My mother picks up the call on the first ring.
"Hello?" she asks, the confusion in her voice spearing me like a dagger.
It's probably been eight months since we last talked on the phone, or however long ago Christmas was. We text sporadically - I sent her something for Mother's day, and her birthday before that. We send each other nice but meaningless gifts on all events or holidays that warrant them. We update each other after major milestones. But she moved to northern California when I was in high school, and I stayed with my father to not uproot my life. Between college and a demanding career, I haven't seen her in over two years.
"Hey Mom," I breathe. "I missed you."
There's some shuffling on the other end before she says, "Is everything okay?"
I'm sitting in my car in the parking lot of the place I'd just been fired from, following some of the worst work weeks of my career. My name is being slandered relentlessly by money hungry media and teenagers with unlimited cellular data. I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow, let alone for the rest of my life.
Nothing is okay.
This would be a great moment to be at peace with things, but I swell with an overwhelming amount of grief hearing my mom's voice on the other line.
"I miss you," I tell her again, and she laughs lightly.
"I don't think you've ever said that before." She's jovial, but I sense a touch of pain underneath the words.
I sigh, starting my car and reclining my seat. "I owe you an apology, then. For a lot of things. I've always missed you and never known how to say it. And Dad was terrible to you and I'd side with him. And now it turns out he's just terrible."
"Oh, Mia. What's going on?"
I tell her. The conversation is stilted slightly; neither of us have ever assumed our mother/daughter roles we were supposed to as I grew into a young woman. We've never talked boys or work or school. We don't take family vacations together or have girls' weekends. She's fallen victim to my arm's-length mentality, and that is where we were comfortable leaving things.
But when I tell her about Dad's celebrity medium wife and her hatred for me, we're both crying with laughter.
When I confess that I've learned sign language by dating my hot Deaf neighbor, we giggle and I promise to send pictures.
When she invites me to stay with her for a week or several, we both fall silent.
"I'd love that, actually," I say softly. "It's been too long."
"It has."
We agree to talk later, once I'm home and have showered the events of the morning from my skin. But I'm not ready to go home just yet.
Instead, I make a call to Elizabeth, who puts me in touch with Suzanne, who thankfully says yes to grabbing lunch.
An hour later, we sit in a swanky lunch restaurant with complimentary champagne and finger sandwiches. She rambles off apologies and reassurances that she never said anything to contribute to my job loss. I watch her curiously as she's fingering through her hair with her hands, speaking so quickly she's stumbling on her words. Occasionally she stops for deep, desperate gulps of water. She's frantic, exceedingly so.
I take one of these quiet moments to get a word in, finally. "It's okay," I tell her, punctuating it with a sincere smile. "I'm not upset. And certainly not with you."
"It's okay if you are," she says, then turns to thank the waitress as she deposits our salads in front of us. Neither of us makes a move to eat them yet. "You went through some intense stuff today."
"I lost my job," I reply. "Not my life." And for the first time ever, those two things are separate.
Suzanne turns out to be cool as hell. She skateboards and has done competitive roller derby for six years. She met her partner on the team, both of them apparently having the same issue of getting too physical. She tells me I'd be great at roller derby, or any contact sport, and I choose to accept this as a compliment. We pick at croutons and cheese shavings as we discuss our least favorite coworkers - most of whom are managers, all of whom are men. The conversation flows naturally, just two girls who get along with each other. Two girls with the budding potential of friendship dancing between them..
When I drop her back at the office, we exchange numbers and promise to keep in touch. This is usually an empty platitude for me, but today I mean it.
I'm five minutes from home when my cell rings. An unflattering photo of Brett decorates my screen.
I answer, the call coming through my speakers like he's some looming, omnipotent presence.
"Mia, why is your work email disabled?" he asks, panicked.
"My god, they shut that down fast."
"Mia!"
I roll my eyes. "I was fired."
He groans for a long time, then releases a string of expletives so gently it sounds like a poem. I can feel his anguish on the other side from the sounds he's making, the pauses he's taking.
"You'll get someone else assigned to you," I say distractedly, taking a turn onto my street. "Somebody will be able to help you through all this."
"That's not what I care about." His words are sharp, clear, piercing me like glass. "Did my video cause you to lose your job?"
I think back on the last few weeks, how all of this has taken place. My job was dead in the water before I even took Brett as a client. This was never something I'd be passionate about, it was merely something I was good at.
"No," I respond. "I was going to lose my job over the headlines."
He groans again, and this time it sounds like his head is shoved in a pillow or the palms of his hands. "That's also my fault."
