Page 160 of Flirty Fall Fling

“I’m punctual,” I say. “I keep my commitments.”

“How was your vacation?”

“Great.” I keep it short.

The first few items on the list takes him eleven minutes to go through. We discuss the grant disbursements first, then the spring gala venue, and a proposed roof repair at the Boston youth center I opened five years ago. I patiently sit through all of this, wondering what Blaire is doing right now.

Then Bart slaps the folder open, and a few people sitting around the table jump at the noise.

“Now let’s discuss the most important thing on our agenda,” he says.

He slides several color printouts across the table as if they might be evidence in a murder trial. They’re different articles that have been written about Blaire and me. There are photographs of our hands, us close enough to kiss, along with the Salem photos. It makes me smile.

“I had a great fall, as you can see,” I say, scooting it all back across the table toward them.

Bart reads headlines. He talks about love spells and curses and cults. He brings up the fifty-thousand-dollar payment I made to a witch. Several people mutter under their breath.

“Yeah? And? Last time I checked, I could spend my money on whatever I wanted. It’s no one’s business.”

“They say you’re bewitched. Not yourself. Basically, your mind is controlled by that woman.” The older guy at the end speaks up. I think his name is Gary. “Have you joined the Pine Haven cult?”

I’m shocked by the ridiculousness of this. “This is a joke, right?”

I look around the table, and everyone is sitting on the edge of their seats.

A second member is genuinely concerned that I’ve been hexed or tricked into being with Blaire.

It might be the funniest sentence ever spoken in this room, but nobody laughs. These men flew in from different time zones to discuss witchcraft. I’ve howled at a thinning moon from the middle of a salt circle, and I’m the sanest person in here.

“There have been some changes in the contract that’s up for renewal,” Counsel says, passing the paperwork toward me.

It’s a statement drafted for my signature. The phrases inside it include a lapse of judgment, manipulation by an individual now under public scrutiny, and stepping back to focus on his health. At the end, it demands no contact with Ms. Wardwell and states that the foundation disavows any association with her or her business.

“I’d advise you to sign it,” David says, “and then this all goes away. The coverage dies, the sponsors return, and in a year, nobody will remember any of these headlines. Your salary will increase significantly. There’s a lot on the table, Jameson.”

“And if I don’t?” I ask, glancing around the room at them.

“We will not be renewing your contract,” Bart states.

I don’t say anything.

Marketing explains the press strategy to make this disappear. He talks about the alleged bewitchment narrative.

I glance down at the mood ring on my finger. For the first time since I put it on, it’s a different color. The purple stayed through the doxing, the leaks, and the worst press of my life. It was an anchor. Now, it’s dark as night.

Absence has a color. I’m wearing it.

“… any form of external influence,” Counsel finishes.

A pen is set in front of me, and I take my time reading all 113 pages. At the end, I stare at the signature line, then push the pages away.

“Think about this,” David says.

“I have. I choose Ms. Wardwell,” I say.

A few people gasp.

“He’s infiltrated,” Bart states.