When I hang up with Mia, a lump rolls down my throat, thick and heavy and cold as ice.
Aside from feeling absolutely terrible for the loss of Mia's job - of which I'm undeniably responsible - something isn't quite right with her. She's calm - which she always is, but usually she's calm and something. Calm and frustrated, calm and determined. This calm was more like an apathy, a surrender. It's not the Mia I know, and I don't know how to help.
My mother and aunt drop me off at the airport the following morning, equipped with a Ziploc baggie of homemade cookies that I'm not sure will survive TSA and an abundance of embarrassing physical affection doled out at the Departures drop-off.
"You're doing great things," my mom tells me, both hands cupping my cheeks. Her tone is wistful, her eyes sad or proud or longing. "It might not feel like it, but you are."
I smile down at her. "I'll see you guys soon. Next month, maybe."
And after their tittering, I'm on a plane back to LA.
I survive the airport unnoticed at home, but LAX is much less forgiving. There's so many people running from place to place, everyone grabbing their Uber or their loved ones or their luggage or their lunch. Paparazzi camp out in their cars, waiting for a tip, their cameras like weapons in the passenger seat. It overwhelms me slightly, this chaos. I wonder what it looks like from above.
Before I start arranging for my ride back to my house, I pull up a number on my phone and dial out, saying a silent prayer to any higher power that this is the right choice.
Senator Bells picks up on three rings.
It's jarring for a moment to think that someone so powerful, so protected, has a phone number that can simply be called by anyone. A reminder that we're mortal, our flesh is soft no matter how big our reputation is.
"Bells speaking."
"Mr. Bells," I say quickly. "This is Brett Archer. You may remember me from -"
"From claiming online that my son hit his girlfriend," he answers, his words slicing the distance between us clean in half.
I'm holding my breath, certain this was a mistake. The fingers on my free hand dig into my palms, hard enough to leave marks. "I want to speak with you."
"What's there to speak about?"
This was something my mind had snagged on for several nights in a row. What is there to speak about? We've both posted our tell-alls. Our lawyers are involved. Surely, as a politician, he's no idiot when it comes to legal advice. The two of us speaking unsupervised would be ill-advised by anyone's standards. Besides, what medium would we agree upon?
I open my mouth to speak - and, to my horror, I realize it's to apologize - but he cuts me off before I embarrass myself.
"You know what, Brett? I'm actually glad you called."
A breeze rolls through, and despite being blistering from the summer heat, I get goosebumps. This man is going to place a hit on me. I'm dead, for sure.
"You're in LA? I'm here today. How about we meet for dinner at my hotel?"
Confusion washes over me first, rinsing away any semblance of fear. "You want to meet in person?" I ask, baffled.
He clears his throat distractedly. "Brett, I have to get back to my work, but I'll have my assistant forward you an address and time. Thanks for calling, son."
And then he disconnects without a goodbye, leaving me feeling more unsure than before.
Just as he'd promised, a text comes through a few minutes later from an unknown number, a cheerful message from a Lynn, with the details and a curt request for an RSVP by the top of the hour.
I check the time. That's in fifteen minutes.
Without giving myself time to consider the consequences, I write back to Lynn that I'll be there.
* * *
I'd barely been able to get home, shower, and get presentable before I needed to turn around again for the hour-long drive to Bells's hotel.
It's a sprawling building somewhere on the outskirts of the city, with a few young men acting as valet under the porte-cochère, their uniforms too tight or too long. They insist I have to pay the thirty dollars for valet parking in order to dine inside, patron or not, so I hastily pass over my keys and walk inside.
The building is so grand there's a koi pond inside and someone playing piano just beside it. The restaurant, something clearly expensive and unwelcoming, sits to my left, with a duo of women waiting to seat me.
"I'm meeting someone," I tell them, and they exchange knowing looks.
For a moment, I'm worried they know some terrible fate that awaits me through the glass double doors, until one of them says, "Could we get a picture with you?" and my anxiety dissipates a fraction. I agree, because why not, then I'm led to a table at the very back of the dimly lit room.
Senator Robert Bells is a lithe man, tall and lanky beneath his wrinkle-free suit. He stands to greet me, hand outstretched, grip firm and threatening. I take note of his severe features, the way he's made of slants and angles and a perpetual frown. His skin sags slightly, his brown hair thinning just barely at the crown of his head.
We exchange introductions the other does not hear, then take our seats dutifully. He orders us both wine before we can approach the conversation.
When the waitress departs, he turns to me, and I notice that his eyes are an unsettling shade of blue. "So, Brett, what an eventful couple months it's been."
I let out a stilted laugh. "That is certainly one way to describe it."
He takes a long sip from his water, his gaze remaining on the cloth napkin still folded in his placemat. He unrolls it slowly, so slowly that the wine is placed before us before he speaks again.
