We take separate Ubers to the hotel - an allegedly fancy building somewhere in the depths of the city. Late night rain lightly patters the pavement outside, turning the streets into something more like a handful of glittering gems. I make stiff small talk with my driver - her name is Olga, she's a bulky Russian and man is she pissed off at her boyfriend right now - and try to plan out the weekend ahead of me.
Brett's filming something early in the morning, of which I will silently and mindlessly accompany him to. I've been promised there will be snacks, and graciously I was allowed to choose two or three. It feels like a consolation prize, all parties thanking me weakly for sacrificing my time to watch over my adult liability. Tony went as far as to send me a $100 Amazon gift card for clearing my calendar to make the trip. He'd made a lame attempt at explaining why he - the manager - couldn't go, something about his kids, which I obviously can't dispute as a young adult with no offspring.
Whatever, I thought bitterly. I'll sit through the stupid filming and answer one million emails and be promoted by my return on Tuesday.
Olga coughs and it's wet and phlegmy. "I told him, I have one hundred pounds on you, scrawny man. I sit on you and you die."
I blink, trying to understand where the conversation went left. I choke out a light laugh.
"You have boyfriend?" she asks, flicking her eyes to look at me in the rearview mirror.
I shift in my seat, pretend to fiddle with the laces of my boots. "No."
"Why?"
My mouth opens and closes in rapid succession, a dumb, gaping fish mouth. Why? What kind of a question is that?
Olga seems to catch my confusion and it amuses her greatly, but she doesn't offer any other context to the question.
"Uh-um," I stammer. "I guess it's because I hate men?"
She slaps the steering wheel in delight. "That's right! Don't forget it!" A car cuts her off, and she leans elbow-deep into the horn with her left middle finger out the window. She's swearing aggressively in Russian. Or I presume they're swear words; they're certainly spoken as such.
I feel myself sink into my skin. It's too much stimulation for right now.
"I ask because you have man in heart."
"I'm sorry?"
"Is it in mind? You have man. In you. You have man in mind. Who is he?"
I swallow, my mouth sticky and dry. Is Olga some kind of omnipotent god overseeing my every thought? If she is, could she clarify if she's talking about Brett or Sean?
The fact that I'm in a messy situation with not one but two men is something I never could've dreamed up. It's exacerbated by how starkly different the two of them are - Sean being a wholesome angel who deserves more than I could ever offer him, Brett being - well, Brett.
Olga honks again and releases what I'm sure is a very colorful string of Russian words. "Do you not know how to drive in rain? Pea brain little man."
She shoots a glance back at me. "Sorry. Man. Why none?"
"It's complicated," I say, tugging on the drawstring of my hoodie.
"It is always complicated. Why not figure it out?"
I sigh. "I don't know if I want to."
She nods at this, seemingly in approval, with her bottom lip jutted out. I glance at the phone mounted to her dashboard, but it's in vain. She's pulling up to the doors of the hotel, parallel parking us into a spot that might be eight inches longer than her SUV is. I catch myself white-knuckled gripping the arm of my backpack, anxious that she's going to clip one of the cars boxing us in. She doesn't, because of course Olga can parallel park like an Olympic champion.
We get out into the drizzle. She opens the trunk as I throw my bag over my shoulder. I try not to stare - the woman is enormous, like, could-fight-a-bear-and-win strong. She hands me my carry-on like it weighs nothing.
"Listen," she says firmly, her gaze unwavering on mine. I stand erect, feeling slightly like a child about to be scolded by their teacher. "You will have to figure it out with man. Even if it does not work. Must be sorted or you will suffer."
I nod vacantly, scared she'll snap me in half if I say the wrong thing. But she does the opposite - she embraces me in a hug I hadn't realized I needed. Then she's back in the car and pulling out into the road with liberal use of her horn, and I'm not convinced that moment was even real.
The hotel greets me with a warm lobby and a tired receptionist. Brett's already at the desk, checking in. I stand behind him, but he steps aside to make room for me.
"Ah, this is my partner," he says. "We're on the same reservation. She'll have the other room."
The woman taps some things into her keyboard, her acrylics clacking against the keys to create a sound that gave me goosebumps. She reaches over to hand us both two keys to our respective rooms.
I'm not sure what rom-com I thought I was living in, but I half-expected one room with just one bed. I'm thankful to not have to sort that out right now.
"Two each," she says. "Rooms 904 and 905. Call if you need anything. And grab a free cookie to your right."
Brett's head snaps to the plate of cookies, wrapped in cellophane and sealed with a THANK YOU sticker. He grabs two and leads us to the elevators.
We ride in silence to the ninth floor, then make it all the way to our doors.
We start to speak at the same time.
"Oh, you first," he says, almost bashfully.
His hair is fussed slightly to the right, and my fingers ache to fix it, knowing good and damn well it can't be fixed. It's just so soft, so homey. I think about how it felt in my hands when we were -
"I was just going to say we should each have one copy of keys to each room. I don't need a spare."
