“He’s my dad,” she said, teary-eyed. But it wasn’t clear whom she was speaking about, so Mac made her try again.
“Tom Highward is my dad.” We all reacted again with hugs and relief, yes even me. As far as we know, this great scandal was nothing more than my sweet grandmother covering for her deadbeat, AWOL husband. The Highwards seemed to know even less than we do about Tom, contributing only a few pictures from his childhood and stories told by his sister, Moira Highward, before she passed. Some “bombshell” that turned out to be.
On our way out of the boardroom, Monique gasps and points to my right hand like she’s a kid at Disneyland who has spotted Mickey Mouse.
“Is that the ring? The one your grandma passed down?”
The three-carat stone sparkles up at me. Even with its pristine luster, it’s easy to forget about since I rarely take it off.
“It is,” I say, covering the antique piece of jewelry with my bare left hand.
“I love that you wear it even after . . . everything. Boss move,” Monique says.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling nothing like a “boss”—not in the way Monique means it at least. People read far too deeply into the ring. Some people say I wear it for revenge; others say I wear it because I can’t let go—that I’m not over Hunter or even Dean. Of course, it has to be all about a guy.
What the internet gossips fail to understand is that I left Hunter after the shady stuff with the documentary, not the other way around. The more popular narrative is that Hunter dumped my ass after the story broke about the priest scandal, but there’s little need for a public correction. Mac could’ve cleared it up easily if he’d included the entirety of the hidden camera confrontation, but instead, it ended up on the proverbial cutting-room floor.
The story went away quickly, flaring up only briefly when Bombshell went through its publicity cycle and again when awards season hit. But none of it hurt Hunter’s image; in fact, it seems to have been a net positive. He married a wealthy entrepreneur/reality show star within a year of our breakup. From what I hear, they have a baby on the way.
I knew I was over him when I could see a picture of the pair in my newsfeed and not unfollow that particular media outlet. I don’t believe Hunter did what he did because he wasn’t in love with me. I think it was more likely because his view of love was so altered by his upbringing that he didn’t know how to have a real relationship outside of the media spotlight. And it turned out that I wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship.
My marriage to Dean may have worked—we were young enough and naive enough to give ourselves over to love wholeheartedly. But who knows? Maybe that was a broken heart waiting to happen too. In a way, I’m glad I’ll never know.
“I’m not even kissing up to try and get a job. It’s the truth—you guys deserved those Emmys.” Monique continues with her compliments, and though I know she means well, it’s getting a bit awkward. “And Mac Dorman’s acceptance speech? I see clips on TikTok all the time.”
“Well, thanks, Monique,” I say, smiling at her reference to all the things I’ve actively avoided. “You should hear from us soon. Oscar will show you out,” I add quickly, ready to escape.
Mom and Mac had broken up by awards season, and she attended with my thirteen-year-old niece, Nora, keeping the fame cycle running for another generation. Nonna passed a lot down to us—Variety says it’s her smile, but that’s one minor part of our inheritance. She worked tirelessly for her place on the screen, and it pulled her and her family out of poverty. I do wonder whether it’s fair to benefit from her fame rather than pave our own paths. It’s a hollow existence wondering every time I find success if I’d have reached it without my family’s name following my own.
I politely disengage from the conversation, and Monique eventually departs. RROCK is my domain now, and I want to be immersed in it. As Oscar and Ciara walk Monique out and greet our next candidate, I return to my spot and think of Nora at the Emmys all dolled up in a gown and fake lashes. I’ll see if Jim will let her spend part of her summer with me working in the community kitchen, maybe taking a trip to my dad’s ranch. I’m not pretending to know what’s right for my brother’s kid, but I know what helped my soul, and very little of it had to do with red carpets or flashing lights. If I’d remembered that a little sooner, I would’ve walked away from Bombshell before all the damage happened. No boom mic; can lights; camera lenses; Edinburgh, Indiana; or Father Patrick.
My phone buzzes just in time to keep me from going down the well-trodden path of regret labeled “Patrick Kelly.”
OSCAR: Got our next one. Be right in.
It’s no use reliving that storyline anymore. Walking away from Patrick was different from walking away from the film or Hunter or even my mom. Patrick was innocent. He was my friend. He was real. And unlike Hunter—I still miss him.
I take out the next résumé without looking at it and place it on the table as the boardroom door opens. I hope our next applicant doesn’t know me, or if she does, she isn’t gutsy enough to bring it up. Though it’s pretty likely any candidate will do a healthy amount of research before their interview, so maybe it’s a red flag if they haven’t seen the documentary. I chuckle at the irony as everyone returns to their seats.
Oscar clears his throat and starts the meeting.
“Good afternoon. We’re so glad you made it out today. I know Hanna and Luis met with you earlier this week and you and Ciara had a long call yesterday and you finished up a tour of the kitchen and our other facilities. Now, we wanted to bring you in today to meet both myself and our president, Ms. Elise Branson, for a few questions and to see if you had any for us. So—welcome.” Oscar rattles off his spiel as I finish fidgeting with my notepad, forcing myself to come back to the present moment.
“Thank you. I’m honored to be here.” A masculine-sounding voice with a temperate quality to it replies, making me check the résumé. And there, on a stiff, white piece of paper is the name I’ve been running away from for close to two years.
“Patrick?” I say, just as surprised as the first time he played a switching game on me as I pontificated about stained-glass windows in Holy Trinity. Sure enough, when I look up, there he is—dark hair, kind eyes, playful but steady smile.
“Well, yeah. Or ‘Mr. Kelly’ if you’re looking for something more formal.”
Oscar laughs, and Ciara presses her trimmed nails against her lips like she’s covering up a grin. Patrick is dressed in plain clothes: a neat dark blue pair of jeans and a Ralph Lauren jacket that was popular four or five years ago. His short boots are a rich brown leather. Most interesting of all is the dress shirt he has on. It’s not the white oxford shirt itself that catches my eye. No. It’s the lack of a clerical collar.
“M . . . Mr. . . . ,” I stutter, caught on the casual title but trying to look professional. “Mr. Kelly.” I read over his résumé and find it matches what I know of Father Patrick, which apparently also applies to Mr. Kelly.
“Ms. Branson,” he responds, calling me by my formal name in a good-humored way.