Her silence was the worst part.
Despite it being a rather pleasant summer, the air was frigid in the car. I drove with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white from how hard I was gripping, fearful that my fingers would shake if I were to lighten up. We passed more landmarks: a dilapidated barn where I had my first beer (and threw up after my fifth), the music store that patiently taught me guitar for three years, a river running under a small bridge where, as kids, we'd race rubber ducks in the spring when it thawed. I swallowed the desire to share these memories, the knife in my heart driving deeper into the flesh with every passing second.
When we pulled into the driveway, Mia wasted no time climbing from the car and heading inside. I watched her stalk off, her loose curls bouncing as she bounded up the rickety steps and slipped through the door.
I took a deep breath of the fresh air, dread settling in my lungs like dust. It hurt to breathe. I kicked myself mentally, calling myself every name I could think of before pulling out my own phone.
And there it was, trending all over social media. How Camila - who previously had no following and, more importantly, no credibility - had caught me red handed. It baffled me how the internet, as massive and presumably educated as it should be, given the population, required no evidence. Camila's word was more than enough. We'd been photographed together, thus her story was fact.
I wonder briefly why no one is more concerned about the actual lawsuits in place. People are typically more careful about their accusations, but Avalon, Jason, and Camila have not held back in the slightest. Though there's power in numbers, I suppose. Or Avalon's paying everyone off. She's got the money to do it, and I'm sure this publicity is only contributing to her wealth.
Before I fall into too conspiratorial of a hole, I shut my phone off and slip it into my pocket. I'm standing outside the car, frozen with how leaden my feet are. Regretfully, reluctantly, I head toward the house.
I don't make it halfway up the driveway before Mia reappears, her backpack slung over her shoulder, a Tupperware container in one hand, dragging her carryon behind her in the other. She nearly brushes right past me before I catch her arm.
"Hey," I say, and she swings around to face me with the force of someone throwing a punch. I almost flinch.
"What?" she spits.
I shake my head in shock, blinking like I've been sprayed by venom. "What? Shouldn't we, I don't know, talk?"
Mia exhales slowly, her makeup-free eyes fluttering closed. "Brett," she says softly, her voice wobbling with instability. "What could we possibly have to discuss?"
A breeze runs between us, chilly and distant, and I feel myself start to come undone. "Don't leave," I plead, releasing her arm. "We can get this sorted out. I'll release a statement -"
"You will do nothing, Brett Archer." She straightens herself, shaking a rogue strand of hair from her eyes. Her jaw sets before she speaks again, her nostrils flaring. "I think you've done more than enough at this point."
She turns on her heel and walks to the passenger door of her car. I trail behind her like a loyal puppy after being kicked, desperate to make things right.
Mia deposits her backpack on the floor in front of the seat, then sets the plastic container down on the seat. I can see a few brownies in there, undoubtedly fresh from my mother's kitchen, either a test batch or just an expression of love. I see the alternate reality all too clearly, painfully so, in which we sneak in kisses between bites of my mother's brownies, overstimulated from the blaring TV or the two women bickering incessantly.
The sound of the door slamming drops me back into the present like falling through ice.
"Are you going to move or should I run over your foot?" she asks me. "It wouldn't be worse than what's in the news already."
We round the front of her car once more, me still pathetically following her. "Please, Mia bella."
She spins on her heels, the tips of her chocolate hair stinging my skin as they whip past. We're inches from each other. "Do not call me that," she seethes, speaking between clenched teeth. "Do you want to know what the worst part about this is, Brett? That I knew this would happen. There is a reason why we don't get entangled with clients, and it's because it can never be clean. These things are not normal. I'm a woman, a young woman, who goes with you everywhere. As if we needed to do anything to feed into the rumors - they'd bubble up all on their own. But that's just part of the job."
I watch tears well up in her eyes, silently begging my own to stay down.
"I knew better but I let my guard down. That's just what you do to people, I guess. Maybe you do it to everyone, I don't know." She wipes at her face with the back of her hand. Despite herself, her voice has found its strength, clear and sharp. "I should have never let all of this transpire in the first place. I had no business getting close to you, or letting you get close to me. This is my fault as a professional and now I have to fucking fix it." Her lip trembles. "And it's going to cost me my job when it's all said and done."
I shake my head. "No," I tell her firmly, "That can't happen. I won't let that happen."
She laughs disdainfully. "Oh yeah?" she asks me sarcastically. "And what the fuck are you going to do about it? Tell my boss no? Talk to my father about it?"
It's a painful truth; there really isn't anything I can do. I could ask Tony to put in a good word about how phenomenal her work is, but he wouldn't, and it wouldn't make a difference. I've ruined her career.
"Now I'm going to the airport to catch a flight home so I can do damage control for not only your image, but mine."
I feel the breath leave my lungs. I'm lightheaded, barely understanding what I'm looking at as she climbs into the car.
"No, no, you shouldn't leave in this state," I urge. "Let me drive you, at least."
Mia leaves the door open but settles into the seat. She spares me a glance upward, her expression stony. "Make this easy on us both, Brett. Let me leave."
I'm torn between fighting for this woman, who has quickly become everything to me, and acknowledging her wishes despite my own. My limbs are heavy, my head swimming, and I can't tell if I'm on the verge of laughing or crying. Or actually, it might be vomit.
