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I cross my arms and blow a stray lock of hair away from my face.
He hangs up. “What’s going on with Twitter?”
“Pardon?” I ask.
“Twitter. Blue bird. 140 characters? Popular. You know, POTUS uses it a lot?”
“I know what Twitter is, Aiden,” I grumble.
“Well, what’s happened to it?” He’s glaring at me.
I frown.
“Our account. It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone. Can’t find our account. Twitter feeds on our other pages are coming up with error messages.
He’s clicking keys on his laptop and gesturing to his screen.
“What?” I jump up and round his desk to look at his laptop.
What the fuck?
“What did you do?” he accuses.
My mouth drops open. “I didn’t---"
“This is a disaster,” he declares and grabs his office phone and starts punching buttons.
***
No one is saying it, but they’re all thinking it. They think I’m the Fail Whale. They think I did something to fuck up our Twitter account.
I haven’t even logged into it yet. We have a social media management platform that we use for pushing updates out. An aggregator that we use to view all our feeds instead of logging in individually. And I’ve barely logged into that but certainly haven’t changed any settings.
Mr. C has been in about the issue. Stacy and Blake (the marketing interns), and a guy called Kieran in New York has been on hands-free on Aiden’s phone. We get it back, but we’re not following anyone. Thankfully, we haven’t lost our followers, though. We were following hundreds, if not thousands. I get tasked with finding who we were following and ensuring we’re following them all again.
Ugh.
It’s a long day. We don’t get a chance to talk about the Eastmark Conference. I see Ally twice. Once, when she brings me a sandwich and soup for lunch and then again when I let her know to get the cab home alone. I work until 8:30.
I’m getting ready to go, figuring I’ll try to catch a bus, when I see Austin Carmichael in his father’s office. I walk by, waving. They look like they’re in a heated argument. They both stop and wave at me.
At least Mr. C saw that I stayed late after the day’s mishap.
***
It took two buses to get home, but I did it. I navigated my way around San Diego and I’m proud of myself. I’ve gotten looks at my coffee-stained boob everywhere I’ve gone, and I can’t wait to get back to the apartment and take a long, hot soak.
But, when I open the door, I’m greeted with an auburn-haired beauty in the kitchen, wearing a men’s white dress shirt, unbuttoned, showing off a black lacy bra and matching lacy panties. She’s also got on a pair of high stilettos. She’s mixing a drink when she coyly turns to look at me. Her expression instantly changes. I’m obviously not who she expected. She’s here for him. Nearly naked.
I freeze at the door.
She tilts her head at me.
“Who are you?” she asks. No. She demands, actually. She’s beautiful with her long curtain of bone-straight auburn hair and bright green eyes, but she also has that look about her, that evil wicked witch look.
