Public Relations

Chapter 19: Mia

When I finally climb into bed, my phone lights up with a text. My heart skips, thinking it's from Sean, the gentle response I've been waiting for.

I check the screen, and frown when I see it's from my father.

Jeff: Heard you had to take a business trip. Be safe.

Jeff: Remember what we discussed.

I cuss him out beneath my breath and shut the lights off, waiting for a fitful sleep to come over me.

* * *

The podcast is filmed in some crypto bro's high rise apartment overlooking Central Park. The host's name is Elijah, and he's all smiles when we walk in. There's a few women bustling around the apartment, setting up lights and snacks and cables. I bristle as I take notice of the crew - all being young, attractive women, and immediately feel uncomfortable. Not because of the women, but because I'm wary of men who exclusively hire pretty women to do their administrative work. It's sleazy and very 1950s.

The women are nice, however, and they take me in the way women do. I'm given a soft armchair on the opposite end of the room, the upholstery a deep navy velvet. They bring me a chilled water bottle and bag of white cheddar popcorn and type in the WiFi password when I ask. 

Thus, filming commences. The men talk vapidly about nothing at all, regaling stories of crazy  things they did in their teens and how they both rose to the edges of fame. I manage to tune them out pretty thoroughly, lost deeply in my never-ending inbox. It's rare on a trip like this that I'd get an uninterrupted hour to do any work I need, outside of the hours just before the sun comes up or many hours after it's set.

So I work, and they talk, and the women buzz around behind us, light on their feet like floating little fairies.

When things wrap up, I'm itching to hear one intelligent conversation. I'd even settle for talking work with Brett if it meant Elijah would shut up for half a second.

They linger with each other, clearly just two dudes enjoying the friendship. I stay on my laptop in the corner, waiting for Brett to inch closer to the door before I start to pack up. I don't want to waste any time waiting for him to leave - I'll do work until he finishes.

And then something weird happens.

Elijah excuses himself to take a phone call in the backroom. Brett's behind me, doing something in what I presume to be the kitchen. He reintroduces himself to one of the women working.

When she giggles, I know exactly what's going on.

It's a high pitched laugh, a laugh that's more like an invitation than a reaction to something funny being said. His voice is low, just a murmur as I strain to hear it through the walls between us. Her words are easier to discern. She says, "Yes, of course!" and then there's silence.

I stand from my chair, fueled by a hot curiosity. I try to walk quietly, then realize I'm not in any position to be sneaking up on my client and an innocent woman, and I change my pace to normal.

When I round the corner, they're leaning in to one another in the white sunlight pouring in through the window. She's holding his phone, almost certainly typing in her phone number. They both look up at me like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"Hi," she says brightly. "Can I get you anything?"

"I, uh, I was just looking for another bottle of water?"

I hate the way the words come out - I should've rehearsed them, but I'd stood up with such swiftness I'd barely had time to think.

Brett's eyes are glued to mine, with a murky expression floating within them. I can't read it - it could be regret, it could be embarrassment, it could be a challenge. He's not the type of person to live with many regrets, but he also has spent such a long time these last few weeks proving to me that he's a good guy. Not that good guys can't get girls' phone numbers. 

Why am I so mad?

The girl hands me a bottle of water from the fridge, and I make a mental note to chug my open one, which I'd barely sipped from. They both smile at me vacantly once I've taken it, clearly waiting patiently for me to leave so they can resume whatever flirting I'd interrupted.

So I do. I skulk back to my chair in the corner and punch out a few emails that I could've worded better and I pointedly do not acknowledge how my chest is flaming bright and hot. I'm not a jealous person - never have been - and this isn't jealousy.

It's about PR, I tell myself. This is a bad PR move and he knows it, and he's doing it on purpose to piss me off.

The worst part is the comfort I find in that - in thinking that getting her number was just a plot to rile me. Because then, at least, I'd still be the reason.

And at my core, that's all I really want.