THE FALLOUT: THE CARTERS' CHRISTMAS SPECIAL: Dec 3rd - Bobby's Fallout
He didn’t get caught cheating. He got caught needing connection. One bad click, one open mic, and a man who spent his life holding everything together finally shattered.
Bobby Carter sat in his living room at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the foundation settling. Barbara had taken Brandon to her sister's place in Michigan four days after Thanksgiving, said she needed space to think, said Brandon needed to be around family that wasn't falling apart. She didn't say when they'd be back.
His phone vibrated on the coffee table. Mom. Third time today.
Bobby stared at it until it stopped.
Barbara's coffee mug still sat in the sink from the morning she left. Brandon's backpack hung on the hook by the door, forgotten in the rush to pack. The Christmas tree they'd bought together two weeks ago sat in the corner of the living room, undecorated, needles already browning because Bobby hadn't watered it once.
His phone lit up. Text message. Not his mother.
Still waiting on that payment. You know what happens if I don't get it.
$5,000 by Friday or everyone sees everything.
Your move, Bobby.
"Fuck you," Bobby said to the empty room.
He'd already paid this fucking asshole fifteen thousand dollars over three months. Maxed out two credit cards, emptied his savings, borrowed against his 401k. And it still wasn't enough. The blackmailer just kept demanding more, kept moving the finish line, kept squeezing.
Bobby had done this to himself. He knew that. Not the Only-Fans subscriptions. Those were just money, stupid and expensive but manageable. What destroyed him were the conversations. The DMs where someone actually listened when he talked about his frustrations at work, his marriage feeling like a performance he was failing at, the weight of being the oldest Carter sibling expected to have everything figured out when he had nothing figured out at all.
For three months, someone had made him feel like his thoughts mattered. Like he existed as more than a paycheck and a husband and a father going through motions. Like he was actually seen.
He'd shared things. Photos. Details about his life, his job, his marriage, his fears. Every piece of ammunition someone would need to destroy him, handed over willingly because it felt like connection.
Then the blackmail started.
First demand came two weeks before Thanksgiving. Pay $5,000 or the screenshots go to Barbara. Bobby paid it, thought that would be the end. Second demand came five days later. Another $10,000 or everything goes to his boss. He paid that too, panic-borrowed from three different sources, convinced himself this time it would stop.
It didn't fucking stop.
The Zoom call happened the Monday before Thanksgiving.
Bobby had been on a company-wide meeting, camera off, half-listening to the VP drone about Q4 projections and strategic initiatives and synergistic bullshit that meant nothing. He thought he'd disconnected. Clicked the red button, saw his desktop, thought he was free.
His mic was still on.
He called the blackmailer immediately. Needed to vent, needed to scream at someone about how this was killing him. And he did scream.
"These motherfuckers at work don't know SHIT about what I do. My boss is a useless fucking asshole who couldn't manage a lemonade stand if someone handed him the recipe. And I've got you bleeding me dry, threatening to destroy my marriage, my career, my entire fucking life over some goddamn messages, and I can't keep paying you because I'm BROKE. You understand that? I'm fucking broke and you keep asking for more like I've got money hidden somewhere. I don't. There's nothing left."
He kept going. Names, projects, confidential client information, his opinions about every incompetent piece of shit in his department. Eleven minutes of pure rage dumped into what he thought was a private phone call.
Sixty-three people heard everything.
His boss. HR. The VP he'd just called useless. Every single person on that Zoom call heard Bobby Carter lose his mind and expose himself completely.
They fired him four hours later. Insubordination, breach of confidentiality, creation of a hostile work environment, security liability. Legal got involved. Made him sign an NDA. Security escorted him out of the building like he'd been stealing from the company.
Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years Bobby had worked there. Navigated the politics, played the game, worked twice as hard to get half the credit because that's what Black men do in corporate America. Smiled through microaggressions, proved himself over and over, climbed to senior director through sheer persistence.
Gone in four hours because his mic was on.
Barbara knew he got fired. He'd told her it was downsizing, restructuring, budget cuts. She'd believed him because she wanted to believe him, because the alternative was too terrible to consider. She knew money was tight, knew he was stressed, knew something was deeply wrong. But she didn't know about the OnlyFans account. Didn't know about the blackmail. Didn't know her husband had paid someone to make him feel like he mattered, and they'd turned it into extortion.
