Public Relations

Chapter 11: Mia

"Okay," I say tentatively, closing the web browser and handing him back his phone. "It really wasn't damning. This is manageable."

"Is it?" he asks dubiously. "It sure doesn't seem like it's going to end."

He's holding his arms up, his fingers laced at the back of his head while he swears at nothing and no one. His muscles are tense beneath his flimsy t-shirt, his shoulders hunched to his ears. I watch him for a moment, pacing and frustrated. 

"We're going to get legal involved," I state. "If this is her truth, she can defend it in court. We're not airing out our dirty laundry like this over the internet. These claims are serious."

Brett nods, his hands sweeping forward, through his already fussed hair to dig his fists into his eye sockets. "I don't want legal involved."

"We have no choice, Brett. This is defamation. It's slander."

"It's bullshit."

"That, too." And then, almost timidly, I ask, "Do you want a coffee?"

He softens momentarily when I ask, then rounds the corner to collapse back onto the couch. "I ordered breakfast, actually, like twenty minutes ago. Your address was still in my Google Maps app so we've got a spread coming. A latte, too."

Out of surprise and absolutely no other emotions, I smile at him. "Well then, we're off to the best possible start on this issue."

The next half hour slides by like liquid: languid and loose. We both brush our teeth, Brett using an extra toothbrush from my reservoir of hoarded toiletries. I take a brief shower and dream of evaporating into the steam and being swept into the atmosphere, far above these menial issues. But when I emerge, they still exist, and my phone is evidence of it.

Tony has called me about a dozen times, infuriated with how this continues to happen. Elizabeth texted thrice, making sure I got home okay, then updating me on Harmony, who managed to make out with six people at the same club in one night and forcibly remove two, then she told me to 'get it' with Brett. I've got one text from my own manager, too, to alert me of the pandemonium taking place online.

It's about to be a really fantastic day.

When I step back into the living room, Brett is arranging a small feast on the kitchen table, comprised of breakfast burritos, diced potatoes, crispy bacon, and a bowl of fruit salad. And, as promised, a hot latte beside what I assume to be my meal.

"I hope you don't have any allergies," he says. "It's got everything in it. I figured no one can hate a breakfast burrito."

"A fair assumption," I concede. "Let's eat, I guess."

We take our seats, our places set with flimsy restaurant napkins and plastic silverware. Brett shovels the sides onto the lid of his takeout container, placed just to the left of his burrito. I eye him for a moment then mirror his actions once he finishes. We stay like that, in an easy silence, each of us lost in our own minds about the situation at hand.

"When will legal get contacted?" Brett asks.

"Today."

"On a weekend?"

I blink at him. "They're lawyers."

"Yeah, but don't people deserve time off?"

The burrito is heavy in my hands, untouched, my mouth agape. "Brett, be for real."

"It can't wait until Monday?"

"Wait?" I exclaim. "Why would we wait?"

Brett tenses, setting his own food down as well. We hold eye contact for a long moment. "I don't want to disrupt everyone's Saturday. I don't want to get legal involved yet."