Despite my best efforts, I barely corralled Brett long enough to copy my pre-written statement into his own handwriting. I scheduled for it to be posted to his story later that evening, when people were off work and out of class.
He'd spent so much of the time poking and prodding into my life, my thoughts, my likes. I dodged what I could, tossing him crumbs to keep him satisfied enough to stick with the publicity antics I needed him for. It was bizarre, this sudden interest in who I am.
Some part of me felt frustrated with it. I would never risk my career for a man, let alone Brett.
Is he attractive? Sure, I'm not blind. He'd built a whole livelihood from it - to deny this fact would be dishonest. Am I attracted to him? That's the real question.
If life had unfolded in a different way, if I wasn't in this position, if he wasn't my client, perhaps I'd be interested. But fate has her methods, and our futures were woven in different directions, loosely intertwining for these few professional engagements. I'm happy to leave it there.
I stand in my kitchen, a disinfectant spray in my left hand and a paper towel in my right, playing housecleaner like I've spent more than a few hours at home in the last week. The apartment smells of lemon and something probably a touch toxic or cancerous from the candle burning on my counter. The wood floors twinkle, having been swept and mopped. The rugs and couch cushions have been vacuumed with such precision and neuropathy that they bore vertical lines in the fabric's direction. The place is so clean I wouldn't be able find a dust mote dancing in a beam of afternoon light seeping in from the window.
There's a knock on my door. I shoot a nervous glance at the clock on the stove: 5:45 PM.
Shit. He's early.
"One second!" I shout, hightailing it to my bedroom to change from my oversized hoodie and leggings into something a bit more put together. I stare at a skirt for a ridiculous amount of time, mentally calculating if it's too formal. When I hear him knock again, I tell myself nothing matters and throw it on.
Moments later, I'm opening the door to my father.
He's a round man, carrying weight in his beer gut the way only men over sixty can. He gives me his feline grin, the kind that unravels from the inside out and holds up his bag of Chinese takeout like a trophy.
"Hi, sweet pea," he says as he pulls me in for an embrace. I allow this rare display of affection, file it away for later when something seems off.
"Come in, Dad." I wave him through the threshold of the door and to the table.
We don't speak as we unpack the contents of the plastic bag, bearing no log other than THANK YOU written across it several times. He'd overdone it, as he's apt to do. Lo mein, egg rolls, crab Rangoons, Mongolian beef, orange chicken, containers filled to the brim with white and fried rice. My stomach hurts just looking at it, the variety of brown and fried foods displayed across the table.
"We can't eat all this," I say.
"Leftovers for the week!" he counters, tossing a piece of beef into his mouth with his bare fingers. I try not to make a face.
He sits down, without utensils, napkins, or a drink. I check the bag - a handful of crushed napkins, already saturated with the extra grease from the bottom of the boxes plus six pairs of chopsticks that he can't use - and head back to the kitchen to grab what he'll inevitably ask for.
When I bring him a fork and a glass of iced water, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sun. "Oh, thank you, Mi! You didn't have to do all that."
My lips pull into a thin line. "Yeah, I got you, Dad."
I take the chair across from him, noting how he's already helped himself to some of everything, already several bites in.
"How's work going?" he asks, waterfalling the sweet and sour sauce over his Rangoons so thoroughly it drenches the food on his plate.
"It's fine. Normal."
"Busy?"
"Busy classifies as normal."
He raises his eyebrows at me. "Tone."
It takes everything in me not to snap at this. With anyone else, I'd unleash hellfire upon them. I'm a woman in business, a business historically comprised of the wealthy stepping all over us. I grew teeth when I was young and I learned how to use them to draw blood.
But my father is where I inherited those fangs in the first place, and partially out of necessity. He's a curt man, ruthless and blunt. He'd pinch my skin when I walked by in middle school to make comments about how it rolled over the seams of my jeans. He'd take one glance at an imperfect grade and make his disappointment immediately known. He'd kick me to the ground if it meant getting further in life, if he thought it'd push me further in life. Even if it ruined our relationship in the process.
It was the reason I was financially independent from him. He'd dangle that over my head until I couldn't breathe from how hard I strived for his approval.
