“You can’t tell me what to do,” she says patiently. “Just like you can’t tell Frish or Graham or Zhay what to do.”
“Icantell you what to do, because I’m your boss,” you snap irritably. Immediately, you regret the words. An apology dies on your lips when Maeve just looks at you over the lip of her mug, her eyes pitying.
“I’ll let you get away with thatonce,” she tells you simply. “Why don’t you call your therapist? It’s been a couple of weeks, hasn’t it?”
Ithasbeen a couple of weeks since you’ve spoken with Blair, but that thought does nothing for you. Telehealth really isn’t your jam—you find it hard to be present in a session on the opposite side of a laptop, which isn’t her fault, but you can’t fathom flying to New York every time you need an appointment. That’s excessive even for you, regardless of what haters will say about your jet-setting tendencies. Right now, you want to be in Miami. (You want to be near Kaius, but you would swear to anyone else that’s not the reason why.)
“She’s on sabbatical,” you lie smoothly. “I’m catching up with her in a few weeks.”
You hate being dishonest with Maeve, plus it usually doesn’t work out in your favor, because the woman has what the seminal 90s rock band Cake called a mind like a diamond. She won’t forget this conversation, but it allows you to kick that particular can down the road for a while.
“How’s your writing going?” she presses. “That’s always a great outlet for you.”
“Nothing’s really working right now,” you say. God, you canhearyourself drowning in negativity. It’s the truth, though. You feel like your creativity has been paralyzed as of late. Sitting around and feeling bad for yourself in one of your two multi-million-dollar seaside villas in Miami is poor fodder for any sort of music that a normal person wants to listen to without dying laughing from the schadenfreude of it all.
Maeve shrugs a shoulder.
“I’ll stop bothering you,” she says kindly. “I can tell you don’t want to talk about this. You don’t have to lie. I can just sit here and answer your last couple emails, and then I’ll be on my way.”
Youdon’tlie to her, but you also don’t voice the comment on your lips asking her not to leave. To just exist in the same space as you for a few hours, to keep yourself from rattling around your very expensive cage like a sad, well-dressed marble.
Amazingly, you wish you hadn’t finished signing all your albums. It’s the perfect activity for the mood you are in right now: tedious and mind-numbing. Repetitive. Thinking about autographing albums as you stare at the wall opposite you, you think that maybe you are going crazy. Maybe you need a nap.
You’re so focused on staring atnothingthat you initially don’t catch the hitch in Maeve’s breath and her sudden stillness. In fact, it isn’t until she’s called your name twice—you know it’s not just once because of the urgency in her tone—that you shake yourself out of it and look at her.
“Hmm?” you ask, distracted.
Her face is grave. “There’s an email from No Kid Hungry.”
The name of your pet charity, a childhood hunger foundation, doesn’t initially cause much of a reaction. “Oh?”
You can hear the wince in her voice. “Yeah. It’s from the head of the executive board. They’re asking you unofficially to step down as their public ambassador.”
At first, the words don’t penetrate the boggy blue soup in your brain. “What do you mean?”
Maeve pivots to face you. The expression of pity on her face is nauseating. Like, you feel at that moment that you’d rather die than have it trained on you.
“They said that it’s in light of the scandals surrounding you,” she says softly. “They thank you for your years of service to the causeand hope that you will still consider maintaining your quarterly donations, but say that the board had to make a difficult decision. For both your sakes, they’d prefer you stepped away voluntarily.”
When it hits you, it hits you like a gunshot. You’re a patron of several worthy charities, all of which are on the receiving end of sizable and very discreet contributions, but No Kid Hungrymatteredto you. It was the first organization that you partnered with, early in your career, and a cause that you cared about. Unbidden, your mind goes to the award you received last year for your work with the organization. Coincidentally, it was the first time you ever walked a red carpet with Kai. That plaque had meant more to you than some of your music awards. For once, you weren’t being called out for making music that people wanted to dance to. You made a difference. You helped out. Stepping down would be big news. There will surely be a press release.
“Did they actually say that?” you find yourself asking. “About the quarterly donations? Wow.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re their biggest donor,” Maeve says. “When you put their link in your Insta bio, traffic to their website increased by 450%.”
“Huh,” you say, because the situation calls for a response, and you have nothing intelligent to comment. All of a sudden, you want Maeveout. She’s one of your closest companions, but her presence is making it hard to breathe. You aren’t sure whether you want to scream or hide in the dark of your immense walk-in closet. Maybe break some shit. Your heart is throbbing in your throat.
One thing about Maeve: she can read you like a book. It’s why she has a higher salary than any other personal assistant you’ve ever heard of. She clicks her phone off and stands up.
“I’m going to head out,” she says gently. “Don’t hesitate to text me if you needanything. I’m serious, Sterling. I’m a call away.”
You say nothing as she lets herself out and locks the door behind her.
***
That night, Cal calls you, which, in retrospect, should have been a sure sign that your day was about to get even shittier. The man is allergic to cell phones, preferring to delegate security communications to just about anyone else on the team. It’s also his day off, which should have been Clue #2.
“What’s up, Cal?” You are two glasses into a very expensive bottle of Napa Valley cab that you aren’t really tasting as much as sucking back like a lifeline. The book you are barely reading is open on your lap. You’re not drunk (not yet), but your head is a little spinny. The good news is that you are in bed, so, if things get too bad, you can always hide under the covers.
