Something unique about influencers is that they're almost never invited to do proper interviews.
That kind of press is usually reserved for artists about to head out on tour, actors promoting their new project, people with talents discussing those talents.
What's more likely for the influencers, much to my chagrin, is filming hour-long podcasts with their fellow influencers to discuss what they're up to. These events are informal and usually tight-knit. It's often held together by a skeleton crew, just one or two guys making sure everything is working and recording the way it's supposed to.
I don't normally supervise these tapings - partially because I don't need to, but also because they're catastrophically boring. But I'd been sent here explicitly by Tony in lieu of the legal correspondence going on behind the scenes with Brett.
He's sitting in a beanbag, a backwards hat tucking his coffee waves to his forehead. I try not to think about how good the oversized faded t-shirt looks with his black cargo pants, or how he's got the headphones covering only half of his left ear so he can still hear the rest of us in the room. I try not to think, actually, about anything at all.
The interviewers - two girls named Mel and Mollie whose podcast went viral years ago for being one of the only ones discussing the candid sexual struggles of girls in college - are dressed equally comfortably, wearing tanks and sweats and fuzzy jackets. They were nice enough when we'd first arrived, if not a bit flirty with Brett.
But that's to be expected, I suppose, with a man who has one of the largest followings on TikTok and who also looks a bit like a AI-generated male model.
"How did you get started?" Mollie asks, shamelessly digging a finger into her ear. She removes it and inspects what I presume to be earwax under her acrylic, then wipes her hand on her sweatpants.
I take this as my cue to absorb myself in my phone.
I'd brought lunch, a to-go salad with extra dressing and extra chicken - for bulking, or something - and crack it open as quietly as the plastic container will permit. The three of them don't so much as spare me a glance.
My phone buzzes in my hand as I shovel bites of crunchy salad into my mouth, email after email coming in, email after email going out. I lean back in the fold-out chair they'd set up for me, my head bouncing off the drywall behind me. There's not so much as a decoration beyond what the camera can view, nothing but wires and ring lights and laptops.
A text comes through.
S: Could I see you tonight?
It takes everything in me not to react, either with a groan or a sigh or just by dropping my phone completely.
M: Is everything alright?
S: You tell me. You haven't spoken to me since I told you about the job.
S: And don't say it's work. I've seen you work. You usually spare me a text or two.
I frown at my screen, my heart clenching painfully in my chest. He's right - I've been avoiding him. It could probably be mistaken for heartbreak or sadness or maybe even jealousy. And frankly, it might be jealousy. I envy Sean for being able to pack up and move somewhere beautiful to pursue a dream that is both work and a hobby. It crushes me, honestly, to watch everyone else lead such fulfilling lives while I'm babysitting a man in his mid-twenties talking to two women about -
"When's the last time you had sex?"
Christ. That.
I try not to give away that my ears have perked up at that question, continuing to scowl at the text on my phone and chewing another bite of salad.
Brett hums in thought, shifting in the beanbag to get more comfortable. "Honestly, I'm not much of a hookup guy."
Mollie gives a sarcastic snort into the mic, her eyes rolling so hard they become tiny white crescents. "Don't bullshit us, Brett. We've seen the photos."
My eyes dart to the three of them, a warning flashing through them. Brett is deliberately looking away.
"Which ones?"
At this, Mel lets out a strong laugh, leaning forward to address him more directly. "What an amazing question. The ones of you kissing that girl."
I clear my throat, praying that Brett will pick up on my signal for him to shut his fat mouth, but all I'm met with is a look of annoyance from both women.
"I thought it would make for a fun picture," Brett confesses, casual and cool. "And it did. But her and I only took that picture. Nothing more."
"What about other women?"
"I've got my eyes on someone, actually."
He finally turns to look at me, a stare so piercing and severe I almost choke on the food in my mouth. We hold eye contact, his a challenge, mine a warning. Mel and Mollie, who are neither stupid nor blind, pick up on this interaction and exchange faces with each other, clearly bemused.
"Care to explain what that was, Brett?" Mel asks. "Between you and the lady in the studio?"
I shake my head, deciding to give up on discretion and just be overt. My flat hand slices the air by my throat, a cut-this-shit-out-now symbol. His lips twitch into a tiny smirk, then he finally returns his gaze to the women.
"I do not. Where were we?"
"Last time you had sex?"
He ponders this question for a minute, scratching at his chin lightly with one finger. I'm still holding my phone, open and buzzing, the salad forgotten in my other hand. Part of me needs to hear this response to make sure it's nothing problematic, but part of me is also curious.
Embarrassingly, I find myself a bit jealous.
"I'd have to say it was my last relationship."
The women make a variety of shocked and disbelieving noises, and Brett just nods in confirmation.
We've entered dangerous territory.
"Avalon, you mean?" Mollie asks.
My eyes widen as a threat.
"My last relationship."
"How was that? Your last relationship?"
I stiffen at this, as I'd explicitly told the podcasters ahead of time that Brett was not to be asked any questions about Avalon or the related drama lest they want me to interrupt them and ruin the filming. The objection sits on the tip of my tongue, lemon sour and red hot.
Brett looks at Mel, then Mollie, then me, as if he's weighing the pros and cons in his mind. Then, "Well, it was obviously good until it wasn't, like all relationships go. The lying was obviously a problem - still is, clearly."
I stand up. "Nope. Sorry. No." My feet carry me to the edge of the shot, careful to stay out of the cameras' views. "You'll be cutting that out or we're ending it here."
Mel and Mollie glance at each other, not bothering to hide their irritation with me. Something silent gets exchanged between them, and then they mutter some agreements to cut the last few minutes and start back from before the question got asked.
