Chapter 6
Jade
“Stop.”
Carlos’s voice cuts through my presentation mid-sentence, and I freeze with my hand still pointing at the projected slide behind me.
We’re in Conference Room B, the small one with the flickering overhead light.
I’ve been practicing my presentation for fifteen minutes.
This is the third time he’s interrupted.
“What now?” I ask, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.
Carlos leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He’s wearing all black again—black button-down, black slacks, black mood. “You’re putting the audience to sleep.”
“I’m explaining the clinical trial methodology—”
“With seventeen slides of data tables.” He gestures at the screen. “This is slide nine. We’re not even to the actual results yet.”
My chest tightens. “The methodology is important. These are scientists and pharmaceutical reps. They need to understand our process.”
“They need to stay awake long enough to hear about the results.” Carlos sits forward. “I’ve done this tour five times, Jade. This doesn’t work.”
I know he’s right. Facts don’t require me to be charming or engaging. Facts just . . . are.
In my head, I do what I always do when I need a moment—I imagine a tiny version of myself throwing the most spectacular tantrum.
Tiny Jade is on the floor, pounding her fists, kicking her feet, screaming IT’S ONLY SLIDE NINE into the flickering fluorescent light.
It’s very cathartic. Tiny Jade has a great set of lungs.
Real Jade takes a breath.
“What would you suggest?” I ask, hating how defeated I sound.
Carlos pulls out his laptop and turns it to face me. On the screen is a presentation—cleaner, simpler. Fewer slides. More images. One particularly striking photo of a woman running her hands through her hair, joy on her face.
“Start with a story,” he says. “Show them why this matters before you show them how it works. Then give them the data, but only the highlights.”
I study his version. It’s good. Professionally good.
He’s leaned forward slightly to point something out on the screen, close enough that I can smell his cologne—that clean, woodsy blend—and I make myself focus on the slides instead of the line of his jaw.
“You’ll need to get better.” His voice is matter-of-fact, not cruel, and helps me shrug off the thoughts of the way he smells. “In three weeks.”
“Right.” I gather my materials, needing to escape this room. “I’ll work on it.”
Between training sessions, I practice alone.
I record myself, watch the playback on my laptop in my office with the door closed.
I adjust my tone, my pacing, and try to inject warmth into my voice.
On the screen, I look stiff. Nervous. Exactly like someone who shouldn’t be giving presentations to hundreds of people.
I can feel all this frustration mounting, making it worse.
I’ve always been baffled by people who had a fear of flying.
I’ve been so fortunate to travel more than most people, and as a numbers person, I know that riding in a car is far more dangerous than flying.
Riding a motorcycle is even worse—I look back at myself in my twenties on the back of a moped in Bangkok and count myself lucky.
So to me, people who have a fear of flying was hard to understand.
Until I realized how badly I never ever wanted to get on a stage again. I try to go easy on myself, remind myself that the last time I was in the hospital wasn’t because of my cancer—it was because I fell off a stage.
It’s understandable to be scared. But I’ve got to figure out how to get over it.
I see Carlos in the hallway sometimes. We nod, exchange brief “buenos días,” keep walking. The easy distance is almost a relief.
One afternoon, Rebecca stops by my office.
“How’s training going?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe.
“Fine,” I say. “Carlos is very thorough.”
I’ve reminded myself constantly that Carlos knows the brief. He’s done this before, he knows the people we’re talking to, what the event will be like. I’m here for the science.
Rebecca smiles. “He knows what he’s doing. I know his style can be intense, but he genuinely wants you to succeed.” She straightens. “Listen to him, Jade. He’s gotten us through some very difficult presentations over the years.”
After she leaves, I pull up the video of my latest practice and watch myself stumble through the opening. My hand moves to my wrist.
What if I can’t do this?
Our final training session comes. We have one week before Berlin.
I’ve restructured the entire presentation using Carlos’s template. Less data, more narrative. I’ve practiced in front of my mirror for hours, memorizing not just the words but the pauses, the emphasis, the places where I should make eye contact.
I make it through the entire presentation without stopping. My voice is steady, professional. I hit all the beats Carlos suggested. When I finish, I actually feel good about it.
Carlos nods slowly. “Much better. Your pacing is good. The structure works.”
I wait.
“It’s a fine presentation,” he says. “Technically sound. You clearly know your data and the science.”
Here’s the “but” . . .
“I wish you’d put more heart into it,” he continues, leaning back in his chair. “But this will work. The audience will learn what they need to learn.”
It’s not the glowing praise I wanted. But it’s not the criticism I’ve been getting either, and for one small, private moment I let myself feel exactly as good as I deserve to feel. I worked hard. I restructured the whole thing. I got through it without freezing.
That counts.
I’ll take it.
Carlos stands and walks to the back of the room. He returns with his tablet and flips through photos.
“This is what you’re walking into,” he says, turning the screen toward me.
