Page 43 of Well, Actually
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” I kick myself for being so soft and nervous. This is a job,myjob. They aren’t going to set me up for something that makes me look stupid… at least, not any stupider than shoving hot dogs down my throat.
William goes through a few more boring production details and editing plans, then leans back in his chair, the subtlest uptick at the corners of his mouth like an emperor about to watch a match at the Colosseum, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Sounds like I’ll probably cry. Can’t wait,” Cooper says, meeting my eyes and giving me a reassuring smile. I relax a fraction. If I’m going down, I’ll be dragging him with me, that’s for sure.
The countdown begins, and I quickly adjust my top, dragging my fingers at the edges of my lipstick before stilling my fidgeting. Aida gives us the signal to start, and we volley smoothly through introductions while a gnarl of suspense grows in my stomach.
“All right, I’m up first,” Cooper says with a clap of his hands, rubbing his palms together as he grins at me. “But I personally doubt the comment sections have anything on you, Eva.”
I flip my hair, shooting him a baleful smile.
Text pops up along the screen, and he leans forward, squinting as he reads it. “No one tell Freud but I’d call him Daddy.” His eyes light up and he looks straight at me. “Did you know that ‘Spank me, Daddy’ in Dutch is‘Geef me een klap, Papa’? Can you imagine whipping that out in bed?”
It takes me a beat to process that. “Do you let every intrusive thought win?” I blurt. “And Freud was Austrian.”
“Yes, of course,” Cooper says, waving away my argument. “But can you imagine him working through that kink with a Dutch patient?”
I laugh, then disguise it as a cough, trying to hide my smile from the camera. The tension in my shoulders eases a bit. Maybe this won’t be as brutal as I was thinking.
Cooper holds my gaze, a glint flashing in his eyes that says we’re in this together, then he clears his throat and reads the next one. “You know a man holds too much power when you crave being teabagged by him.Oh my. Okay. Are these mean comments or unhinged thirst comments?”
“Jesus Christ, did you write these about yourself?” My face twists in annoyance.
His eyes shoot wide and he shakes his head. “Despite circulating rumors, I have never actually craved being teabagged by anyone.”
“We’ll bring in a polygraph for our next video.”
“Aw, Kitten, you’re always so eager to figure out the next time you’ll see me. It’s sweet.”
My mouth falls open in a mix of surprise and indignation, but Cooper’s laugh is a magnet, pulling me closer to the screen. With a start, I straighten my shoulders, chancing a quick glanceat William’s thumbnail, then back to Cooper. My stomach swoops when I realize William looked pleased.
“Okay, last one,” Cooper says, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. “I feel—Oh god, this one is going right for my jugular.”
“Read it, coward,” I tease, returning his look that we have each other’s backs in this.
Cooper wilts for the camera, but carries on. “I feel like if Rylie Cooper had facial hair his mustache would never connect with his beard…That one really does hurt. Not that I’m saying it’s true or anything… but I can’t say it isn’t either.”
“The only thing worse for a man than facial hair commentary is a hairline critique,” I say with a solemn nod. “Rest in peace, friend.”
Cooper’s face lights up like a kid on his birthday. “Eva Kitt, am I yourfriend?”
I blink a few times, trying to connect his overjoyed expression with my statement, my mind tripping over itself in the process. “I—No. I mean… What? Stop.” I try to wipe my features to neutral, leg bouncing under the table in an effort to dispel whatever silly demon has recently possessed me because, against my wishes, Rylie Cooper does feel a bit like a friend lately.
Which is utter nonsense.
“I’m yourfrienddddddd,” Cooper croons like we’re children on the playground and he’s accusing me of French-kissing him. “Oh my god, Eva, you’re so obsessed with me.”
“Can we cut for a second?” I snap, eyes bouncing between Aida and William. She’s smiling like she’s watching a rom-com; he’s smiling like a shark that sniffed blood.
William’s face falls into a scowl and he unmutes himself. “Why are you cutting? That was great content.”
“I just, uh, really need a second,” I say, sweat trickling down my back at the scolding and the sudden surge of generally nice feelings toward Cooper.
William shakes his head, the disapproval of it gripping me by the throat. “This is journalism, Miss Kitt, and I’d appreciate some professionalism. You have to lean into a moment, expose its truth. Or are you not up for the task?”
I open my mouth, not sure how to respectfully express that I don’t think a recorded Zoom call where we read social media comments actually counts as journalism, but his expression has me slamming my jaws shut and nodding in agreement.
“Right. Sorry. You’re right. I just had a moment where I was too in my head. Sorry. I…”
