Chapter 3 #2
“I just think climate needs a cleaner narrative. All this alarmism and crisis fatigue—it’s exhausting.” Calypso clasps Ransom’s arm like it’s where she’s getting her knowledge from, through osmosis. She’s very touchy-feely. I know Ransom likes that in private, but not in public.
But that was because you were his dirty secret, Ember. Calypso is the woman he plans to marry. See the difference?
She smiles, her lipstick still flawless, and continues, “People don’t respond to panic. They respond to beauty. We need to inspire them. You know—a visual narrative of hope.”
The silence that follows is dense. No one knows what to say. Even Mama, who is a bona fide fashionista, isn’t this vapid.
Freja raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “So what’s the thrust here? The climate needs a rebrand?”
Calypso’s laugh is airy. “Yes, why not. There’s something to be said for a campaign that makes green policy aspirational. Chic, even.”
“It’s not a fashion spread,” Heidi snaps coldly. “For many people around the world, it’s survival. Ask some of the island nations how they’re looking for a new home because theirs is going to be under water soon.”
Aksel waves a finger, shaking his head. “Public perception does matter. But policy only works when it drives real systemic change—green energy grids, public transportation, food systems—rather than relying on carbon offsets and photo ops.”
“I read a paper recently about designing environmental funding models that focus on co-benefits—clean energy, yes, but also job creation, public health improvements.” Ransom refills Calypso’s glass of wine.
“If you can show that green investment improves people’s day-to-day lives, you don’t have to sell them an aesthetic. ”
Before I can stop myself, I say quietly, “The problem isn’t the aesthetics. It’s that environmental reform is treated like a lifestyle choice—something ornamental—when it should be embedded into the core economic strategy.”
I usually keep out of such discussions, and I know I stepped into it because Ransom is here.
I want his attention. I want to impress him.
I’m like a dumb teenager who’s wearing a provocative outfit so the boy she has a crush on, the boy who’s dating the hot girl, will look at her.
But like they say—in for a penny, in for an event horizon. No turning back now.
“At my lab, we study gravitational effects of invisible forces—things you can’t see, but that warp entire systems around them.
Climate is the same. It’s not a surface issue.
It’s structural. And if we keep reacting to it like it’s just a messaging issue, we’ll lose the very framework we live inside. ”
There’s a pause. Even the fireplace seems to be still.
Ransom breaks the silence. “That’s a brilliant analogy.”
See, sometimes the boy with the hot girl does notice the nerdy girl. And what happens when that happens? Hot girl unsheathes her claws.
Predictably, Calypso chirps, “That’s the charm of geeky scientists. Always so good with metaphors.”
Wow, she managed to slap me and compliment me all at the same time. Well, she is an editor-at-large for Harper’s Bazaar. She must have mad skills when it comes to the turn of a phrase.
I lower my gaze to the plate in front of me. The cheese and wine have both gone warm, lost their flavor.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Papa raises his hand. “I’m tired of everything being about giving handouts to save this, that, and the other.”
“That’s such a neo-liberalist thing to say,” Mama snaps.
“No, that’s a realist thing to say,” Papa counters coolly. “I’m not against progress. I’m against pouring money into black holes of policy with no accountability and no measurable return. Hope is not a fiscal strategy.”
While everyone else dives headfirst into a spirited debate about what neoliberalism actually means, I slip away.
They let me. My family knows I need space after too much togetherness—knows that quiet is how I reset. It’s never personal. I just reach a point where even love becomes noise.
They respect my introversion, even if none of them share it. In a house full of extroverts, that’s its own kind of grace.
I walk softly down the hallway, my footsteps muffled by thick rugs, the sounds of cutlery and conversation fading behind me.
I sit by the window in my room, watching snowflakes melt against the pane. A part of me is preening because Ransom called my analogy brilliant. Maybe I should write that down in my journal, I think caustically…if I journaled, that is.
I close my eyes.
Seeing Ransom again, up close and personal, is having the exact effect I knew it would. It’s destabilizing me.
I used to wonder what was wrong with women who fell in love with emotionally unavailable men (Hello, Carrie Bradshaw)—now, I believe in things like don’t throw stones when you live in glass houses.
I whimper softly and murmur, “Oh, God! I don’t want to spend thirteen more days watching him adore someone else.”
Maybe I should leave early.
Maybe I should save what remains of me.
Maybe….
It’s a pipe dream.
My family will be hurt if I leave. Freja and Aksel will wonder if it’s because of Mama and Tanya talking about how I look.
Aunt Tanya will cry, and Uncle Bob will swear.
My mother will feel guilty. Papa will be distraught because Mama is sad, and I’m upset.
Freja and Aksel will get into protective mode. It’ll be a whole thing.
So, I’ll stay and watch Calypso touch my man, and my man touch her.
You know what they say, Ember? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!
You know what else they say? What doesn’t kill you gives you unhealthy coping habits.
“Damn it—I should’ve brought along that half bottle of Montrachet,” I groan, flopping onto the bed.