The photos show massive conference rooms. Hundreds of seats. Cameras. Press badges. Professional lighting. One photo shows the view from the back—an ocean of people, all looking at Mercedes on the stage.
My confidence wavers for just a moment, but I push it down. I’ve practiced. I’m ready.
“How many people?” I ask.
“Berlin will be close to three hundred.” He swipes to another photo. “Press in the front rows. Pharmaceutical reps from across Europe. Patients—usually in the back, sometimes with family members.”
Three hundred people. It’s a lot. But I’ve done good work here. The presentation is solid.
“I can handle it,” I say, and this time I almost believe it.
Carlos studies me for a moment. “You’ve put in the work. The presentation is competent. Just remember—” He pauses. “They want to know you care about what you’re presenting, not just that you know it.”
“I know.” I’ve heard this note from him before. But I also know that my presentation is technically sound. That has to count for something.
When I look up, Carlos’s eyes are on my hands—I’m rubbing my wrist. I cross my arms. His expression shifts—not quite concern, but something close.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly. “Rebecca can find someone else. Mercedes has done it before—”
Excuse me? I’ve just spent all this time working, revising, practicing. What right does he have to try to toss me aside this late in the game? I grit my teeth. “I can handle it.”
“Can you?”
I meet his eyes. There’s no mockery in the question, no judgment. Just genuine doubt.
And that, somehow, is worse than if he’d been cruel.
“I guess you’ll find out in Berlin,” I say, standing and gathering my materials.
Carlos watches me pack up. “Jade—”
“What?”
He seems to struggle with something, then shakes his head. “Nothing. I’ll see you in Berlin.” He pauses at the door. “The presentation is good, Jade. You’ve improved.”
It’s the closest thing to a compliment he’s given me. I should be pleased.
Instead I’m standing in the hallway thinking about his hands. The way they’d felt when he handed back the crop—warm, deliberate, like he’d been careful not to touch me and touched me anyway. The faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air after he walked away.
I shake the thought off. Absolutely not.
Monday morning, we board our flight to Berlin.
I have my presentation memorized. I have backup slides. I have talking points for every possible question.
What I don’t have is confidence.
At least Carlos is a good traveler. He’s sitting next to me, reading something on a tablet that looks more like fun reading than work reading, but I try not to peer over his shoulder.
He must have arrived a few minutes before me, as he was a few people ahead of me in the security line. We had that awkwardness of passing each other every time the line moved.
Should I say hi every time? Should I ignore him?
We settled on quick, tight smiles.
I was still in line when he went through security. Quick, efficient, polite.
God, these next few months would be even more awful if he was rude to the staff or had to be reminded every time to take stuff out of his pockets every time we went through security.
And now we’re elbow to elbow on an airplane.
The flight attendant offers me a drink. I order water, not wine. I need to stay sharp.
Outside the window, Madrid falls away beneath me.
I watch it go—the terracotta rooftops, the wide boulevards, the way the city sprawls into the dry plateau around it.
The surrounding area reminds me of central Texas, how when you leave Austin you are out on flat plains and dry dirt.
Once you are in the cities, though, Austin is new and weird, and Madrid is old and settled.
It’s a city that doesn’t apologize for the heat or the fact that everything closes in August because people here have decided that rest is non-negotiable.
I didn’t expect to love it. I expected to enjoy it, the way I’ve enjoyed every city I’ve lived in or visited. But Madrid snuck up on me.
In three hours, we’ll land in Berlin. This afternoon, I’ll stand in front of three hundred people and try not to fall apart.
I pull out my phone and open my photos. I have my phone set up to scroll through my favorites album for my background, and right now, it’s showing a picture Emma took in London—the four of us at that café, laughing.
It was a fun weekend, but I can see the tightness in my own eyes—already concerned about how I’m going to pull this off.
The group chat this morning was full of support.
Sara
You’ve got this. Remember—you’re doing it for the patients.
Emma
Channel your inner badass. Also, if you freeze, just picture everyone naked. Isn’t that what they say?
I smile despite my nerves. My friends believe in me.
I’m just not sure I believe in myself.
These women have always given me unconditional love. They are ride-or-die, we show up for each other, we know each other.
I never had that. My parents’ love was conditional. Conditional on me being a “good girl,” on me praying, attending church, marrying someone they approved of, and popping out babies like my sisters had.
Something I wouldn’t do. Couldn’t do. Which somehow always felt like it was my fault.
I tuck the phone back into my purse. I’ve always told my friends to channel me—what would Jade do?—in the bedroom.
Maybe now I need to channel my friends.
I put my earbuds in. I’ve been saving a new episode of my favorite podcast—a cold case from rural Georgia, two seasons in, still no arrest—for exactly this kind of moment. An hour of someone else’s misery is better than sitting with my own.
The plane climbs higher. Berlin waits.