Bobby couldn't tell her. Couldn't say the words out loud. Couldn't admit he'd destroyed fifteen years of career-building and their financial security because he was so desperate to feel seen that he'd mistaken a stranger's attention for actual connection.
Thanksgiving happened three days after he got fired. The potato salad incident. The family explosion. Bobby had barely been present for any of it. He wasn't mad at Barbara about the goddamn potato salad. He was drowning, unable to think about anything except the blackmail messages and his empty bank accounts and the humiliation of realizing what he'd actually paid for.
After Thanksgiving, Barbara packed up Brandon and left.
Bobby's phone vibrated again. Mom. He turned it face-down on the coffee table.
The days blurred together after that. Tuesday into Wednesday into Thursday. He stopped answering calls from anyone. Mom, Dad, Wallace, Wanda, Bella. Even Barbara had tried calling twice. He let them all go to voicemail. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to explain that he'd blown up his entire life because he couldn't stand feeling invisible?
His phone buzzed. Text from the blackmailer.
Clock's ticking, Bobby. Friday is coming. Don't make me do this.
"Fuck you," Bobby said again, louder this time. "Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU."
He threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor.
Friday morning, his phone rang. He'd retrieved it from where it landed, screen cracked but still functional. Brandon's name lit up the display.
Bobby stared at it. His ten-year-old son. Probably calling from Barbara's sister's house. Probably worried. Probably wanting to hear his dad's voice, wanting reassurance that everything would be okay.
Bobby let it go to voicemail.
Brandon didn't leave a message.
Bobby remembered the last real conversation they'd had. Two days before Barbara left. Brandon had found him in the garage, sitting in the dark on an overturned bucket, staring at nothing.
"Dad, are you okay?"
Bobby had lied. "Yeah, bud. Just tired."
"But you don't have work anymore."
Too smart. The kid was too fucking smart. "I mean tired from looking for new work."
Brandon had studied him with those serious brown eyes that made him look older than ten. "Mom says we might not do Christmas this year. Because of money."
Bobby's heart cracked. "We'll figure it out, buddy. I promise."
"You don't have to lie to me, Dad. I'm not a baby."
Then Brandon had walked away, leaving Bobby alone in the dark garage with those words hanging in the air. You don't have to lie to me.
But Bobby had kept lying anyway. To Barbara. To Brandon. To himself.
Now Brandon was in Michigan and Bobby was drinking alone in a house that felt like a tomb, ignoring his son's calls because he couldn't bear to lie anymore but also couldn't bear to tell the truth.
He thought about the day Brandon was born. How he'd held that tiny person and sworn he'd be different than his own father. Be present. Be honest. Be someone his son could trust and respect and count on.
He'd failed at every single promise.
Saturday. Another call from Mom. Sunday morning, one from Dad. Sunday afternoon, Mom again.
Bobby turned his phone off completely.
The blackmailer's Friday deadline had passed. Bobby hadn't paid because there was no money left to give. The threats would escalate now. Screenshots sent to Barbara, maybe to his parents, maybe posted online for the world to see. Bobby almost didn't care anymore. Let it burn. Everything was already burning.
He opened another bottle. The house felt massive and suffocating at the same time. Too many rooms. Too much silence. Too much space for his shame to echo.
He fell asleep on the couch Sunday night, bottle in hand, Christmas tree dying in the corner, phone powered off and dark.
He didn't know his mother had been trying to reach him because she was scared he might hurt himself.
He didn't know his father had told her to give him space, that Bobby was an adult and would call when he was ready.
He didn't know they'd argued about it after church that morning.
He didn't know Brenda Carter had found his address, written it down, put it in her purse.
He didn't know she'd told Willis Carter, "We're going to Bobby's house. Something's wrong and I'm not waiting anymore."
Bobby didn't know any of that.
He was too busy drinking himself unconscious, drowning in shame, ignoring his phone.
Bobby wasn't the only Carter sibling ignoring calls that week. Across town, his sister Bella was staring at her own phone, watching her mother's name flash on the screen for the third time that day. She let it go to voicemail. She had her own crisis to manage, her own secrets to protect, and her own lies that were about to collapse.
Tomorrow: Bella's Fallout
THE END PART 1A: BOBBY'S FALLOUT
