Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Hundreds. Then thousands. Notifications rolling in so fast my screen glitches.
@penguinfan88: This is what a real man looks like.
@thehockeymomlife: Winnie doesn’t deserve an ounce of this hate. Sending love.
@spilledmatchalatte: We ride at dawn for Winnie Shaw.
@bransonfan42: Who hurt Winnie?? Drop their @. I just wanna talk.
A few trolls pop in—predictable, tired insults. But they barely last two minutes before they’re buried in replies. People call them out, stitch their profiles, push them back into the dark corners they crawled from.
I can’t stop scrolling.
It’s like a flood of light. Comment after comment. Messages of support for Winnie. For kindness. For not letting online hate win.
This was what my mom told me to do. Be louder than the hate.
My thumb’s still twitching when my phone buzzes with a call.
Foster.
I answer instantly. “Yo. What’s up?”
“Just saw your post,” he says, his voice low but steady. “Well, Mazzy saw it first and shoved her phone in my face. You okay?”
I blow out a breath. “Not really. But I’ll be fine.”
“Well, I just called to tell you we’re backing you up. You’re not carrying this alone. Besides, Winnie is one of us and no one fucks with one of us.”
I laugh, the first time in the last few hours that I’ve felt a bit lighter in my heart. “I appreciate it, man.”
“We’re getting ready to rally the rest of the gang. Those assholes posting that negative stuff have no clue who they’re fucking with.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, shaking my head in amusement.
Foster’s tone is deadly. “Dude… you’re talking about a very serious issue. Bullying won’t be tolerated. Not against Winnie, not against anyone. And we’re all going to stand tough around your girl.”
“Hopefully she’s still my girl,” I mutter, rubbing my jaw. “That might take a little more work.”
“I have faith in you, brother. Listen, I’m out of here. Mazzy wants us to film our TikTok. She’s created the hashtag #BeKindLikeWinnie.”
“Love it.”
“We’ll flood the app with it. Make the algorithm work for us for once.”
I nod even though he can’t see it, my chest aching in the best way. “Thanks,” I say, voice rough now. “For this. For all of it.”
“You don’t have to thank me. You just have to let us show up.”
We disconnect and I stare at my phone again.
The comment count keeps rising. The support isn’t slowing down and it looks like the trolls have been quelled at least for now.
And in the pit of all this chaos, one thing shines through.
Winnie’s not alone.
Not anymore.
Tomorrow, Winnie Shaw’s going to wake up to an army behind her.
And I hope to God it reminds her just how much she matters, and with that kind of support, she’s got to put herself back out there.
CHAPTER 34
Winnie
I force a bite of peanut butter toast into my mouth and chew in robotic fashion. I’m not hungry.
Far from it.
But I need nourishment to conquer another day with energetic kindergarteners all while nursing a bruised heart. I open the Uber app and see there are plenty in the area that can take me to the school. No way I’m driving my embarrassment of a vehicle.
There’s a knock on the door and I pause my next bite. It’s loud and insistent enough that Buttermilk bounds into the foyer like he’s going to defend our honor. Or maybe just pee on someone’s shoes.
I drop the toast and wipe my mouth with a paper towel. I’m not in the mood for visitors and besides… it’s too early to be genial. My head is still stuffy from crying on and off throughout the night, and my body feels like it’s been wrung out and left on the porch to dry.
Another knock.
I peek out the small side window expecting to see Lucky—because really, who else would it be—and my heart lurches in anticipation, in dread, in a hundred emotions that haven’t sorted themselves yet.
But it’s not Lucky.
It’s a stranger. A man in a navy work shirt with a patch on the front pocket. He’s holding a clipboard and a ring of keys.
I crack the door open, wary.
“Ms. Shaw?” he asks politely. “I’m here for the car.”
I blink, totally disoriented. “What?”
He gestures toward my driveway where my car sits. “Lucky Branson arranged to have the spray paint damage taken care of. Said you’d have the keys ready.”
I stare at him, speechless.
He consults something on his clipboard. “The plan is full repaint, same color. Quick turnaround. We’ll buff the surrounding panels, clean the interior. He said it’s urgent.”
I nod dumbly, still not believing what I’m hearing.
But I’m not shocked. Of course, Lucky would rush in to help me with this because that’s the type of man he is.
“Your keys, ma’am,” he prods.
“Oh, right… sorry. Hold on.” I nab my purse from the foyer table where I always leave it and fish out my keys. I take the car key off the ring and open the screen door to hand it to the man. “Here you go.”