My brain is stumbling over the thoughts as they flood into my mind, first with frustration with Brett, then how I'll need to speak with Mel and Mollie and any editors after filming wraps, then the drowning despair at Sean's text. I return to my seat, fuming, and unlock my phone.
M: You're right and I'm sorry. I've got a lot going on.
* * *
"Are you dumb or just ignorant?"
Brett shrugs, the corners of his lips twitching into a thinly veiled smile. I want to dropkick that smile right into next year.
He takes a seat on the ratty couch. We've slinked off to a 'break room' at the filming studio campus that Mel and Mollie rent their set from. It's a small, windowless space with a similar devoid vibe as the room they recorded in, just about half the size. A watercooler sits in one corner, a small table with various knockoff snacks and a single microwave from the 80s in the other. Aside from the decrepit couch, there's a single foldout chair. I eye it, then decide I'm too frustrated to sit.
"Archer, I don't know how to get this through your painfully thick skull, but we are in a legal dispute with Avalon and her team. It's not funny. This is not a game. There are lawyers involved who charge, I don't know, about five hundred dollars an hour. I'm not interested in looping them in about you shit-talking Avalon on a podcast."
He crosses one ankle over his knee, leaning back into the cushion and spreading his arms across the back of the couch. Finger to finger, he spans the entire couch.
"They're going to cut the content," he says, nonchalant. "It's fine, Mia bella."
"Don't call me that."
"Or what?"
His eyes flicker up to meet mine, cold and hard as steel. My nostrils flare. I could hit him. I might.
"Respect me as a professional or find a new publicist."
I can see these words penetrate his weird, disinterested façade and start to melt it away. He instantly hunches forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I'm sorry," he says. "I don't mean any disrespect to you."
I release a breath, feeling some of the venom in my lungs evaporate with it. And then Brett ruins it, as he does, by opening his mouth again.
"For the record, though, I'm not sorry about bringing up Avalon."
My back rests against the drywall behind me, and I try not to think about how sticky the paint feels on my sweaty skin. "Is there some reason why you brought her up? Revenge?"
He chews on his cheek. "Something like that."
My fists clench by my side and I shift my weight from one heel to the other, teetering like my temper is. "This is petty bullshit."
"It's my bullshit."
"No, actually, it becomes mine. So grow up and cut the bullshit."
Our voices are rising steadily. I cringe thinking about how audible we must be to everyone else in this paper room.
"This shit doesn't matter, Mia. In three months none of this will be relevant anymore."
"It doesn't matter to you, Brett. How many ways do you need me to articulate that? If you don't give a fuck about your image, good for you. But this is affecting my job, my life, and you couldn't care less!"
Brett rises from the couch in the span of one breath, crossing the tiny room until he's right in front of me. I can see his hesitance, his concern about overstepping boundaries, making me uncomfortable. It softens me somehow, knowing how he's always concerned with my security. His body is angled slightly to my left, deliberately not blocking me from the door. He's leaving room for me to put the space back between us.
But I don't want to.
There's an electricity bouncing between us, floating in the air of our breath as each exhale hits the other's skin. It's potent, intoxicating, and utterly terrifying.
I can not feel that way about Brett Archer.
"You think I don't care?"
I swallow.
"All I've cared about recently, Mia, is you. You're the one who won't look my way. So start communicating with me: is this okay?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. The words land on my cheek, drip to my lips. I can taste their sincerity. "Tell me what you want."
There are things I want to say, things catching in my throat like flies in their sticky little traps. I choke on them, swallow repeatedly to get them back down.
Brett takes my silence as uncertainty - and it probably is, but I'm too proud to admit it. "You know what I think?"
"I didn't know you did that."
"Thinking? Only from time to time. Not on holidays or weekends."
The tension cracks, our banter a much welcomed buffer for the intensity of the moment.
Brett licks his lips and continues. "I think you're thinking about me kissing you."
I remain neutral, unwavering, my gaze betraying me slightly by bouncing from his eyes to his mouth to his shoulders to his hands - oh god. I shake my head to loosen the thoughts. "You want to know what I'm thinking about?"
"I'm aching to hear it."
"I'm thinking about you going two weeks without starting drama so maybe I can catch a break."
Brett edges an inch closer. I can smell his coconut shampoo, tropical and light. I can see his pores, and his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "Is that all?"
"Absolutely everything."
"If you say the words, I'll kiss you right now."
I roll this over in my mind like a stone in my palm, heavy and tangible. I want it, and I hate that I want it. I can envision the next few moments playing out clear as day. A light kiss, something tentative, like asking for permission, because Brett is a pain in my ass but he's still a gentleman. And the snowball rolling downhill from there. Hands in hair, my back still pinned against the wall, me gasping in his ear when he breaks away to trail down my neck.
And then my father's face appears. His perpetual disappointment written across the leathery skin of his face, his mouth downturned in a sour frown.
Dipping my toe in this pool with Brett would mean submerging myself underwater, opening floodgates I wouldn't be able to close. A secret like that can never remain a secret.
And it would inevitably result in me losing my job.
"I can't, Brett," I say, trying to muster my voice into something more firm. "We need to get back to work."
He steps back in concession, nodding slowly until he's backed himself against the opposite wall. We're both a bit shaky and unsure of what to do with ourselves now.
"I'm going to go speak with the editor again," I say, out of breath.
He shrugs. "Yeah, you do that."
I slip out of the room like I'm running from something, my mind swimming. My phone buzzes in my back pocket as I rush down the dim hallway, and I pull it out without thinking.
S: We need to talk soon.
* * *
another tense little moment
(more physical interaction incoming, your patience thus far is much appreciated)
let me know what you think! please vote and comment and share and sleep 8 hours tonight and drink a glass of water.
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