Page 12 of Perfect Assumption
“Yeah, what reputation is that?” I wonder aloud as I flick on the lights to my sanctuary—my home office. It’s one of two spaces I had a personal hand in every inch of the remodel, likely why I eschew the rest of my home for the comfort I find here. Dropping down onto the chesterfield, I find the remote and flick on the television just in time to catch the lead-in about my former bosses’ client XMedia.“In business news, XMedia’s again in the news with a possible merger. With the founder’s son, Michael Clarke, now taking his seat on the board of directors, will this resurrect the speculation of assault charges in his past? More news at ten.”
Hitting Mute, I toss the remote in disgust to the side. “Of course it will because you meddling savages will ensure it will.”
Having been an unwilling victim of the paparazzi after my parents died, I feel a small spark of compassion for everyone involved in the long-ago situation: the man, the woman, and the individuals who had to make a judgment on their fate. Because no matter what they decided, someone’s life was going to be destroyed.
Remembering what it was like for me and Carys after our parents died, being set upon with cameras and microphones every time we tried to leave the condo, I can’t help but sneer at the news reporter chattering away on mute. Sure there was a law passed here in 2015 stating paparazzi can’t use drones to take pictures of unsuspecting celebrities on their own property, but essentially that’s putting the individual under house arrest for what? Being famous? Being an overnight media sensation when they never wanted to be one? Imprisoning them even more than they already were inside their own minds?
At least that’s how it felt to me. I can’t even presume to imagine what it’s like when you’re scarred mentally and physically because of fate. The thought propels me to my feet. I quickly fire off a text to my former boss with a quickGood luck, buddy. You’re going to need it.
His response is the middle finger emoji, which makes me grin before I settle down and flip open my laptop to review the contracts David dropped into my drive for me on Friday.
Soon, I’m muttering aloud, “Any charges, fees, or royalties payable for music rights or any other rights not covered by this Agreement shall be additional to the Royalties and covered by separate agreement.Forgot that one, David.” I grin, knowing he’s going to be annoyed at missing a fairly straightforward clause about covering the use of music outside of the documented agreement, an item that should be standard language in all our contracts. I flag it and make a note to ask if it was excluded for a reason before moving on to the next file.
And with it, I find solace.
Five
Angela
There are certain things in New York that never seem to change: a hot dog that tastes like no other in the world, the ball coming down on New Year’s Eve, and Beckett Miller always wearing his trademark white shirt half-open regardless of the season. Thank God.
@PRyanPOfficial
Every day I feel overwhelmed. Anxious. Fearful.
I haven’t been able to let go of these emotions since I left college. Then again, I’ve been too withdrawn to feel anything else on a regular basis since that time in my life. There have been moments of occasional happiness and joy, but those days are rare.
My stomach churns as the train slows.
It isn’t New York that makes me feel that way, but people in general. And this city is filled with too damn many of them on an off day. But I need to work, and the work I do, well, there’s no better city for it.
Sliding my hands inside my hood, I gently rub my temples. I can feel the pressure rising already. After listening to the news last night before bed, I’m waiting for all of it to start up again. Some enterprising researcher is going to drag out old media reports—hell, old photos. Each time it comes up, it hits harder and harder. As if it’s not bad enough, I’ll wake up screaming until I find another way to beat back the memories. Again.
But today, I’m too aware of who I was. Hell, who I am. After all, nothing ever really goes away. You’re really just given a personal choice to move past it and survive or fade away. And with what happened to me, I never had the luxury for option two.
On a day like today, I’m hyperaware of everything and everyone. I want to bury my head and scurry home to let the storm unleash around me. Then I remember I caused the storm because I believed in the power of honor and truth. That alone forces me to crawl from my bed and get ready to face the day.
Because if people don’t stand up for what they know to be true, how can they change the future?
With a rough sigh, I only wish there was some sign to let me know I acted with honor—something to show me I did the right thing even if the rest of the world believed it was wrong. There wasn’t. There never will be. Not a damn thing. And now, as the train crawls along, knowing it’s about to start all over, my stomach churns as hard as the train engines.
I wonder if I can escape to someplace remote where I won’t be recognized. The problem is I need my job too much. Yes, I own my home outright due to the largess of my grandparents, but there are still bills to pay. Besides, in comparison to what someone with a reputation like mine could be doing, it’s both lucrative and challenging every single day. I just wish Carys and her husband would get a wild hair and decide to up and move the whole thing to rural Antarctica. A touch of amusement hits me.Because there’s an untapped entertainment Mecca there.
Instead, I steel myself when the disembodied voice calls out, “Final stop, Grand Central Station. Please be sure to get all of your belongings, and watch your step.”
Lucky me.
I don’t move from my seat, unlike the other harried professionals who immediately begin gathering their belongings and filling the aisles. Why? What’s the point? To get a better position by the train’s doors in order to scurry onto the sweltering underground platform like rats once the cage opens? Instead, I do my best to keep my head averted beneath my wool hood, praying that in a city of nine million people, today I won’t be recognized by someone with a camera. That someone won’t stop and stare at me before I can get behind the safety of the office doors.
There are worse odds of that happening than me winning the lotto, which is why I don’t waste my money.
* * *
“Good morning, Angie.”David strolls up to my desk an hour after I booted up my computer. He holds out a cup, which I take eagerly. “I texted Carys after I dropped Ben off at daycare, and she declared if I walked into the office without copious amounts of caffeine, I was fired.” The glint of light off his platinum wedding band matches the one in his eyes over what he assumes is his wife’s hyperbole.
“Brace yourself,” I warn him before taking a grateful sip of a delicious latte.
He hitches a hip on the corner of my desk. “What happened this time?” David and I have worked with each other since before Carys started the firm. Back at Wildcard, we were much more cordial and less casual than we are here at LLF. I love the difference. In the beginning, before Carys and David had their son, it wasn’t uncommon for all of us to kick back after hours with a drink even as we’d slog away arguing over how Carys should argue a case. We’d order food and debate for hours on end. Fortunately, on those nights, Carys and David insist on my taking a car service home so I wouldn’t be subjected to the persistent attention I draw on the metro line. Although we do that more often at their apartment than here at the office these days, if there’s a need for me to work late, they insist on protecting me. And each time, it’s not the luxury that wraps around me. It’s the feeling of being cared for.
