36. Ethan
ETHAN
The conference room was too bright, but still felt like a funeral, which was on brand for what had happened recently.
I took a seat near the end of the table, set my phone face down in front of me, and looked at the people around me who were already talking and flipping through notes.
The meeting was to end the PR relationship, but it already felt like the end of the actual relationship, too.
This was a first: an official meeting to bury what had been.
I looked at Lila Hart, who was wearing another pink business ensemble. I wondered if she knew what she was really presiding over today, whether she could tell, from her seat at the head of the table, that this wasn’t just a campaign wrap-up.
At least, it wasn’t to me.
The door opened, and I knew before I looked up that it was Salem. Something in the room shifted—the air, the quality of the quiet. I don’t know, but whatever it was, I was aware.
She crossed directly to a chair on the opposite side of the table and sat. I didn’t blame her. That was a shared vision.
She didn’t look at me, but I looked at her anyway.
She looked tired. There was something tighter in the way she held herself, in the set of her jaw. It was painfully obvious that she wanted to end this and be done with it; she wore it all over her face. So, that is what we would do.
One of the foundation reps launched into a summary of the campaign—numbers, reach, engagement, all the ways October had translated into something measurable and clean—and I followed enough to stay present without actually being there.
He mentioned the spike in traffic that morning and referenced a video, but I hadn’t checked social media. I’d been too tired to deal with anyone else’s drama on top of my own. I’d have to look into it after.
He moved efficiently, noting that while the tone hadn’t been ideal, the engagement had driven additional traffic back to the campaign and created a second wave of interaction on the original posts. “From a media standpoint,” he said carefully, “it’s net positive.”
I kept my jaw loose, though it took some effort.
Salem didn’t react. She sat completely still on the other side of the table, her hands folded in front of her. Her focus stayed fixed somewhere just past the center of the table.
She was better at this than I was.
The meeting moved through its final stages—wrap-up, deliverables, transition back to standard operations. Nods around the table. Envelopes came out, one landing in front of each of us, the checks inside representing the official close of something that I wished wasn’t ending.
I picked mine up without opening it.
Final comments. ‘Thank-you’ and ‘Happy Halloweens,’ even though we still have the weekend to get through before Halloween. Chairs dragged across the floor.
When I looked up, Salem’s seat was already empty. I picked up my envelope, pushed my chair back, and stayed where I was. I thought about rushing after her, but what would that prove?
Alba appeared at my side, her voice low. “You okay?”
“I don’t know.”
There wasn’t a better answer than that.
“I heard what happened. I’m sorry… I’m going to steal her for coffee tomorrow. She didn’t answer when I called this morning.” She looked at me steadily. “Can I ask what you actually want out all this?”
I thought about it for a second, then decided to be honest.
“In a perfect world: Salem comes back, Lucy moves on without a scene, and I stop second-guessing every decision I’ve made in the last two years.”
“And in an imperfect world?”
I laughed. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
She pulled me into a hug and held on a little longer than usual. “It’s going to be okay. Whatever happens next. Don’t forget that.”
I smiled, hoping she was right.