We exchange our extra keys, careful to avoid physical contact as we do.
"What were you going to say?"
Brett shifts his weight to his other foot. "I was going to ask if you've eaten."
I haven't, but I know if I tell him that he'll do something painfully kind, like ordering us a full spread of food to be delivered, or getting room service straight to the door. I can't stomach that kind of gesture right now, not when I just want to be mad at him, to push him back to the arm's length he used to be at.
"I had some food in the airport."
"Six hours ago?"
"It was a big meal."
Brett stares me down, a challenging look I almost shrink beneath. "Mia, be so for real."
"I'm so exhausted," I sigh. "I'm just going to bed."
He holds out the cookie. "At least eat this?"
I don't have enough fight in me to protest, so I take the cookie and mumble a thank you. We agree to meet first thing in the morning.
I amble through my room, unpacking my bag with a certain degree of neuropathy to lay out my outfits in the closet. I take a scalding hot shower and curse every person I've ever known, Olga included, though that one doesn't feel as good, and wrap myself into some clean pajamas.
When I finally climb into bed, my phone lights up with a text. My heart skips, thinking it's from Sean, the gentle response I've been waiting for.
I check the screen, and frown when I see it's from my father.
Jeff: Heard you had to take a business trip. Be safe.
Jeff: Remember what we discussed.
I cuss him out beneath my breath and shut the lights off, waiting for a fitful sleep to come over me.
* * *
The podcast is filmed in some crypto bro's high rise apartment overlooking Central Park. The host's name is Elijah, and he's all smiles when we walk in. There's a few women bustling around the apartment, setting up lights and snacks and cables. I bristle as I take notice of the crew - all being young, attractive women, and immediately feel uncomfortable. Not because of the women, but because I'm wary of men who exclusively hire pretty women to do their administrative work. It's sleazy and very 1950s.
The women are nice, however, and they take me in the way women do. I'm given a soft armchair on the opposite end of the room, the upholstery a deep navy velvet. They bring me a chilled water bottle and bag of white cheddar popcorn and type in the WiFi password when I ask.
Thus, filming commences. The men talk vapidly about nothing at all, regaling stories of crazy things they did in their teens and how they both rose to the edges of fame. I manage to tune them out pretty thoroughly, lost deeply in my never-ending inbox. It's rare on a trip like this that I'd get an uninterrupted hour to do any work I need, outside of the hours just before the sun comes up or many hours after it's set.
So I work, and they talk, and the women buzz around behind us, light on their feet like floating little fairies.
When things wrap up, I'm itching to hear one intelligent conversation. I'd even settle for talking work with Brett if it meant Elijah would shut up for half a second.
They linger with each other, clearly just two dudes enjoying the friendship. I stay on my laptop in the corner, waiting for Brett to inch closer to the door before I start to pack up. I don't want to waste any time waiting for him to leave - I'll do work until he finishes.
And then something weird happens.
Elijah excuses himself to take a phone call in the backroom. Brett's behind me, doing something in what I presume to be the kitchen. He reintroduces himself to one of the women working.
When she giggles, I know exactly what's going on.
It's a high pitched laugh, a laugh that's more like an invitation than a reaction to something funny being said. His voice is low, just a murmur as I strain to hear it through the walls between us. Her words are easier to discern. She says, "Yes, of course!" and then there's silence.
I stand from my chair, fueled by a hot curiosity. I try to walk quietly, then realize I'm not in any position to be sneaking up on my client and an innocent woman, and I change my pace to normal.
When I round the corner, they're leaning in to one another in the white sunlight pouring in through the window. She's holding his phone, almost certainly typing in her phone number. They both look up at me like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
"Hi," she says brightly. "Can I get you anything?"
"I, uh, I was just looking for another bottle of water?"
I hate the way the words come out - I should've rehearsed them, but I'd stood up with such swiftness I'd barely had time to think.
Brett's eyes are glued to mine, with a murky expression floating within them. I can't read it - it could be regret, it could be embarrassment, it could be a challenge. He's not the type of person to live with many regrets, but he also has spent such a long time these last few weeks proving to me that he's a good guy. Not that good guys can't get girls' phone numbers.
Why am I so mad?
The girl hands me a bottle of water from the fridge, and I make a mental note to chug my open one, which I'd barely sipped from. They both smile at me vacantly once I've taken it, clearly waiting patiently for me to leave so they can resume whatever flirting I'd interrupted.
So I do. I skulk back to my chair in the corner and punch out a few emails that I could've worded better and I pointedly do not acknowledge how my chest is flaming bright and hot. I'm not a jealous person - never have been - and this isn't jealousy.
It's about PR, I tell myself. This is a bad PR move and he knows it, and he's doing it on purpose to piss me off.
The worst part is the comfort I find in that - in thinking that getting her number was just a plot to rile me. Because then, at least, I'd still be the reason.
And at my core, that's all I really want.