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Monroe:
Let me rephrase that.
Monroe:
We’re talking about it TODAY
Me:
Your schedule’s busy. You’ve got an interview and an opening pitch
Monroe:
I’ll make time for you
My cuticles were fucked. Raw and red from being picked at all morning.
Hell, for weeks.
The air buzzed with the energy of a live segment. Camera lenses glinted under the harsh studio lights as producers and crew milled about, electric with the novelty of having Monroe and Thatcher on set.
And all I wanted to do was find the nearest trash can to throw up in.
I’d practically worn a hole in my apartment floor the night before, running through every possible way this interview could go sideways.
At least that was the lie I was telling myself.
Not the fact that I’d been avoiding him for days, ever since getting home from the Draft. Not the fact that I’d woken up at three in the morning, heart slamming, drenched in sweat, with every thought wrapped around that man.
In my nightmare, Monroe’s mouth was pressed into a firm line despite my explicit instructions to smile, while my old boss asked every single one of my do-not-ask questions. And when I tried making my way onto the set—to do who-the-fuck-knows what—I looked down, and my legs were stuck in quicksand. And my dad stood behind the camera, laughing, telling me what a disappointment I was.
That wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part was Itzel draped across Monroe’s lap.
“How are they doing?”
“Fuck, Ari.” My hand flew to my chest at Ari’s whisper. Not that I’d feel my racing heart since she’d sent it plummeting to my ass. I exhaled through my nose, forcing my eyes back to the set. “Good. His answers have been more than one syllable, so we’re calling it a win. But Monroe’s got a resting bitch face situation happening, and I’ve been doing the pageant mom thing for two minutes.” I pointed to my smile like an idiot.
She laughed and immediately slapped a hand over her mouth when the boom guy shot us a look.
“Come on.” I took her hand and steered her toward the craft services table, far enough from the set to talk without getting death-glared again.
I grabbed a bottle of water I didn’t want and cracked the cap just to have something to do with my hands.
“Smart move having Thatcher up there with him,” Ari said, smiling when the reporter turned a question toward Dalton.
“I didn’t think he was ready for a solo interview.” I shrugged, swallowing the real reason—that I couldn’t stomach watching him sit up there next to Itzel for twenty-five minutes.
That I’d already been dreading seeing them together on the jumbotron that night. Or in the photos and articles I’d lined up for the next day. Every outlet would caption them like they were the real thing, just as I’d planned…and it sat like a stone in my gut.
“I think you wanted Monroe comfortable. Because you’re good at your job,” Ari said, cutting through my spiral. Her voice had that careful tone she used when she was about to say something I wasn’t ready to hear. “Good for him.”
I bit down on my lip. She was fishing.
I’d almost called her over the past week a dozen times. Finger hovering over her name before I clicked the screen off. Did the same with Monroe’s contact, too. Opened it. Stared at the last text thread. Closed it, then repeated the whole stupid cycle.
“Sorry I’m late. San Jose traffic is a nightmare.” Itzel appeared at my other side, steam curling from her tea, cheeks still flushed from rushing. She looked between us. “What did I miss?”
