Chapter 12 Lily
“Lily, you haven’t checked your phone. I’ve been texting you,” Jacquetta says the moment I step off the elevator.
“I went to lunch,” I tell her, still reeling from it.
Still hearing it.
I see it now.
“Jefferson is in trouble. We’ve got ourselves a big problem here. We’ve got to write a statement. We’ve got to deal with the press. I need you moving. Go check your email.”
I look around, and it feels chaotic. Usually, it’s quiet and calm. Everybody’s sitting at their desk. We handle a mediation or two a day, but right now it’s like a colony of ants, moving fast in and out of offices and down the halls. Like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off.
I make my way to my desk, log into my computer, and check my email.
Holy hell. This is not good.
There’s a list of tasks I need to complete to help smooth over what we’ve got going on. We have a PR department, but HR handles a lot of this. I don’t know why.
Before I jump into work, I pull out my phone.
Hover.
Then type.
Anybody want to grab dinner tonight?
I stare at the message for a second before hitting send. I don’t want to have this conversation over text, but I need to talk to somebody about what just happened.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and start typing. I’m in charge of the messaging.
I read over all the accusations again, the full report, and I don’t know what to say because, number one, this is spot on for Jefferson, and number two, I don’t feel comfortable being the person who has to smooth this over, especially if it’s true.
I take a deep breath and start doing what I’m paid to do.
Keep it clean. Keep it neutral. Keep it controlled.
Don’t think about lunch.
Don’t think about him.
I print out both of the statements I’ve created and walk them to Jacquetta’s office.
Edie stops me. “Hey girl, you good?”
I huff out a breath, wave the papers in my hand, and tell her, “Lunch was interesting.”
She pauses, eyebrows lifting like she wants more.
My phone stays quiet in my pocket.
Then hers buzzes.
She glances down, gives me a look, and scurries off.
“I have two choices for statements,” I tell Jacquetta, placing them on her desk.
My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps.
But when I pull it out of my pocket, it’s Jacquetta emailing me about the statement. I’m standing right in front of her, waving the papers in my hand.
“Hey,” I say, lifting them. “I’ve got them right here.”
She looks up, frazzled. Her wig is crooked, and she just doesn’t look like she has it together.
“Oh, I didn’t even see you there.”
Story of my life.
I hand her the papers and glance around her office while she reads.
I see it now.
It plays over and over in my head.
I didn’t even look at him. Didn’t check his face to see if he meant it.
“I like the first one,” Jacquetta says, shoving them back at me. “Go ahead and get it released. We’ve got to get a lid on this quickly before too many big outlets get it and take this out of our control.”
I nod and head back to my desk. I already knew she’d pick the first one. I had it queued up and ready. I click send and sit there for a second, letting out a breath.
Javonte comes to mind again while I’m trying to revise a statement that has already been revised three times.
He should have known then.
That thought is unfair and true enough to distract me. I reach for my phone, hoping Porsche or Charisse answered my message about dinner.
Nothing.
I stare at the screen for a second longer than I need to, then set it back down and force myself back into work.
Emails need answers. Follow-ups need to go out.
The last few pieces of the crisis need to sound calm, official, and manageable.
By the end of the day, everything settles quicker than expected because we’re good at this.
One of the best teams in town, unfortunately.
My phone buzzes beside my keyboard, and my chest tightens before I look.
Maybe it’s them.
But it’s Javonte.
I stare at his name, then set the phone back down. I’m not ready for him. Not here, not with my head still half in crisis mode and half back at lunch, replaying every careful thing he said.
By the time my tasks are done, I’m one of the first people out of the office. Porsche and Charisse still haven’t answered, so there’s no dinner tonight. I tell myself it’s fine. I can go home, change clothes, eat leftovers, and not make being alone mean anything.
My car connects to my music as soon as I turn it on, and the sound hits too loud. Too bright. Too much. I turn the whole system off and start the thirty-minute drive in silence.
It doesn’t help.
All I can think about is Javonte. Him helping me choose the fruity tea I wanted.
Him asking about my friends and knowing things about them like he has been paying attention from a distance.
Him looking nervous, attentive, careful in a way that made me want to believe him and punish him at the same time.
He told me he sees it now.
Now is the word I keep getting stuck on.
What about then?
Once I’m home, the silence feels bigger than it should. My art is on the walls, bright and familiar, but tonight even that doesn’t do what I need it to do. I turn on the lamp by the couch, kick off my shoes, and sit down without changing clothes.
My phone feels awkward in my pocket, so I set it on the coffee table, screen up.
Still nothing from Porsche or Charisse.
Except they’ve been online.
I open social media before I can talk myself out of it, and the first thing I see is a post from Charisse from ten minutes ago. Then Porsche in a bikini on somebody’s beach, posted thirty minutes ago.
They saw their phones. They just didn’t answer me.
I set mine down and stare at the ceiling. I shouldn’t be this grown and feel like I don’t have anybody to call when my life feels too quiet. I know it’s dramatic. I have friends who love me. I have a life full of women who would show up for me if I said the right thing in the right way.
But tonight, I don’t want to explain enough to be understood. I just want someone to choose me without me having to make a case for why I need it.
My eyes move back to my phone.
Javonte’s message sits there.
I turn the screen off and set it face down.
What does he have to say that he didn’t already say at lunch? What could he possibly text me that would make a year of pain rearrange itself into something easier?
Nothing...Probably nothing.
I last about thirty seconds before I pick up the phone again.
Then I open the message.