The Force of Gravity

Chapter Eleven

My mind wanders back to my sister's text. Placing my hairbrush down, I pull out my phone and stare at the screen.

Tiny T

u didnt say goodbye.

She used a period. She never uses punctuation.

It's been a week, but I still can't find the words to say to her. It takes me hours to write her different apologies, but only a second to delete them. It's better if I say nothing. It's easier.

A banner pops on my phone, I look away from my shame. The car is here. Brave face Jo, sponsors want a happy driver.

The driver doesn't talk. I appreciate the silence. The past week has been a whirlwind. It seems everyone feels they're entitled to an opinion. The publicity shoots were the worst. People touching my hair, fixing makeup, and dressing me up like a doll. It was redeeming the first hour, but soon enough it turned mundane.

I'm drawn back to Tracy's text. I type my response and hit send.

Me

business has no feelings

Pressure builds in my chest. Why did I send that? Why didn't I just say sorry?

"Pull over," I struggle to find my voice.

"Pardon?" The driver's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.

"Pull over." I repeat forcefully.

"Ma'am, we're on a highway I can't pull over."

"I'm going to throw up." Clutching my chest, I shift closer to the door. "Pull over!"

Trees fly past. The car doesn't slow. A trash bag flutters onto my lap. 
"I'm sorry ma'am it's not safe to pull over. Please use the bag."

Leaning my head back, I try to take deep breaths. Get a hold of yourself, I scold. The bag rustles as I push it into the front seat.

"Sorry."

The driver doesn't respond. Great. Another person disappointed.

Soon enough we arrive at the restaurant. A man with a red vest and tiny hat opens my door. I take his hand politely and step onto the sidewalk. The building is large with tinted windows. The hostess greats me as soon as I step through the door. I give her my name, she doesn't react. Instead, her professional smile remains unchanged.

"Follow me this way," she guides.

My heels sink slightly into the black and white geometric carpeting. We pass various rooms eventually turning into our destination. The room is moderately sized ordained with round tables. Each table is full. So many finely dressed people in one room. My Nike liaison, Amber, sits beside a man I've never met. Both are glued to their cellphones. There are two other empty seats.

Amber notices me first and quickly slips her phone into her pocketbook. The man doesn't bother to look up. Amber stands and embraces me in a quick hug. I plaster on an award-winning smile and kiss her cheek lightly.

"Jordan, it's so wonderful you could make it." Amber's eyes twinkle in the candlelight.

I squeeze into the seat beside her. "This restaurant looks exquisite."

Exquisite? What is this Downton Abbey?

The man finally looks up. His jet back hair is slicked back. Maybe it's tampering with the blood flow to his brain. Yes, that's why he's so rude.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I don't believe we've met," I begin, "Jordan Joel, but you can call me Jo."