Public Relations

Chapter 12: Mia

"I'd love to hear you explain what this is, since you're only focused on being good at your job."

I pick up the photo, squinting as my eyes recognize what I'm looking at.

It's Brett's car, head-on, the headlights washing out the saturation of the photo. But you can see him clear as day, his hood tucked up over his head, his eyes fixed on the passenger seat.

And, of course, there I am, wearing my skimpy, borrowed dress and climbing into the passenger side. I look awful, my hair frizzy from the humidity of the club, my skin splotchy from the alcohol in my system. It's cheap, it's tacky, and it's a really bad look for me.

The whole printout is of a tweet, which reads: "saw brett archer picking up his mystery gf (or rebound) from her wild night on the town"

Somewhere deep inside of me, something dies. This is the most humiliating thing I've ever been faced with, not just because it's my own father playing the role of my boss, who is about to reprimand me unforgivingly, but because it could've been so easily prevented. Because I knew better, and I've always known better, and I've spent years behaving exactly the way I'm supposed to, only to be caught the one time I don't.

My mouth opens and closes dumbly. "I..."

"Yeah, you," he responds, leaning even further back in the chair, eliciting a high-pitched groan from the seat. "I'd fire someone over this."

I'm silent for a moment, grasping at the words in my mind as they float right past me, just out of my reach.

"Do you understand how lucky you are to have this job in the first place?" he says, and I know the exact spiel he's about to give me verbatim. "This is an opportunity people would kill for. And I gave it to you, my flesh and blood, because I saw the potential in you when no one else could."

It's been years, and that line still cuts deep, drawing blood somewhere along the fragile organ of my ego.

"And you want to handle this opportunity like this? Playing dress-up and going home drunk with your clients?"

"It's not what it looks like," I say, cringing at the cliché as it falls from my lips. "He called with a work question and could tell I was out and drinking. He insisted that he get me home safely. He's just that kind of guy."

My dad pulls his lips into a thin line, clearly unconvinced and disinterested.

"For what it's worth," I add, "we aren't seeing each other. It's never been romantic. We are friends."

"Friends," he snorts sarcastically. "Mia, if anyone pulled together who you are - which I'm sure they will, if you're pictured with him again - I'd have no choice but to fire you. We are not in the business of fraternizing with clients. You're the professional and you should've known to tell him thanks, but no thanks."

I nod.

He takes the paper back from me, crumples it in his palms, and tosses it into the waste basket at the end of the desk. We both pretend not to notice when he severely overshoots and it bounces weakly off the wall.

"I'm moving Archer to Rory. I doubt she'll be tempted by his charm." He spits the word out like venom.

"No!" I exclaim, then recognize how desperate it sounds, how pathetic. "I mean, sorry. I'm just so involved with this Avalon issue, and now legal, and I think it would be unwise to add such a messy account to anyone's portfolio. I've been in this mess since it started and I can get him out of it."

"I don't care."

"You should," I say. "He's a difficult client - and no one likes the influencers, especially the boys, because they're just so unpredictable. Handing him off to someone else will look like giving your daughter special treatment."