The November sky is that particular shade of grey that suggests snow but won't commit. It's 3 PM and already getting dark, the city wrapped in that pre-winter gloom that makes everyone walk faster and complain louder. The G-wagon I sit in now is warm, insulated from the chaos outside, but I can feel the pressure building like a physical weight.
My phone buzzes. Again.
ROMAN: Dude. Bachelor party. December 15th. You're coming.
ROMAN: Christian already confirmed.
ROMAN: Don't make me call your wife.
CHRISTIAN: He's right. I did confirm. Also, "wife" is doing a lot of work in that sentence.
ROMAN: FAKE wife. Whatever. She seems cool. Bring her.
CHRISTIAN: To the bachelor party?
ROMAN: Why not? Calli's bringing her friends to the bachelorette thing.
I stare at my phone, trying to formulate a response that doesn't involve explaining the intricacies of my fake marriage arrangement.
ME: I'll check my calendar.
ROMAN: That's code for "I'm going to avoid this conversation."
CHRISTIAN: Accurate.
ROMAN: Victor. It's my wedding. You're one of my best men. You're coming.
ME: I said I'll check my calendar.
CHRISTIAN: He's going to check his calendar. Give the man space.
ROMAN: Fine. But if you bail, I'm telling your scary grandmother that you're being difficult.
ME: That's a low blow.
ROMAN: I'm desperate. Also, she loves me now. We're Instagram friends.
I close my eyes. Of course they are.
Another buzz. Different contact this time. Dmitri.
DMITRI: FoodFirst is really going on for the kill. Seems like not only are they going after Richard Francis’s company for the acquisition, but word on the street is that they just made an offer to three of our on-air talent. Including two from the cooking vertical.
My jaw tightens.
ME: Who?
DMITRI: Can't say yet. They signed NDAs. But I'm hearing rumors.
ME: Find out. And see if we can counter.
DMITRI: Already on it. Also—board meeting Monday. Patricia’s pushing for a vote on the acquisition strategy.
ME: Let her push. I have it under control.
DMITRI: Do you?
Fair question.
