a look.”

She turned and stared at her mother. “Really, Mom? Aren’t you always the one advising me to ignore all that crap? Haven’t you been reminding me all along, pretty much every time I get upset with something I read, that ninety-nine percent of what’s written in the tabloids is lies and distortions?”

“There’s a copy on my bedside table.”

“On your bedside table?” Brooke screeched, hating the sound of her own voice, a combination of shock and panic. “Since when do you subscribe to Last Night? I thought this was strictly an O magazine and Newsweek household.”

“I started subscribing when you and Julian began appearing in it regularly,” her mother said quietly. “It was exciting, and I wanted to know what everyone meant when they were talking about it.”

Brooke laughed mirthlessly. “Oh well, aren’t you glad you did? Isn’t it just a fount of fascinating information?”

“It kills me to do this, but I’d rather you see them here for the first time. I’ll be right here waiting for you. Go.”

Brooke looked at her mother and could see the pain on her face. She pushed herself up from the couch and tried to ignore the overwhelming feelings of fear and dread. The walk from the living room to her mother’s bedroom felt like an eternity, but before she could even process what was happening, Brooke sat on the edge of the bed. The cover featured the smiling faces of Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biehl with a long, jagged crack down the center. The words “It’s Over!” were splashed in bright red across the top.

Comforted by the fact that Julian wasn’t big enough yet to warrant the cover, Brooke turned to the table of contents, planning to scan the headlines. It was unnecessary. At the very top of the page, occupying more than its fair share of space, was a photo of Julian at an outside table in the courtyard of the Chateau Marmont. The girl sitting next to him was mostly shielded by a huge potted plant, but you could make out her profile as she leaned in toward Julian, her head tilted and her mouth open, as though they were just about to kiss. He was holding a beer in one hand and flashing the girl his dimples. Brooke felt a wave of nausea, followed quickly by the sick realization that these magazines never squander their juiciest pictures on the contents page. The worst was yet to come.