“Classic workplace romance,” Dennis adds, chuckling before taking a pretend sip of his empty coffee mug.
“Late nights at the office?” The audience laughs, and I can see the producer giving them a thumbs up out of the corner of my eye.
I give my best TV laugh, smiling at the hosts. “It’s new. We’ve been friends for a long time, but I’m very happy with where things are going.”
“There does seem to be a little drama though. Perhaps a love triangle?” Dianne presses. “You were seen just recently with Dr. Charlotte Buckingham putting her into a cab outside of one of the most sought-after restaurants in Seattle. For our viewers who haven’t heard of Dr. Buckingham, she’s as famous as our very own Dr. Angel.”
“Dr. Buckingham and I have been friends for a long time. And Mia was at that dinner.” My tone turns more serious. I had anticipated these questions when I agreed to finally talk about my love life. However, we didn’t confirm we would discuss the situation that happened outside Neon last week. The images had circulated on social media, and it didn’t look good on Mia.
Dianne looks like the cat that got the cream. “Oh yes, we have those photos too.” She points to the screen, and I know this is being displayed on about a million television sets in the Pacific Northwest right now.
Displayed on the screen is Mia, snarling, a finger jabbing into my chest as I hold my hands up in surrender. Her long black hair is billowing around her. As if the very force of her wrath somehow affected the weather. Fuck, she looks so goddamn pretty. Her skirt is so short, her legs toned and long. Despite the fact that she looks like she wants to start a brawl worthy of my brother’s hockey team, she’s stunning. But even I can see the issues that come with this. Sure, the images have been circulating on social media but this is statewide television. A million people watch this show every morning.
I glance toward Mia, who is standing behind one of the camera crew, clutching her trusty iPad to her chest. It’s hard to make out her face under the bright studio lights, but I see her take a step back. It is one thing to have it over social media, but this is a step over the line. I’m blindsided, and so is Mia.
“Dianne.” I turn back to the host. “You of all people should know about photos being taken out of context. You’ve had your fair share of public mishaps that were easily explained away when the details of the situation were provided. Now, I’d appreciate it if you took that photo down.”
Dianne smirks, she’s got her story and I’ve learnt my lesson. I’m not trusting this fucking show again.
“The man has spoken, team. Let’s leave these lovebirds to it,” Dennis intervenes.
I loosen the muscles in my jaw, unclenching as I give Dennis a small nod of appreciation. Once they’ve moved on, I have to wait for a commercial before I can leave the set. I know the camera isn’t on me anymore, so I use the opportunity to look back to Mia’s position behind the cameraman, but she’s gone.
???
I finally found Mia at the coffeeshop outside the studio. I’d searched around the building before finally accepting that she had left without me. I still have makeup caked on my face, but I’ve learned to live with it over the years. Keeping a supply of makeup remover wipes in my office desk, my car, my bathroom. The thick foundation could be scraped off with a trowel, but Mia insisted I use something properly. At least before seeing patients in the afternoon.
Mia usually attended these filmings with me as she helped scope out the callers and prepare advice. It wasn’t particularly difficult or taxing. I used to come on my own, but on one particular morning a few years ago I’d overheard her telling my patient Austin she’d been desperate to see a TV set. So I’d asked for assistance, and honestly, her presence was useful. Comforting, even. So I kept asking her to come until she naturally assumed this was part of her role.
I tap my card on the pay point and wait for our coffee. Mia is quiet. She’s barely looked me in the eye since I found her here. I silently curse Dianne. She knew that putting the photos up wasn’t part of the deal, but she’s got a firsthand interview regardless and milked it for all it was worth.
I glance at Mia, who’s holding our table. Her hands are tucked into her sleeves, and her eyes are fixed on something out the window. A few patrons are pointing at us and whispering to each other behind cupped hands. I was used to the too-long stares, but I’d realized I hadn’t given much thought to how this must be for Mia. She’s been photographed with me, of course, but she’s never been this exposed.
I slip into the booth, sliding Mia’s cup toward her.
“Thanks.” She takes a tentative sip before warming her hands around the paper cup.
“Are you still okay to do this?” I ask.
Her shoulders hunch a little more, and I can see her squirm in her seat. Clearly, that’s a no.
“I said I would.”
“That wasn’t what I asked Mia.” I try to soften my words, but she looks pissed off anyway. As if my very asking her for coffee was the equivalent of a cat shitting on her car windscreen.
“It’s fine. Can we just get this over with? Let’s do what we need to do.”
I’ve never seen her like this. Her lips are flat, pulled tight like she’s trying to hold in how she really feels, like she might snap at any moment. Her eyes are darting around looking at anyone who even glances in our direction. She’s shifty, on edge. She could bolt at any moment and I can’t do a goddamn thing to stop it. I didn’t think Dianne’s comments were right, but they certainly weren’t any worse than what had already been said on social media. Perhaps the reality of it has kicked in.
“You’re going to need to look like you’re enjoying my company. Just a little,” I try to joke.
Her eyes flash with something akin to pure loathing, but she quickly masks her fury with a tilt of her head, cradling it in her palm as she leans her elbow on the table. She slaps on a sickly sweet smile and reaches her free hand across the table, intertwining her fingers with mine. “Is this what you want, Alfie?” Her voice is as sweet as caramel, and it makes my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth. The feel of her palm is soft but rigid. She’s not comfortable. I know this. I know I’m fucking everything up. And after that shitshow at the studio. How do I even begin to explain that? I swallow hard.
“Is it?” she presses. “You just do whatever you want, don’t you?”
I don't answer except with a furrow of my brow. I try to pull my hand back, but she clings harder. “I can pretend to be your girlfriend, Alfie. I can pretend that I’m not shit scared this isn’t all going to blow up in my face. I can even pretend that I don’t think you’re having some kind of midlife crisis ten years too early. But do you know what I can’t do? I can’t pretend to want to be here right now. I have a lot of studying to do, so I’m going to go do that.”
“Wait. Mia…”
