Public Relations

Chapter 30: Brett

When I hang up with Mia, a lump rolls down my throat, thick and heavy and cold as ice.

Aside from feeling absolutely terrible for the loss of Mia's job - of which I'm undeniably responsible - something isn't quite right with her. She's calm - which she always is, but usually she's calm and something. Calm and frustrated, calm and determined. This calm was more like an apathy, a surrender. It's not the Mia I know, and I don't know how to help.

My mother and aunt drop me off at the airport the following morning, equipped with a Ziploc baggie of homemade cookies that I'm not sure will survive TSA and an abundance of embarrassing physical affection doled out at the Departures drop-off.

"You're doing great things," my mom tells me, both hands cupping my cheeks. Her tone is wistful, her eyes sad or proud or longing. "It might not feel like it, but you are."

I smile down at her. "I'll see you guys soon. Next month, maybe."

And after their tittering, I'm on a plane back to LA.

I survive the airport unnoticed at home, but LAX is much less forgiving. There's so many people running from place to place, everyone grabbing their Uber or their loved ones or their luggage or their lunch. Paparazzi camp out in their cars, waiting for a tip, their cameras like weapons in the passenger seat. It overwhelms me slightly, this chaos. I wonder what it looks like from above.

Before I start arranging for my ride back to my house, I pull up a number on my phone and dial out, saying a silent prayer to any higher power that this is the right choice.

Senator Bells picks up on three rings.

It's jarring for a moment to think that someone so powerful, so protected, has a phone number that can simply be called by anyone. A reminder that we're mortal, our flesh is soft no matter how big our reputation is.

"Bells speaking."

"Mr. Bells," I say quickly. "This is Brett Archer. You may remember me from -"

"From claiming online that my son hit his girlfriend," he answers, his words slicing the distance between us clean in half.

I'm holding my breath, certain this was a mistake. The fingers on my free hand dig into my palms, hard enough to leave marks. "I want to speak with you."

"What's there to speak about?"

This was something my mind had snagged on for several nights in a row. What is there to speak about? We've both posted our tell-alls. Our lawyers are involved. Surely, as a politician, he's no idiot when it comes to legal advice. The two of us speaking unsupervised would be ill-advised by anyone's standards. Besides, what medium would we agree upon?

I open my mouth to speak - and, to my horror, I realize it's to apologize - but he cuts me off before I embarrass myself.

"You know what, Brett? I'm actually glad you called."

A breeze rolls through, and despite being blistering from the summer heat, I get goosebumps. This man is going to place a hit on me. I'm dead, for sure.

"You're in LA? I'm here today. How about we meet for dinner at my hotel?"

Confusion washes over me first, rinsing away any semblance of fear. "You want to meet in person?" I ask, baffled.

He clears his throat distractedly. "Brett, I have to get back to my work, but I'll have my assistant forward you an address and time. Thanks for calling, son."

And then he disconnects without a goodbye, leaving me feeling more unsure than before.

Just as he'd promised, a text comes through a few minutes later from an unknown number, a cheerful message from a Lynn, with the details and a curt request for an RSVP by the top of the hour.