"Let me give you my side of the story," Bells starts, leaning back in his chair, exhaling deeply. "Jason's a good kid."
I raise my eyebrows skeptically, but think better of it.
"He was top of his class at his private school, he volunteers with underprivileged kids, he is on track to become a lawyer once he graduates from UCLA." He takes another sip, this time of his wine. "But he's also a kid, on his own for the first time. And he's getting himself into some trouble, to say the least. Drinking, partying, some confrontations with the law. All minor stuff. College kid stuff."
I commend myself internally for not reacting to any of this, my face remaining stoically neutral as he speaks. Bells doesn't seem to notice, speaking into the wide mouth of his wine glass.
"The events that transpired that night were entirely unacceptable," he finally says, and it comes out like a confession. "For both of you. But truthfully, I blame you less than him. He never should have put his hands on someone to begin with, least of all a woman."
I swallow hard, unable to prevent my nostrils from flaring.
Bells continues. "We've talked. He's in therapy now. That girl - well, I guess she never really was his girlfriend, but they don't see each other anymore. He's turning things around, getting older, more mature. He's being counseled, not just professionally, but by some elders at our church."
I nod. If it looks sarcastic of me, Bells chooses not to respond.
"My point is, we're putting our best feet forward. As adults, as men, as people." He clears his throat just as he'd done on the phone. It's a phlegmy sound. "I'd imagine you are, too, since you've been laying low following all of this recent publicity."
I bristle at this. "I'm always working to improve. Doesn't usually take a punch to the jaw for me to figure things out."
He snorts dismissively, and I can feel the energy of the conversation shifting. This is a threat.
"When you called, I realized we could sort this out. There's an opportunity here. All I'm asking of you, Brett, is to take that video down. The bar you received the CCTV from has already agreed to wipe it from their archives. I'm working to remove it from the major tabloid sites. You're the last person I needed to speak to."
I start to speak, but he holds up a hand to cut me off.
"I'm getting ahead of myself. You called me first, that you wanted to speak. What did you want to say?"
For a moment, it feels like the walls are closing in, like every occupant of the room is straining to hear this conversation. The air gets thin, my head dizzy.
No, I think. I will not be intimidated by this scrawny man in a suit. He's intimidating through tone and posture alone. And I've never given a fuck about either of those things.
"I didn't have a plan," I admit, punctuating with a blasé shrug. "I figured you might have some words for me."
"You weren't looking to cut a deal?"
He looks at me - no, through me, his creepy eyes clear as glass. He's clocked me and he knows it. I had wanted something of the sort, to come to some kind of agreement. For my sake. For Mia's.
But if Mia was speaking to this man, she'd want him to drop dead on the spot. She'd spit in his wine when he wasn't looking. She'd insult him, coyly and openly, the way she loves to do.
She would not want me to cave.
I say nothing back.
Bells takes a deep breath in, leaning forward to put both hands on the edge of the table. "Man to man, Mr. Archer. Take the video down. I'll have Miss Avalon, your dear friend, agree to drop all her claims, including the video she posted with my son. We'll go our separate ways and never speak again."
I don't hesitate. "No."
"No?" he repeats, a brow cocked.
"No." I smile vacantly. "Maybe a few weeks ago, this would've been something I'd consider. But not today. Your son has some actions to learn from. The longer his daddy pays people to sweep them under the rug, the more insufferable he'll become."
Bells remains entirely neutral to the dig, plucking the stem of his wine glass, swirling the ruby liquid around like blood. "Please understand, Brett, that I'll have my lawyers clear you out."
"I've got the time and the means," I reply indifferently. "Those might be the only two things I've got, actually. You're welcome to them both."
He sighs down at the table. A beat passes. "I must say, this is extremely disappointing. I thought you'd be smarter than this."
"I thought the same about Jason, and then he hit a woman." I pause. "I'd imagine you two aren't that different, are you?"
His face flickers in something like amusement, but I see the way his jaw sets. The way he doesn't want to recognize what I'm sure of - that Jason, that Robert, that these kinds of men come from a long line of privilege. Of men protecting their own - that is to say, other men. They're used to throwing money at their mistakes, both of which they have an abundance of, never so much as muttering an apology.
But I've got more money than I know what to do with already, and I'll play their stupid game.
Bells stands abruptly. "I suppose we're done here," he says, and he's right.
We give uncomfortable, charged goodbyes before I leave him with the bill. It's the least he can do; his son tried to ruin my life, and now I have to pay thirty dollars for valet after less than twenty minutes.
"That was a really dumb decision," I decide in the car, halfway back to my house. "A spectacularly dumb one, Celeste."
She doesn't respond, but I can feel her words in my chest.
But the right one.