Chapter 28. Brynn
brYNN
My laptop slips in my hands. I clutch it to my beating chest and dry each palm on my pants before reaching the conference room door.
Donovan sails in ahead of me wearing a smirk above his T-shirt. This one reads, INTERSECTIONAL FEMALE. We haven’t spoken since our encounter two days ago. Fine with me. I’m sure he’d enjoy throwing me off my game before my Quotagian presentation.
All at once, my mouth dries up and my stomach goes queasy. Too many bagels this morning. I need to pee again. Except. I’m out of time.
It’s already July; this pitch must go well if I want to secure a full-time job this fall. My next few minutes need to be dazzling.
It’s just like singing onstage, Brynn—something you’ve done hundreds of times. Breathe from the abdomen, open your mouth, and the rest will follow.
If only this was an audition.
An eternity ticks by before they look up from their phones. A whole crew sits gathered around the table; my team, including Scott, plus two other associate creative directors. I guess I am auditioning. Glad Micah isn’t here to distract me.
Meredith’s eyes bubble with anticipation. She gives me a nod.
The room stills.
“Quotagian’s new singles app . . . um, an app . . . a singles app designed to bring the art of love letter writing back to the dating world. You don’t need to be a great writer. The prompts make it easy to express your feelings.” My voice sounds strange, my breathing jagged.
I share my screen on the widescreen and take a gulp of air so big it makes me cough.
LOVE LETTERS ATTRACT. YOU’VE GOT THE LOVE, WE’VE GOT THE WORDS.
LOVE LETTERS ATTRACT. WANT LOVE? WE’VE GOT THE WORDS.
LOVE LETTER SINGLES. WOO THEM WITH WORDS.
LOVE LETTER SINGLES. PUT YOUR LOVE INTO WORDS.
“Based on your profile and person you desire, the app generates a customizable love letter. Its filters allow you to select the tone, from ‘traditional romantic’ to your favorite TV, movie, or book character. You can send the same love letter to multiple people.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes, thinking of a few guys who would opt for that.
“What happened to Couplet Couplings and twentysomething fans of historical romance like Shakespeare and Austen?” Meredith twists up her nose.
“I thought Quotagian’s original concept wouldn’t appeal to Gen Zers and Millennials.” Not true. I was just clueless. “So I called them.”
“You did what?” Her voices rises.
Uh-oh.
“Our team’s been so busy this week, I wanted to come up with copy that made sense. Our contact put me through to Jessica, one of the developers at Quotagian, and her boss, Marnie. We started throwing around ideas for what this app could do . . .”
Meredith closes her eyes.
I feel sick; those bagels are sitting like lead in my gut. My mouth waters and not in a good way.
“You billed your time, correct?” one of the ACDs from the other team asks me.
“Yes, of course.” I return her nod with enthusiasm. “Turns out the app is still being developed, providing the perfect opportunity to give feedback and discuss ways to widen the audience if they want twentysomethings to use it.”
“Sounds like someone did your job, Meredith.” Donovan snickers.
“N-not at all.” My voice cracks. “I just didn’t know how else to get more information.”
“Who came up with these filters?” Meredith’s shoulders slump, her earlier spark snuffed out.
“Um, we did.” I bite my lip. “Users can still generate a love letter in the vein of Shakespeare or Austen, but they’ll also have all these other options.
And as the number of users grows, new filters will be added based on their feedback, keeping the app fresh and interactive. The client really liked that.”
The room falls silent. I’m not sure what to do.
“Do you have more?” Scott leans forward.
“After you secure the person of your dreams, the app moves into relationship mode, meaning you can use it to write a love letter for your significant other’s birthday, anniversary, Valentine’s Day, and so on.”
LOVE LETTER COUPLES. KEEP YOUR LOVE LIT.
I smile. “Get it—Lit? It’s a play on words.”
“I thought it was meant to be a dating app.” He cocks his head.
“We thought the app could be used in three ways. One, it’ll help you attract the person you want; two, celebrate the love you have; and three, help you win them back if things go awry.”
“Interesting.” He types something on his phone. “Your idea?”
I dart a look over at Meredith. “It was, um, a group effort with Jessica and Marnie.” I smile and scan the room, straining to read their squinting faces. Do they think I’ve made Meredith look bad in front of Scott? Or made their jobs harder by expanding the project?
Meredith continues to glare at me—but what else could I do? She ignored my requests for more information. I couldn’t blow my chance to impress the team, in particular Scott.
My antiquated flip phone vibrates across the table next to my computer, the outside screen lighting up.
Standing by the whiteboard, I ignore it.
It stops for a moment as all eyes fasten on it, then flit back to me. The phone changes its mind and lurches off the table again. This time performing semicircles.
“Looks like someone’s desperate to get a hold of you.” Donovan stretches across the table and grabs it. “Elmsford, New York . . .”
Warm bagel dough rises in my throat. I gag, feigning a cough, and swallow it down. “C-can you end the call? Thanks.” What was I saying?
My phone jerks back to life like a vibrating bug.
“Same number.”
“Shut it off . . . yeah, shut it off.”
“It stopped.” He leaves it face up on the table.
Lucius and Josie discuss the campaign rolling out in phases.
I press my hand to my belly, exhaling. I wish I could sit down.
My cell resuscitates once more.
Donovan snaps it up. “El-lo?” He leaves off the first letter like a guy answering the phone at a pizzeria.
My eyes bounce between his face and Meredith’s.
“Sure, Detective, she’s right here.” Donovan smiles like a villain and passes me my phone.
I swear under my breath. This cannot be happening.
I could hang up, but then it would look like I’m hiding something, which I’m not. Why would they be calling, and how the hell did they find me? Should have sprung for the burner app.
