“Maybe so.”
“Like, these are the kinds of things I want our clients to be reading.”
Cord was quiet for a few seconds. “I’m pretty sure she’s going to have to choose between being with you and writing that.”
“Yeah.” I let my voice fade. Britta had reached so many people, and it clawed at me that I was the reason she might have to stop.
I glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I gotta go, man.” I pushed away from my desk and shoved my phone in my back pocket. “I know I fucked up, and I’ll be careful, but I need to see her.”
Cord nodded and raised his fist for me to bump. “Good luck.”
I headed to the elevator with a sour taste in my mouth. I knew what I had to do. Britta was doing something important. As much as it made me want to punch a wall, I knew I wasn’t worth her having to stop.
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BANNED FROM WRITING or posting, I couldn’t focus. Eventually, I gathered my purse and walked toward the main entrance. I would have liked to say I walked with my head held high, but the entire company knew everything about me. So, I hung my head and pretended to be texting, praying no one would try to engage me in conversation. Though there were whispers, no one did. Claire hadn’t so much as looked at me. I seethed at her betrayal and kicked myself for ever believing in her truce, especially after she tried to play innocent.
“Britta, a minute?” The voice stopped me in my tracks, and Maricela motioned from the doorway to her immaculately appointed office.
Shit. “Sure.”
Maricela folded her toned arms on her desk and leaned forward. “How are you?”
I blinked back tears, drained, like someone had released the air from my tires. “Okay.” I nodded too many times. “Maricela, I swear it’s not as bad as it looks. We—”
She held up her palm. “Natalie told me already. It’s not my immediate concern, the nature of your relationship with the coach. You’ve . . .” she trailed off. “The Internet can be a cruel place, Britta. We all know that—we deal with trolls, but you’ve walked into public scrutiny.”
“I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can, and you will.” She tapped at her collarbone. “You don’t have a choice, but I have to think of our entire company, and we rely on readers trusting our collective voice. You’ve made a big mistake here.”
I gulped. No, no, no, no, no.
“I need you to step back from Body FTW and writing. Maybe it’s a good time to use some of your vacation.”
My heart folded in on itself like Saran Wrap. “I thought the plan was to deny everything. You want me to take a leave of absence?”
“Nothing so formal as that, but I think it’s best we put the project on hold. The concept was so solid, and you built it beautifully, but Claire can continue to talk about health and fitness on her own, in some other way.”
The scattered and pulsing remnants of my heart shot outward in all directions. Her own segment. Claire threw me under the bus to get her own segment, and it worked. Tears pricked the back of my eyes, but I blinked them away, tapping my foot. I had no proof it was Claire, so there was no point bringing it up.
“It’s not personal, Britta.” Maricela reached across the desk to touch my arm. “I have to protect this company.”
It was the best I should have hoped for. She could have fired me. “I understand. Should I . . . do I need to leave, then?”
“Take a week or two off, and hopefully things will blow over. Then you can start up again with solely your editorial assistant role.”
Not writing. I nodded again. “Okay. Thank you.”
I stumbled out of the building, my heel catching on the sidewalk. At least it didn’t snap. So, one win. I traveled to Wes’s apartment in a daze. How could Claire do this? How mad is Wes? What am I going to do?
I rode the elevator to his place, my heart rate bumping up with each floor. I felt as nervous as I had the first time we met at the gym.
It’s Wes. It’ll be fine. Over the weekend, he’d given me access to the building, saying he wanted me to be there a lot and planned to get a key made for me. Standing outside his door, knocking, I wondered if I should have just waited in the lobby. He didn’t answer and still hadn’t responded to my text. I glanced at my watch—it was twelve fifteen.
The weight of the morning fell on me as I fumbled with my phone. I accidentally tapped my notifications bar and was struck with post after post lambasting me, mocking me, calling me all kinds of names, and trashing FitMi. Memes with my face photoshopped onto lewd photos filled the screen. Unbidden, tears streamed down my cheeks, a sob wrenched from my chest. I stood in the hallway outside Wes’s door, unable to look away from my phone and unwilling to stop scrolling.