"I heard about the scandal with that kid you represent."
"Which one?" I ask, disinterested. My chopsticks push the fried rice around the plate.
"Brett."
"No, which scandal?"
This catches his attention. "How many have there been?"
I sigh, exhausted from reliving this again after it sucked up my whole week to this point. "He punched a politician's kid this weekend and now his influencer ex-girlfriend is claiming to have been a witness to his violent behavior."
He tilts his head without looking at me, drinking in this information to chase down his third egg roll. There's only one left, and I know he won't be leaving it for me. "What have you been doing for that?"
This is a game, one I'm well-acquainted with. I'll give him the spiel, what I've done, future plans, the whole nine. And he'll find one flimsy idea, one weak spot, and dig into it until I crumble.
"You know what? I don't really want to talk about work. How are things with you?"
It's a risky move, redirecting the conversation like that, but he allows it. "Things are great! I've just moved Sharon and I into that new house."
Sharon is wife number four, my mother having been the unfortunate first. I didn't attend the wedding - wasn't even invited - having caused quite the scene at the last. It was a fair assessment, not inviting me. I probably would've been a huge bitch all over again.
"That's great to hear," I reply, hoping there's more enthusiasm in my face than there is in my voice.
My father points his fork at me, a few grains of rice dropping to the table as he does so. If he notices, he pays them no mind. "You know, I was looking over your LinkedIn the other day. That picture you have is certainly bold."
Good god. "Didn't you just build a pool at the house?"
"I did. The heater doesn't work though, so it's basically useless right now.
I gesture to the window, where the weather is unforgivingly hot just beyond. "Is the sun not pulling its weight?"
He gives one sharp laugh, like a villain. "The pool is much too big big for that. It's fifteen feet deep."
"Right."
He meets my gaze, our dark eyes locking for the first time since he arrived. I was made from the same color palette as him, olives and chocolates and golds. Time had worn his complexion away to something that more resembled the sickly color of bad milk. Time, or being a complete jackass. Nasty behavior tends to make you nasty.
"Mia," he says. "I thought we agreed to do these monthly dinners to connect on your career."
"Everything is about my career, Dad," I say, immediately cringing at how whiny it sounds. I clear my throat and regroup. "Every waking minute is spent on my career. It's been like that for two years now. I could use some regular father-daughter time."
"Everything should be about your career at this age. You're just twenty-four. You won't get anywhere without sacrifice."
I swallow and nod. I wonder if he notices how I have barely touched this food. He's been bringing this same shit for years. I'd stopped giving him the speech about how sensitive my stomach can be; if he hears me, he certainly doesn't care.
"I know you're working hard, Mia," he says finally, like it's some sort of surrender. "It'll pay off in the long run."
I bristle at this comment. He'll say something self-serving or backhanded in less time than it would take me to pass out from holding my breath.
He saves me the trouble. "Look, Mia, one other thing. I spoke to Sharon, and we don't think you should come to the housewarming party. Or, honestly, come to the house at all. There's nothing there for you anyway. It's only got two guest rooms, which we need for guests. The other rooms are for the kids."
The kids being Sharon's, ten-year-old twins and an eight-year-old, all three innocent casualties in this atrocious arrangement, if not a little bratty.
"Yeah, sure," I say. "I don't mind."
"We'll take you to dinner sometime," he adds, not seeming to have heard me speak. "Her schedule's just so busy, you know, with work and everything."
In the world's cruelest version of irony, my father, the vicious, unforgiving businessman, married a celebrity medium. I'd argue that she has no skills beyond discussing kombucha and telling me I have a bad energy to me, but she makes decent money from it. I guess she has to with celebrity clientele.
"That's not necessary, Dad."
He slurps some Lo mein into his mouth, unbothered by the greasy noodles dragging along his chin. It's astounding to me how he's survived literally any work-related meal. A pig when he eats, a pig when he dates. A pig.
"Hey, Mia. I have to say this last thing." He's holding up a finger to tell me to wait, as if there's anything else I'd do, as if I'm just jumping at the chance to interrupt him. "You've had your head in the clouds lately. I can see it, which means everyone can see it. I hope you're focusing on your future."