All eyes focus on me, waiting.
“Um, okay.” My voice sounds wimpy after being reduced from Brilliant Brynn, the girl impressing the room, to the intern who can’t get her personal life together. Like they’ll hire me now.
I hurry out of the conference room with my phone pressed to my stomach, leaving my computer and their mouths agape. I grab my purse from the bottom drawer, beeline through the lobby—zigzagging around Micah, who is standing next to Eunice’s desk—and zoom through the double glass doors.
I keep going until I reach an alcove by the maintenance closet near the elevators. I rest my forehead on the wall and shut my eyes. “Um, this is Brynn Gallardo.”
“Detective Ana Simone from the Elmsford Village Police Department.”
The voice sounds young, like she could be someone from my high school. If only this were a prank.
“We have some questions regarding your parents’ car accident. Best if you come in.”
Something tells me it’s not.
Time stops while I’m tucked away in this short hallway, my backside on the ground, my shoulders against the wall, bagel puke in a rolled-up napkin next to me, my nose running from the floor cleaner fumes. I listen to the elevators gliding between floors. I need to pull myself together.
Few more minutes.
I grip my old cell phone tighter, the one from a life that no longer includes me.
I keep it tucked inside the zipped pocket of my purse.
My last lifeline to my parents feels cold and sobering against my cheek.
I gaze at my mom’s smiling expectant face through the cracked screen.
I don’t need to press play; her last words to me are forever engrained in my memory, starting with her attempt to sound calm so I wouldn’t worry.
I shake my head and do it anyway.
Honey, it’s Mommy. Shit, is this thing recording? Um, Daddy and I had an accident. A small one. Uh, we’re fine . . . We really wanted to hear you sing tonight. I’m afraid we may miss it now.
Look! Someone’s running toward us. That didn’t take long. A good sign, my love!
The police are here, baby girl. I’ll call you later. We love you.
Even now, my mom’s swearing chokes a smile out of me. For such an intelligent woman, most forms of technology tripped her up.
Cody and I met my parents at Roberta’s in Bushwick the week before. It was the first time I’d spoken to them since announcing the tour.
My father didn’t look at Cody once during dinner.
I told them I wasn’t feeling well and went to the bathroom. Held my sweater over my face, muffling sobs in a restroom stall.
Alone, Cody decided to invite them to our first performance in Elmsford.
We’d never discussed it.
He swaggered around his parents’ apartment afterward, stoked about what he’d done.
Look! Someone’s running toward us. That didn’t take long. A good sign, my love!
A warmth mushrooms in my chest hearing my dad’s unfailing optimism in the background .
. . how he loved my mother to the end. Especially since those last few months I often saw my mom with puffy, bloodshot eyes after a shower and my dad taking off at odd hours to God knows where.
I couldn’t be in the same room with them without wanting to hit something.
The final part of my mom’s message sends a chill through me . . . when her voice fills with relief.
The police are here, baby girl. I’ll call you later. We love you.
That night, I watched as the last band stepped offstage. I’d bitten off all my nails waiting for Cody to get back.
Two officers walked through the doors at Pete’s.
My heart stopped. I ran over to them. My parents never arrived. We can’t find my boyfriend, Cody.
One of the officers talked into his radio. He then motioned to his partner, his lips pulled into a tight line.
They turned their backs to me.
My body felt strange. My hands numb. I want to go see my parents.
The first officer frowned and shook his head.
His partner uttered words like faulty airbags never deflated . . . trapped them inside probably . . . then the car ignited, and asked questions I couldn’t answer.
Adrian touched my shoulder. They’re okay, right?
The second officer closed his notepad. The radio clipped to his belt crackled. They’d found Cody.
I discovered my mom’s voicemail sometime in the early morning. With my heart in my throat, I dialed the Elmsford Police. They’re alive! My parents are stranded on the side of the road.
The night duty officer exhaled into the phone. The Gallardo couple have been transported to the local hospital. You’ll need to bring in their toothbrushes or a hairbrush to help identify the bodies.
No, no, no! That can’t be true . . .
He stayed on the phone as I cried.
The police are here, baby girl.
My mom and dad were supposed to be rescued. If they had been, my life would be whole. I’d be on tour, singing, and not struggling to write some damn ad copy. The universe didn’t effing do its job: save the good people. My parents were never safe, never okay, even when they thought they were.
Why didn’t I pick up my mom’s call?
“Found you.” Micah pokes his head in from the hall, breaking my spell. “Have you made an executive decision to work out here for the remainder of the day?” He twists his lips, holding back a grin. “Fine with me.”
“Something like that.” I clear my throat, my fists push in my temples.
He eyes the cracked screen on my phone. “I can get your bag for you.”
“I have all my stuff.” I can’t look at him. So not cool I’m losing it right now.
“Take off, then. No big deal.”
I wipe underneath my eyes. “I’ll be fine. Give me a minute.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s more important than this place.”
I sigh. “What will you tell them?”
“That I heard you killed it in there presenting your Quotagian ideas, so I gave you the rest of the day off.” He leans his shoulder against the wall.
“No, really.”
“You’re in a holding pattern until Josie and Lucius come up with some specs anyway. They got your ideas. Now their work begins.”
I press my back against the wall and slide up it until I’m on my feet. “I left my laptop in the conference room.”
“I’ll make sure it gets back to your desk.” He lifts his palm. “Wait here, I’ll hit the button.”
When the elevator dings and the doors open, I book it over, duck inside, and press the button for the lobby.
“Now go straight home,” Micah says. “No helping little old ladies today, got it?” He curls his lip for a moment—then his face breaks into a smile.
I grimace as the doors close. Such a smartass—and the only ally I’ve got.