Page 29 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
This time, Miller finally hesitates long enough for me to land one feeble talking point in this flaming mess of an interview.The thing I want most, I think,is to be apart.
“Not worried,” I tell Ruby. My face is hot as midsummer asphalt, but my voice is steady. “MASH matches will always find their way to each other.”
“I certainly hope so,” Ruby says, smiling like a threat. “I truly wish you two all the best. We here atRocky Mountain Liveare looking forward to following the rest of your incredible journey.”
She turns to the audience, who I’ve kind of forgotten about and who definitely deserve an apology. “We’ll be back right after this.”
I’m on my feet the moment the cameras cut, crossing to the stage door. I don’t know if Miller’s following me and I don’t care. Ruby Chakrabarti is talking to one of the producers, probably asking for a raise or a security detail or a shot of hard liquor.
When I part the curtains they stay open, and that’s how I know Miller’s behind me, his footsteps echoing mine. I want to push him backward, get him away from me. I want to swallow up my shame, force it back inside me where it’s lived all this time in the dark. I want to scream at him for unearthing a memory on live television he won’t talk about when we’re alone.
But I do none of these things, because Jazz and Felix are right there waiting for us. Their faces can only be described asstricken.
“Y’all...” Jazz says. The phone in her hand is blinking with one notification after another.
“To the parking lot,” Felix says. His beautiful features are pinched and hard, almost unrecognizable. “Right now. Evelyn’s going to die.”
17
Evelyn isn’t dead, but when I see how angry she is at us, I almost wish she was. When we meet her at the XLR8 offices the next morning, she looks like she hasn’t even slept. Her hair is tucked neatly behind her ears, but there are dark circles under her eyes and one of her blouse buttons is in the wrong hole. There’s a huge iced coffee on the table in front of her, and when Miller and I step into the conference room she doesn’t even say anything for a full minute. She just stares us down, like she’s inciting a moment of silence for the shame we should feel.
After cutting us loose fromRocky Mountain Livewith a warning to keep our phones close, Felix finally texted us to clear our Sunday schedules and get to XLR8 by nine a.m.
I can’t do tomorrow, Miller responded, in his typical shithead fashion.Have homework.
Before I could get a word in, Felix sent us a Google Drive link to a document titledCrisis Monitoring Report, full of tweets andheadlines about our segment onRocky Mountain Live.
The first link read:MASH’s Poster Children Have a Meltdown.
The second was a Twitter thread—Young love is so sweet—complete with screen grabs of Miller and me throwing scathing looks at each other from across the couch.
The third was a GIF, presented without comment, of Miller repeating the wordsvery little complexityon a loop.
And that was only the beginning. The document was six pages long.
Take a spin through this, Felix replied.And clear your schedule.
We don’t drive together, so I’m not sure Miller’s going to show up until he parks right next to me in the XLR8 garage. I’m reading a text from Maren, advising me toMaybe punch him in the face?when he knocks on my car window and scares the shit out of me.
“Come on,” he says, and I don’t even have the door open before he turns toward the elevator.
“Why so eager?” I slam the door, hiking my bag onto my shoulder. “Thought you couldn’t deign to be here today.”
“Well, I’m here.” He doesn’t look at me when I come to stand beside him. He’s got his hands shoved in his jeans pockets and he’s wearing some ridiculous T-shirt with a wizard on it andgod, I really do want to punch him in the face.
“Guess you realized that being a dick to me on public television isn’t the way to get your payout?”
“I realized,” Miller says, stepping into the elevator, “that I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“You have a choice,” I tell him, pressing the 11 button. “You can leave any time.”
“Really.” Miller looks at me, and his gaze is like sun on snow. It hurts to look at. “Is that what you want?”
“Yep.” I don’t hesitate, don’t look away. “That’s what I want.”
“Okay, Ro.” Miller takes a step closer to me. “Let’s play this out. I hit the elevator button, send us back down, get in my car, and drive away.” His gaze flicks between my eyes, back and forth. “While I’m on the road, I call Evelyn and tell her I’m done. Meanwhile, you ride up to the office and sit at the table across from her. You’re alone. You get to watch her react in real time to the news that now you guys are up the creek without a paddle, because you’re already invested in this”—he points one finger at his own chest, then mine—“as a value proposition. We’re already the promise of true love from MASH. And with me gone, you’ll need to walk it back. And then what? You fabricate another match?” He shakes his head. “No, you can’t do that now. Too many problems. Is MASH saying you can have more than one match? That your first one might not work out? What happens to the promise of finding yourone and only?”
He steps back, and the temperature of my cheeks drops ten degrees.
