Public Relations

Chapter 20: Brett

Mia is deathly still and silent on our drive back to the hotel.

I'm buzzing in the back seat, my thoughts aggressive and loud. On the one hand, it felt good to get the number of a beautiful woman over at Elijah's place. She looked at me like I held the stars in my eyes, and she laughed at all my jokes, and sometimes she'd brush her hand against my arm when she wanted to show how intently she was listening.

On the other hand, Mia walked right in. A part of me had hoped she would - a nasty, unkind part of me that immediately felt terrible once she did. She'd stood there in the kitchen, dust motes dancing around her in the sunlight, her mouth slightly agape and her face impossible to read. She just looked defeated.

And then she'd gone back to her laptop and stabbed her nails into the keys with an animosity I didn't want to be on the receiving end of.

She sat beside me now, arms tucked close to her chest, nose nearly touching the window. Her breath fogged it slightly as she watched the ever-changing scenes unfold outside. People hustled and ambled and danced on the sidewalks, most listening to music or accompanied by friends or lovers or dogs. I thought about what that life must be like, heading to your barista job as a college student, talking with your roommate about how the weather was starting to get cooler, the days shorter. Meeting endless strangers on the walk, most of whom you'd forget, except for the few that weasel their way into your life.

Not me. I'd just spent several hours at Elijah's house - Elijah, the self-proclaimed hustle king - discussing fame and finances and how to succeed. Both of us being people whose struggle stories consisted of moms who couldn't hand us the world but could keep us fed, of stepping into adulthood in mild discomfort but never fear.

I open my mouth to say something to Mia - what, I have no idea - but she takes a brief call just as I do. So I swallow the words; she doesn't want to hear them anyway.

When the car pulls up to the hotel, it's late afternoon and I'm so hungry I could die. I wait for Mia to join me at the front door before asking, "Do you want to join me for dinner?"

"Not particularly, no."

The air conditioning assaults us as we step through the automatic doors. To our right, the woman at the front desk gives us a gentle smile before returning to the corded phone held between her shoulder and her ear.

I try not to react as I push the button to call the elevator. "Any reason why?"

Mia stares at me fiercely, her dark eyes reflecting my big, stupid reflection like the ocean at night. "Because I have things to do. And we are not friends."

I bristle. "Right, how could I forget."

The elevator dings, but we hold each other's gaze for far too long until an elderly couple behind us coughs. We step into the elevator, the four of us, and the couple exchanges a look.

"Lover's quarrel?" the man asks, his eyes gleaming with mischief. His wife gives him a light smack, but she's grinning wide like an accomplice.

Mia says nothing.

"Something like that," I chuckle, unraveling my fingers from the tight fist they've made in my pocket.

We get to our floor, walk to our rooms, and stop outside the doors just like we had last night.

"Good luck with your work," I tell her lamely, but it's obvious I don't mean it.

"Good luck doing whatever you do to kill time."

Another moment passes, the air thick enough to suffocate us.

"Catch you later, Brett."

Then she walks into her hotel room and lets the door slam behind her.