"At least tell me what I can do," I beg, my shaky hands resting on the top of her car door.
She sighs, her head falling against the headrest behind her. "Nothing, for the love of god. Let me handle this. Check your emails often and answer nobody." She starts the car. "And don't fuck any other women while you're here. Or do, I guess. It's not like it matters now anyway."
She reaches over and grabs the handle, then slams the door right in front of me. I stand there helpless, dumb and rattled, watching as she backs out of the driveway and takes off. It's the wrong direction, headed towards the dead-end. A minute later the car passes by going in the opposite way, and then she's gone.
I am empty, trembling. I stay in that spot for a long time, possibly half an hour after she's driven away, because doing anything else doesn't sit right with me. It's a distinct kind of grief, like a breakup, but worse - I'm pretty sure I just lost the girl and ruined her life simultaneously. I know in my soul that there's nothing I can do to make things right, so I resign to doing nothing.
Eventually, I hear the door to the house open and shut, then my mother mumbling grumpily as she traverses the steps to where I stand on the pavement. She appears beside me like a ghost; I nearly jump at the sight of her.
"Did you make a bet on how long you can stand here doing nothing?" she asks me lightly. When I look down at her, there's a sad gleam in her eye. "Did she leave?"
I nod wordlessly.
My mother sighs, sucking her teeth. "Well, there's no use in waiting for her to come back out here. If you're too depressed to wash dishes, I'll let you frost my next cake."
Her hand grips my arm and drags us both back inside, where the bastard cat hisses as we go by and my aunt sits at the breakfast nook. I collapse into a stray chair in the corner, separated from both women.
My mom picks up a metal bowl and stirs her spoon through the icing inside. "Care to tell us what happened? Mia said an emergency came up and she had to leave. Seemed urgent."
I drop my head into my hands, fingers curling to grip the roots of my hair. I groan. "I screwed everything up."
"Tell us about it, baby."
So I do. I start from where we'd left off last time. To my own humiliation, I recount our few physical interactions, even as small as her sleeping on me during our trip to New York. Their eyes widen when I tell them about the date with Camila, their jaws dropping as I detail how the night ended. By the time I've finished speaking, they stare at me with pity, heads tilted to the side.
"That sure is a doozy," Aunt Charlotte says after a long, low whistle.
My mother watches me for a long time, eyes narrowed, before picking up the piping bag she'd filled while I was speaking. "So speak your truth," she tells me simply, starting on a bright blue border for the cake she's retrieved from the fridge.
"I can't," I say. "There's a bunch of legal stuff going on. People's jobs are wrapped up in this, Mia's included."
My mom shakes her head, masterfully twirling the cake on its spinning platform while continuing the border. "What's it matter? If Mia gets fired over this, then the final consequence is already done. It's not like anyone's lawyers are going to sue you."
I squint at her. "They definitely could. And I wouldn't put it past Avalon"
"She's not going to because this isn't even about her anymore."
I raise my eyebrows at that, sucking my lips into my mouth as my mom carries on.
"Forget Avalon, love muffin. She is the background noise in all of this. Camila is spreading misinformation at the expense of Mia and Jason Bells needs to burn at the stake. What happens between you and Avalon is between you and Avalon; but Camila has jeopardized Mia's job and Jason's out there hitting women, or whatever he did. You have an obligation to set those things straight. You're on the right side, but people can't know that because you're being silent."
I chew on these words, starting to feel unsettled. "I've been told by everyone to stay silent, "I counter. "And whenever I go against these people, it hasn't worked in my favor."
My mom finishes the border and exchanges the bag for a different one with a tip for calligraphy. She catches my gaze before she starts. "Those were trivial things, right? Who you should hang out with, what you should say in interviews? These are people's lives now. Speak your truth. It's what everyone deserves, good or bad."
I shake my head no, but she starts to speak again before I have a chance to reply.
"This is internet drama, Brettster. The lawsuits will die with the hype of the story. Avalon wants attention; give her attention. Jason wants to show a clip of the bar, show the unedited tape. Camila wants to start slander, speak up."
Aunt Charlotte snaps like my mother's just performed hard-hitting slam poetry, and to my surprise I feel a smile creep across my face.
"You sound like Celeste," I tell her.
It's a risky line, a sore spot for everyone. But my mother lights up from within.
"Then it must be her speaking through me. Except she'd tell you to quit being a dumbass and stand up for what's right."
"Not 'dumbass,'" Aunt Charlotte chimes in. "Probably 'twat.'"
Against the odds, we're all laughing.
Then, without warning, my mom says, "You gotta set things right, anyway. I liked Mia."
"Me too," from Aunt Charlotte.
"That's definitely a woman who takes no shit." My mom brushes her hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, locking eyes with me as she does. She's grinning, lost in the memory of Mia. "Out of all of y'all, she's going to come out on top. I'm not worried about her in the slightest."
I smile. The banter continues, mercifully changing to a new topic that is slightly less heavy than the events of the day.
I don't hear from Mia, but she would've made it back to the airport by dark. It gives me some time to sort out my plans.
When I lie down in bed later that night, my fingers ache to text her, and I imagine her sleeping against the window of a plane, peaceful and safe. It's the only thing that eases my mind enough to let me rest.