“Hi.” I smile nervously.
“You’re going to love it here.” She pulls me through the office by the hand. “Here is your office.”
I smile, surprised. “I get my own office?”
“Of course you do.”
I look around the little office. It’s definitely no management top floor, but it suits me just fine. There’s a window and a desk and a chair in the corner. It’s kind of homey. I turn to her. “Thank you for taking me on. I am so grateful.”
Athena smiles and rubs my arm. When I called her asking for a job, she never once asked what happened with Miles Media or my relationship with Jameson. But I know that she knows that I’m probably broken with nowhere else to go, and running home with my tail between my legs isn’t an option.
She’s right.
I’m going to make it up to her; I’m going to be the best damn reporter that she has ever had.
“I’ll leave you to it.” She smiles. “Staff meeting at ten to introduce you to everyone. We have welcome doughnuts.”
I smile. “Thanks, that would be great.”
She disappears down the corridor, and I take a seat at my new desk and look around the lonely space.
I miss Molly and Aaron . . . and the buzz of Miles Media.
Jameson
“With this projection here, the forecast is a growth of ten percent over the next eighteen months.” Harrison from finance taps the graph on the projector whiteboard as he addresses the board meeting.
The table is alive with chatter and enthusiasm. The comeback strategy from the drama over the last four months is alive and well.
Me . . . I’m miles away.
I can’t concentrate . . . I can’t think . . . I feel like I can’t breathe.
Maybe I’m not okay.
Emily started her new job today, and I wanted to call her and wish her luck.
I couldn’t sleep thinking about it and even picked up the phone a few times. I drop my head.
But what’s the point . . .
I wonder if she ran this morning. Did she wear her runners that she said have motors on them? I smile softly to myself as I remember Elliot thinking I was talking about Zuckerberg having the motorized runners.
Idiot . . .
I twist in my chair to stretch my back. I need a massage.
Emily doesn’t like me getting massages. I think back to the kind of massages I used to get, and it seems like another lifetime ago.
BE—Before Emily . . . stop it.
“Jameson will be addressing that in the morning.”
I look up, lost. What are they talking about?
The board members around the table all stare at me as they wait for my reply. My eyes flick to Tristan for guidance.
“When you fly to Seattle tonight.” He raises his eyebrows as a gentle reminder.
“Yes.” I nod. “That’s right.”
Tristan is limping me through work at the moment, well aware of my state of mind.
The meeting continues, and I sip my water to try and bring my mind back to where it needs to be. This isn’t good enough, Jameson.
Focus.
I walk onto the plane.
“Good evening, Mr. Miles. Your seat is here, sir. 1A.”
“Thank you.” I fall into the seat in the front row of first class.
The plane slowly boards, and I stare out the window. Flying never used to bother me. I hate it now.
I hate that it reminds me of her . . . of how we met. Of the night we had together.
Of how badly things turned out in the end.
With my elbow leaning on the armrest, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I just want to get there and go to my hotel and sleep. I’m tired and not in the mood for this shit.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Miles?”
“Scotch, please.”
An elderly man takes the seat next to me. He nods. “Hello.”
“Hi.” I smile. I turn my attention out the window to the baggage crew down on the tarmac, all doing their job and rushing around doing the safety checks.
They’re driving on carts, flashing lights, and waving flags.
I wouldn’t even care if the plane fucking crashed.
Burning in hell would be better than this.
Four days later
I smile at Alan as he stands next to the limo at the airport. “Hello, sir. Did you have a nice trip?”
“It was fine; thank you.” I smile as I get into the back seat.
“Would you like to do the normal route, sir?” he asks through the door.
“Yes, please.”
He smiles. “Very well.” He shuts the door, and moments later, the car pulls out into the traffic.
Half an hour later, he slows down as we drive past Emily’s apartment, and I peer through the window.