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We exchange pleasantries, then it’s time for my brother’s show to start. As usual, he’s whip-crack smart, hilarious, jumping amidst different current issues, joshing certain people in the crowd. Then it’s my turn.
As soon as I get up on stage, I know it’s all wrong. I miss Harley, and I don’t want to be here. Still, I stick it out, trying to match my brother’s gregarious high energy when he’s in his absolute element, trying to joke back.
By mid-time, my brother gives me a pat and a concerned look. “You good?”
“No.”
“Yeah, I can tell. It’s OK, though.” A winning smile. “They paid to come here for me, remember.”
We chuckle and he shoos me away. “Thanks for coming out, anyway. You can go off to your girl if you really want to now.”
“OK.”
But as I’m leaving, one of the press women pulls me aside. “Can we talk?”
“Sure.”
We go into a hallway, and her tiny magenta lips compress together. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I really liked what you said about your dad’s tax evasion and how you stepped up with the charity and all that.” She leans in. “The Star is going to be publishing an article about you and your employee’s relationship.”
“What?”
“Right now, it’s all hearsay, but as soon as the other media outlets pick up on anything substantial, you could be in for a full-on scandal.”
I eye her blankly. It’s all happening so fast: worry about the worst-case scenario, then the worst-case scenario itself.
“I’ve seen how these things play out. They’re going to eat Storm Media alive if you don’t beat them to the punch.”
I’ve been watching her big horse teeth move numbly, hardly aware of the words coming out and what they mean. “What are you saying?”
“You have to fire her. Maybe not for good, but—”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask.
“I told you, I liked your talk, plus I’m a huge fan. I don’t want to see Storm Inc. go down over this.”
“You won’t.”
“OK.”
We stand there for a few seconds, awkwardly.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “But I have to go now.” And then I leave. I call a cab numbly, pacing, hardly thinking.
Once I’m in the cab, the gears in my head grind around it: Harley. Tomorrow’s article. Madeline. Harley.
Finally, I call up Madeline. “I’ve heard the Star is about to publish an article with some gossip about me and an employee. Can you see if you can get in touch with them and have them pull it?”
“Sure,” she says in a clipped voice, before hanging up.
I’m at home a few minutes later when she calls me back. “Sorry. No dice. They’re running it.”
I lean back into my recliner and groan.
“It’s fine,” I say, with more confidence than I feel. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Boss, if you want my take—”
“I don’t,” I snap, hanging up.
It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain what I have to do: give up Harley. For now, maybe even for good.
Not just for the company’s sake, but for hers. The Star is half trashy gossip anyway, but if anyone else catches us together and decides to pick up the story and run with it… we’re both done for.
Plus, what kind of relationship could we have if we have to duck and hide for months, maybe even years? Take-out every day, movies every night… Harley deserves better than that. She deserves to be shown off like the prize she is. I won’t let her agree to something substandard just so we can be together a bit longer.
I go out onto my roof to call her up. Maybe the clear night air can clear my head. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“So.”
She tries to laugh, but it’s not much of one. “So.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be sorry. This is for the best.”
“Let me explain. They’re running a story about us in the Star tomorrow. I don’t think we have much of a choice at this point… maybe at some point in a year or so…” I trail off.
“I get it,” she says. “You have to fire me too.”
“I don’t have to—”
“Yes, you do,” she says sadly.
Up above, the stars are nearly invisible from the light pollution. It seems like my night with Harley, looking at the stars, is years away.
“You won’t get a better reference than mine,” I find myself saying. “I have friends in the business who would love to work with you. I’m not going to have this screw up your career. I’m not going to rest until you get an even better position.”
Her voice is hushed, sad. “OK.”
“I’m so sorry.” My words fall flat. What the fuck good does my ‘sorry’ do her, really?
“Don’t be. We both knew this was over before it really started.”
“Still, I should’ve protected you better.”
“I’m sure you did your best.”
Her words slay me. Anger, blaming, all that I expected and could deal with. But this quiet, fair acceptance… I can’t take it.
