Page 49 of What If I Hate You
Ialwayssmile.
And I write something down on my notepad. Nothing important, just the words ‘Butt fungus pecker biscuit’ to give my hands something to do.
“Thanks for your time,” I say quietly.
I hold it together through the rest of the presser, through the interviews, and through the slow march out of the locker room and into the echo of the emptying arena. And just when I think I can shake off another round of bullshit from my already tired shoulders, I get the call that breaks the dam in my confidence.
My boss, Simon tells me the segment I stayed up until 2 a.m. writing the night before was killed. Replaced by a fluff piece some junior guy churned out in thirty minutes. “Just didn’t have the right tone,” he says. “Maybe try to sound less aggressive next time. In fact, let’s get a piece on Barrett Cunningham the man behind the mask, huh? Fans would love a piece like that. Maybe something with a bit of a romantic feel. I’m sure you can work your magic, Rivers.”
Less aggressive.
Less difficult.
Lessme.
“Yeah, sure,” I say deadpan and then hang up without saying goodbye. I walk quickly and quietly, as fast as my feet will carry me, straight into the women’s bathroom near the press hallway and into the farthest stall, locking it behind me.
And then I break.
Not loud. Not sobbing.
Just…leaking. Heavily.
Tears slip down my face as my breath catches in my throat like it doesn’t belong there. My chest tightens until I feel like I might explode from the weight of holding it all in for too long. It’s not just today. It’s every fucking day. Every smirk. Every brush-off. Every dig disguised as banter. Every goddamn thing Barrett Cunningham has ever said to me in the press room. His biggest personal hit when we were in Ohio. Every time I’ve been told to smile more or talk less. Every time I’ve been told to “play the game, Rivers.”
I sink down onto the closed lid of the toilet, arms wrapped around myself, blazer wrinkled, mascara smudging under my eyes.
And I let it happen.
Finally. Quietly.
I let myself fall apart.
It’s not even about the damn interview anymore. It’s everything. It’s waking up late when I’m always prompt. It’s working my ass off to prove my worth but being treated like shit anyway. It’s Barrett Cunningham and his complete disdain for me. It’s just…all of it.
The endless fight to prove I deserve a seat at the table. The constant effort to be one step ahead, one degree sharper, one emotion flatter. The way my voice always has to walk the line between confident and “not too much.”
And tonight, I was too much. I wasvisible. And someone decided that was funny.
I press my palms into my eyes, as if I can push the tears back in, but it’s too late. The dam has not only cracked, it’s split wide open and I can’t keep the tears from flowing no matter how hard I try.
Minutes later, I don’t hear the footsteps as a warning, but I hear the knock.
“Blakely?”
Barrett.
My spine locks up and I freeze, wiping my face with the sleeve of my blazer like that’s going to fix anything.
Shit.
What’s he doing here?
How did he know where I was?
He knocks again, gentler this time. “It’s me.”
I hate that I know whomeis. I hate that he’s actually walked in here and I hate even more that a part of me doesn’t want him to leave.
