Page 64 of Falling Off Script

But I’m not furious.

I’m...fine. Annoyed, sure. But that anger I had two days ago? That screen-punching rage? Gone.

I got my licks in. Dropped a few bombs of my own. Watched her flinch when I called her predictable. A few thousand new followers, some well-placed smirks. Call it even.

Now it’s not personal.

It’s tactical.

Rachel trusts her. That’s leverage.

If I spin this right, it won’t even look like I’m crawling back. It'll look like I’m offering an olive branch. Facilitating closure. Being the bigger man. Growth-oriented. Mature.

Ugh.

This is worse than crawling. This isrebranding.

But it could work.

And if I line up the optics right—some go-between, a few staged touchpoints—it won’t even look like it’s about me. It’ll look like I’m empowering women to collaborate. Maybe I throw in a comment about mutual respect. A wink to our “shared mission.”

God, I hate how good I am at this.

I down the rest of my drink and set the glass aside.

There’s a knock at the edge of my conscience. The part of me that remembers who she is—not just the marketing asset, but the woman who made me actually enjoy losing anargument. The one whose laugh makes people forget their point. The one who looked at me, once, like I wasn’t a bit.

She’s dangerous.

And annoyingly useful.

I lean back in the chair, arms behind my head, eyes on the ceiling like maybe I’ll find a better idea in the drywall.

But there it is again.

Emily. Damn. Parrish.

The name tastes like pride and mouthwash.

The podcast stunt still pisses me off—don’t get me wrong. That whole “guess who’s a manipulative piece of hot trash” segment? Weaponized charisma at its most smug. But somewhere between the outrage and the editing notes, I found myself impressed.

Guess humiliation is a great audition.

And if I’m being honest—something I avoid unless cornered or on camera—I’ve been waiting to see what she does next. Waiting for her to pull a punch or double down. To pivot or spiral.

She didn’t.

She recalibrated.

She’s like me. Just younger. Prettier. And perhaps better at making people cry in under ten minutes.

I grab my phone. Scroll past the unopened texts from Tyler, the bookmarked thirst comments, the saved video of her eyebrow twitching at me like it wanted to unionize.

Then I pause.

I’m not asking Emily for help. That would imply weakness. This is a favor. For Matt. Via a third party. It’s not a retreat. It’s a delegation.

I scrubbed a hand down my face and let out a sigh that feels like a tax write-off. Then I tap my screen.

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