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“Bella, I'm serious,” she continues. Her testy tone of voice is starting to grate on my nerves. “We don't have that many days to make this right, so I need you on point at every opportunity, you get me? Or, as I mentioned, there won't be a Riordan Publishing for you to even work for.”
Jeez. “Yeah, I heard your threat the first time,” I remind her tersely. “Are you going to call me up every day just to repeat that?”
“Hey, I'm doing you a favor!” she shoots back, her voice getting louder and louder. “Did you forget that? You need this too, or you wouldn't be doing it.”
“No shit, Hannah! I wouldn’t be doing this at all if I didn't need to. You don't need to try to remind me every day that you have life or death control over me, okay? To tell you the truth, your drill sergeant act is getting a little old. I'll do what I said. Get off my back!”
My heart is racing, the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I don't want to fight with her. I don’t want to fight with anyone. Come to think of it, I don’t want to ever even raise my voice to anyone. That’s one of the nice things about being single.
But suddenly the stakes seem very high. I need to be heard, or everyone is going to just roll right over me.
We take a few moments, saying nothing. Both of us are probably struggling to calm down and regain control of the situation.
“I'll do what I said,” I repeat in a much calmer voice. I don't want to say I'm sorry, because I don't think I have anything to be sorry for. But I still hope that she can hear the half-assed apology in my voice and doesn't try to make me say it out loud.
“Yeah… I know you will,” she says in a softer voice too. There is a half-assed apology somewhere in her voice as well. “When are you guys going out again?”
“I was just about to find out. Today or tomorrow. Do you have other bloggers on the way?”
“Of course I do,” she sighs, her voice already distant and distracted again. I guess she thinks this conversation is over. “Just text me the details as soon as you have them. We will try again. It'll be fine. I know how determined you are.”
That last little bit sort of irritates me all over again, with its condescending praise, but we say our goodbyes without another pissing match. She knows how determined I am? Yeah, obviously she does, since she’s using it all to her advantage. I guess her power in the situation is not exactly under question.
But when we were kids, we were equals. I even had the upper hand sometimes. I've never gotten used to this idea that she runs my life. She holds the cards in this game, and she can make or break the deal at any time. Usually, I don’t have to think too much about it. But right now, I can’t shake it.
In fact, I prob
ably take a lot of liberties, never coming into the office, never pitching my stories ahead of time to an editor. Everybody else has to ask for permission for their story ideas, but I just write what I want within reason, submit it, and it always gets published. Nobody else has that kind of leeway with the rules. And I know it's because of her that I'm granted that latitude.
But I guess I thought my special treatment made me way more equal to her than I actually am. And yeah, she's the CEO. So I guess it makes sense.
But I've seen her in her underwear. And not the good kind. Granny panties and period panties and laundry day panties. I’ve seen her without makeup and during some very bad acne breakouts.
I've seen her through bouts of the stomach flu. I remember when she had braces. I remember when she had a completely ridiculous haircut, when her mom thought she could use dog clippers to just clean up the bottom, all those frizzy ends at her neckline. I've seen her through all of that, and I would never breathe a word about it. But it does sort of even the playing field, doesn't it?
Or, I suppose it doesn't. Not really.
Maybe it never did.
I stare at the front of my phone for just a minute. I need to make a plan with Emmet. What am I supposed to say? That I'm asking him out? Again? Why doesn’t he contact me instead? Men.
I have to be sure to point out that detail in my book, how these guys do not seem to think that they need to make romantic gestures. In fact, I'm not sure they understand what romance really is. Everything's just another form of business deal. Like arm wrestling, or a game of checkers.
Finally, I come up with just making a move, any move.
Me: when are you free for next meeting?
I squint at my phone as the sending message changes to a timestamp.
He answers me almost immediately, and I can't help but notice that my heart rate picks up a little bit.
Emmet: tomorrow night. 6:30 PM. Navy Pier helipad. Wear something easy to slip out of.
Helipad? Does that word mean what I think it means?
Well, he may not know romance, but he sure knows how to whip up a spectacle.
Something like excitement rises in me. What will I wear?