I shake my head as if he can see me, then turn into my parking garage. The industrial concrete doesn't feel like home to me. I imagine my mom's house with a long, winding driveway leading up to a cabin tucked into a forest. I wonder if she has windchimes or bird feeders, if her house is like Brett's moms house at all. They'd like each other, I think.
"No, it's mine," I say. "A lot of lines were crossed in recent weeks, and we had no business working together anyway."
"Is there someone I can speak to or something? They should really reconsider this decision. I'll take the blame on everything."
When I pull into the parking spot, my headlights bounce off the solid wall in front of me like a mirror. It illuminates my car dimly, enough for me to see my mostly-empty backpack, free of the weight of a laptop and charger and mouser. I roll his words over in my mind; I do want them to reconsider. I wanted to keep my job. I wanted to stay working with Brett and my other clients.
Because what is a woman without a career? I'm not a wife, nor a mother. There is value assigned to these things - value added for every additional title you assume. To be none of them left me in limbo, my worth to be determined by - what? Myself?
A chill runs through me. I have no business assigning my own sense of worth. I'd be much too harsh.
"I can find a new job, Brett," I say earnestly. "I want a new job."
I picture him on the other side of the line, pacing back and forth as he mulls over the situation, his left hand lifted to his mouth so he can bite his fingernails, which he always pretends like he's not doing.
He exhales slowly. "Can I hire you as my personal PR agent then?"
"No," I laugh. "Aside from the fact that I probably have a noncompete and you definitely are contracted with Pure Publicity, I don't want to work for you."
"Was I that terrible?"
"Yes, actually. My god, you were awful."
"Don't joke with me like that, Mia. I'll cry."
"Light tears, or a real ugly one?" I pause, pretending to be lost in thought. "I better be worth an ugly cry."
This gets a chuckle from him, low and beautiful. My heart falls when I hear it. "Who are you?"
I lean into the passenger seat and start to gather my things, tucking my water bottle into the side of my bag. It usually never fits with the strain of the laptop, but now it slides in with ease. I smile at this tiny win.
"Brett," I say, getting serious. "You have a lot of shit to sort out. Like, mentally, but also on the publicity side."
"I know," he sighs. "Could you do me a favor, actually?"
I hesitate. "What is it?"
"I want Senator Bells' phone number."
My mouth opens, armed with, 'That's a terrible idea,' or, 'Absolutely the fuck not,' but I catch myself before I say them. Why not, I think. It's not my problem anymore. And frankly, if it's not my problem, I want to see all these publicity-obsessed narcissists burn - my father included.
"Okay," I answer, "but under two conditions."
He hums expectantly in response.
I kill the engine, wrapping my arms around my backpack like a hug. "First, you have to swear to me that you won't tell him who you got his number from."
"Can't he use deductive reasoning for that?"
I snort. "Politicians? With intellect? Not likely."
"Okay," Brett concedes. "And the second?"
I take a deep breath, grounding myself before I chicken out. "I want to buy you dinner when you get back."
He doesn't hesitate. "Oh, absolutely not."
My brows furrow, my heart sinking. I stammer for a second, then pull myself together. "Why not?"
"If someone is buying dinner, it should always be me."
At this, I roll my eyes again, feeling the air return to my lungs. "You, Brett Archer, are one big pain in my ass."
I can hear his smile, and I think about it being against my lips. "From this point forward, you'll be choosing to entertain this pain in the ass. It is no longer a paid agreement."
"Don't make me regret it."
"Oh, I will. Probably daily."
My face cracks into a wide grin, my spirits lifting. "Go be with your family. Call me when you're back in LA."
We hang up and I shuffle my way to my apartment. The place welcomes me with the enthusiasm of a corporate birthday party. I frown. This is really how I'd been living, just getting by with the bare minimum.
I make myself canned soup in the microwave. I take a shower midday and don't reapply makeup when I get out. I find pictures at the bottom of a drawer in my vanity and tack them up with tape, then order picture frames online to hang them properly this weekend. I call my mom again and agree on a date to drive out to see her next month. I look up when the next farmer's market is and make plans to go with Elizabeth.
I do so many things - big and small - that make me feel like a real human being, a full person.
When I open my personal laptop, which has been sorely neglected for months from the usage my work one required, my instinct is to peruse job listings for my next gig. It'll take a few months for me to land something solid; I know this from the experience of peers of mine who left Pure before me. But I tell myself that this fact won't change if I apply today, so I choose not to.
"One week," I tell myself. "Give yourself until the end of the week."
And I do.