"I am."
"Is that it?"
I swallow my anger as it rushes to my tongue, so sharp it cuts my cheeks. I push my hands - which are balled into tight fists - under my thighs to prevent them from gesturing too aggressively. My eyes close slowly, and I listen for the sound of my breathing. "I am focused on my future. It's my focus every day. That's why I work, like, literally seven days a week."
"That's my girl."
* * *
The next morning, after fitful sleep and several screams into my pillow, I pull into Brett's driveway for an early-morning recap.
We - I - posted the counterstatement to his story last night. I've always been partial to the format of stories, the way they're temporary, fleeting, personal but they still get the job done. Reception had been positive but limited due to the only comments being DMs, which are mostly filtered and blocked from view. I scrolled through them for an hour or so last night, coloring in my idea of the response, the general sentiment towards the post.
We'd originally planned to meet in a conference room at the office, but Brett stated that he didn't want to leave the house. Surprisingly, and for the first time in his career, paparazzi had set up camp at the end of his driveway, a sparse bunch of middle aged men with fancy cameras waiting by the gate. They snapped photos of my car unenthusiastically as I drove in, clearly not as engrossed in the Brett scandals as their bosses must be.
I push my sunglasses to the crown of my head as I walk up his front steps. A grand archway welcomes me to the front door, where his doormat reads GO HOME. Cute.
Brett came to the door after a few staccato knocks. "Come in," he says warmly, sweeping his hand behind him like a ribbon drawing the way inside.
I thank him and wipe my heels on the mat as I step through the door, like I'd taken more than thirty steps outside getting from my place to his.
The house is unbearably cold, fogging the windows with its harsh chill. I let a few colorful words fall from my lips when I think he can't hear, but he startles me by appearing over my shoulder.
"AC's broke," he explains. "Won't stop running."
I take note of his clothing - shorts, a tank top, bare feet. Nothing to indicate he'd been enduring the temperatures. "I've literally never heard of that."
"I've got a guy coming over this evening, but for now it's better to just be in the shade out back. There's drinks."
"Coffee?"
"You'd have to tell me how you like it." His face is daring, playful, like giving him this information would be relinquishing something valuable.
I rub my hands over my arms, ignoring the goosebumps already prickling my skin. "Mostly lattes, but I'll drink a straight double shot of espresso if I'm in a rush or a bad mood."
This pulls a real grin from him. "What kind of day is today?"
I think it over. "Latte."
He pours milk into the espresso machine and punches some buttons, a large mug underneath with a sunflower painted on it. I admire the cup, head tilted, thinking about how out of place it seems in such an impersonal house. "Did you paint that?" I ask suddenly.
"My mom did."
I smile. "That's sweet."
"She's an artist-turned-home-baker. Has always been proud that I didn't go into some typical corporate job, even if she doesn't understand what I do. It's been nice, too, since I'm able to support her at my age. That's something I've always dreamed of."
We watch the machine drip coffee into the mug, then steamed milk. It fills to the brim, dangerously teetering as he picks it up and walks it over to me.
"Let's head out back," he suggests again.
I take the cup - piping hot - and follow him out. Then I see it.
The backyard has been transformed into a mini golf course, several mats rolled out to create a total of 9 holes. There's a few putters propped up against the outdoor furniture and a small bowl with every color of golf ball. Flags mark each of the holes, their papery triangles fluttering in the wind.
I blink at the sight before me, at Brett beaming like an idiot. "What the hell is this?"
"You said you liked mini golf."
I guffaw. "I didn't say to create a mini golf course. Especially not in place of our meeting."
He shakes his hands in front of him. "No, no, you've got it wrong. This is the meeting."
"This has to be a joke."
Brett's face drops to be deadly serious. "I would never kid about something as serious as miniature sports and grand-scale competition."
I start to object, to tell him that this isn't how business is conducted. That I have important things to cover, that he needs to be focused. My fingers grip the ceramic in my palms tighter, worried it might fall from my grasp if I don't. "Brett -"
"Mia, grab a putter and pick a ball and let's get a move on."