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“It’s… Glenda, or something, isn’t it?”
“Gloria,” she says, going stiff. “Gloria Price. We met before when—”
“I remember,” I tell her. “You were the one trying to get into my pants. Or, my wallet. Whichever. I guess it’s probably the same for you, right?”
“Excuse me?” She bristles, genuinely taken aback. Maybe no one’s ever spoken frankly to her before, I don’t know. I don’t really care, either, except that she’s in my way.
“Could you move, please?” I ask, with as polite a tone as I can muster. My fingers are clenching around the small box in my hand. Janie’s right. This woman just grates your nerves by being in proximity. It is much worse when she speaks.
“Janie’s in the middle of—”
“Let him come up, Gloria,” Janie says over the microphone. She sounds unsteady, but not worried, exactly. I probably sound the same.
Gloria’s face darkens quickly, and she looks over her shoulder at Janie. Then, she steps out of the way. As I ascend the stairs, I can see her in the corner of my eye trying to get the attention of one of the bloggers, but he shoos her away like a fly, and his photographer all but pushes her out of the way to train his camera on me and Janie.
The whole room is quiet.
Janie doesn’t slap me, or throw me out when I get close to her. I still worry she might, any second. She doesn’t move. She just watches me, and I watch her, our eyes locked until I lean in to whisper in her ear. Cameras flash when I do.
“Everything we experienced was real,” I tell her. “I was stupid, and I let my father push me to do things I didn’t want to do, things I feel terrible about. I want to fix it, if you’ll let me.”
I kiss her cheek before I straighten, waiting for some signal from her about what I should do, what I should think.
Janie clears her throat, and it echoes over the speakers from the microphone. She puts a hand over it, her face flushing. “Thank you for coming,” she says. “I didn’t think you would.”
It comes out formally in her voice, but not in her eyes.
“Janie,” I say, “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now.”
Finally she smiles, wide and genuine. More cameras flash, and by now the live tweets have probably gone out. Reginald probably already knows I’m here. I wonder what he’s thinking as he watches this progress?
“Can I take the mic?” I ask. “I promise not to steal the stage.”
“I think you’ve already done that,” she mutters, but with a hint of excitement and humor in her voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll be stealing it right back.”
“I’m counting on it,” I tell her, and she hands me the mic.
It’s do or die, then. Moment of truth. My heart is pounding in my ears, and I know that I’m sweating. Janie waits expectantly, her eyebrows starting a slow climb. She’s not the only one.
One long breath in, and out. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I say into the mic, “this woman is one of the most amazing people I’ve ever known. You probably all know that she started Red Hall on her own, with no major investors and a whole lot of elbow grease.
“What you probably don’t know,” I say as I turn to address them directly, “is that’s she’s done it under some of the most difficult circumstances, facing some of the worst detractors and naysayers in this town. There are people out there who have tried to tear this woman down and they have failed. Because her integrity isn’t a carefully constructed image created to further her business. It was her integrity that made this place what it is.”
I turn back to Janie then, and see her eyes starting to water. She’s holding it together, but part of me hopes that the next part of my speech makes her crack. Not because I want her to cry on stage—but because I know that if she does, it’ll be because I’ve made her happy.
“What you also may not know is that I am head over heels, madly in love with Janie Hall,” I say.
For a moment, I can’t speak. The lounge erupts with cheers, and Janie’s tears start to stream. She wipes her eyes, laughing, and waving frantically at the cameras when they begin to snap pictures.
She takes the mic from me to chide them. “You guys are the worst! Not one of those pictures gets online, you hear me?”
“Janie,” someone shouts, “do you love Jake Ferry?”
She bites her lip, looks at me, and then looks back at the crowd. “I haven’t decided.”
They laugh, and she smiles at me, one eyebrow raised. I take the mic when she offers it.
“All right,” I say, soothing the crowd, “calm down. I got this.” More chuckling, but they quiet down.
