Chapter 2 #2
“I get the vibe that you already hate me,” he whispered, close enough that my deep breath was filled with the scent of him, peppermint and January wind. “But is there any chance I can borrow a pen and some paper?”
I turned my grimace on him, ready to make him cower away with the force of it, but something about those earnest gray eyes trapped me like a snare, blanking my brain as I took him in.
Cooper didn’t wear glasses back then, and I was hit by the full force of his looks, nothing softening the blow.
There was a lazy mischievousness in his slouch, hands loosely resting on the back of the seat next to me, forearms coated in a fine dusting of hair and a map of veins and lean muscle.
His lips curled at the edges as he stared back, openly admiring me, glower and all. Silently, I held out my paper and pen to him. His gaze flicked to my offering, then back to my eyes, a glint sparking in his like flint on steel. I’m sure he knew then and there he had me.
It was only after he slipped the items from my grip that I realized I was handing over my notes and only tool for taking them.
At the end of the lecture, I gathered my backpack in a rushed fog, needing to get some fresh air to unhaze my brain.
He stopped me, of course, gently touching my elbow as I moved to walk down the aisle.
“I’m sorry if this is way too forward,” Cooper said, that glimmer of humor still in his smile, “but would you like to get a mall massage with me?”
I gaped at him. “A… a massage?”
He gave me a loose shrug, smile growing. “I couldn’t help but notice that your shoulders looked very tense during the lecture.”
I was silent for a moment. “You want me to get a massage at the mall with you?” I repeated incredulously.
That shrug again. “We’d need plane tickets to get an airport one, though I do agree they’re of a higher caliber.”
“You’re weird,” I blurted out. My face heated at calling such an objectively hot guy weird, but facts were facts.
He laughed as I scuttled away, calling out, “Maybe next week, then?” as I darted out the door.
It took three weeks of coaxing before I finally gave in to Rylie Cooper’s bizarre form of charm.
I can still remember the creak of his lecture hall seat as he’d lean forward during presentations, the warmth that would flood me when he’d drape his arms on the back of my empty row, a smile in his voice and his breath on my cheek as he’d make some sarcastic remark or unhinged joke that would have laughter bursting out of my throat that I’d try to disguise as a cough when heads would turn.
Of course I gave him my number, and texting him was a similarly outlandish and addicting experience.
It wasn’t long before I was waking up to a good morning message and offbeat date invite that I’d decline, using the excuse of classes and also not wanting to set myself up to be featured on a Dateline special for fraternizing with him.
I didn’t have a lot of game back then, but even young and naive me could tell how much Cooper loved the chase, and I loved the thrill of being in the center of his crosshairs.
We quickly became friends. Granted, the kind of friends who primarily wanted to fuck each other, but I still liked the asshole. Started looking forward to his texts. Enjoyed spending time with him, eventually relenting and getting coffee after class, going grocery shopping with him at midnight.
But as fun and strange as he was, and as dazzled as I became by his attention, he was also moody, going radio silent for days, leaving me on read, being as cold as a marble statue behind me in a lecture while I waited with bated breath for him to whisper something in my ear.
By March, he was missing classes frequently, and I’d spend the hour poised like a hopeful tripwire for the sound of him coming in late or sending me a message to explain his absence.
The more he pulled away, the faster I fell head over heels for him in that way that feels as natural as breathing when you’re twenty-one and untaught and it’s the first time anyone shows interest in you, then snatches it away.
In a panic that I’d lost his attraction, I cornered him after a class he’d spent ignoring me.
“I’ll go on a date with you,” I’d said, trying to keep my tone even and bored despite the pounding of my pulse in every joint of my body.
I watched his solemn, pinched expression melt into that vibrant smile that made butterflies erupt in my stomach.
“You won’t regret it,” he’d said, shooting me a wink and sauntering out, my chest feeling like it would burst open from the wild, happy rhythm of my heart.
I sigh, tapping the corner of my phone against my forehead as I remember how banal the rest of our story is: the handful of truly terrible dates, the bullshit, the needy feelings I still admitted, the immediate ghosting that carried him to graduation.
What a fucking joke.
Another text pops through from Aida: LOG ON TO THIS CALL RIGHT NOW OR I WILL MURDER YOU IN THE MOST GRUESOME WAY POSSIBLE .
My pulse spikes, nerves tripping up and down my skin… But I still manage to text her back: That’s such a sweet offer, thank you 3 .
Rifling through my closet, I grab a sweater to throw on over my braless form and clip my hair back into what I hope is a chic, messy updo and not a ratty, greasy mess. As I wake up my computer and launch the meeting, my camera tells me I’m definitely in the latter category.
My shitty internet finally connects, and my thumbnail pops up with the others, Aida on the upper left, Landry on the right, and the disinterested expression of some white man I don’t know next to me. I wonder if he’s from HR… Oh fuck, am I about to be fired?
“Good of you to join us, Eva,” Landry says, the slightest purse to her perfectly polished lips. I shift in my seat, pushing at my tangle of hair as I scan Landry’s sleek and smooth black bob.
“Sorry for the delay,” I say, steadying my voice, taking on the slightly deeper pitch I use for Sausage Talk segments. I don’t want a powerful woman like Landry to smell my fear. “I was trying to get as firm a grasp of, uh, what’s happening on social media as possible before we talked.”
Aida cringes, but Landry surprises me, her perfect, icy pout pulling into a smile, not a wrinkle creasing her flawless skin. “Ah, yes. You seem to have had a fun time on the internet last night.”
“A forgiving way to phrase it,” the random man mumbles, disdain dripping from every word.
I let out an involuntary meep of embarrassment, scrambling for something professional and crisis-mitigating to respond with. I end up just choking on my spit.
“Eva, this is my son, William Doughright. He’s been over seeing our European operation for the past several years, and is now integrating into North American operations.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, not sure I mean it.
He’s handsome in a brutal type of way—closely cropped hair, harshly carved cheekbones, eyes the color of coal, and a sardonic curve to his brows.
He’s young, probably mid-thirties, but there’s nothing youthful about the taut set of his shoulders and firm line of his mouth.
He continues to stare at me coolly. “Congrats on the, uh, integration,” I say, needing to fill the awkward pause. The silence stretches so long, my skin prickles with it. I glance at Aida, but she’s pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Eva,” Landry says, voice soft but commanding, a knife wrapped in velvet. “Would you like to explain what’s happening or would you rather we all continue to waste our time staring at each other?”
Right. Fuck. That’s my cue. “I, uh, I’m sure you’ve seen the video by now since we’re having this meeting—”
“A not-insignificant percentage of the population has seen your little video accusing one of social media’s favorite personalities of being horrible at sex and hurting your feelings,” William interrupts.
I flinch. “Yes. Unfortunately. I, er, I didn’t intend for this to go so… so viral.”
“And yet, here we are,” Landry responds. My shoulders hunch, my feeble attempt at confidence shriveling into shame.
Aida’s video snags my attention, and I glance at her. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she sits up in her seat, letting out a calm, controlled breath, her eyes meeting mine. It’s like a virtual hug, a slap upside the head, a reminder to get my shit together and fake all the poise I don’t feel.
“I’m sorry that this video has inadvertently become associated with Sausage Talk and Soundbites as a whole,” I say, voice firmer. “That was never my intention. Honestly, I had no intention behind this video besides an impulsive, drunken therapy session that I truly believed no one would notice.”
“They’ve noticed,” William says in that cold, flat voice of his.
“No kidding,” I say back, catching us both off guard. He tilts his head, one eyebrow arching just a millimeter, encouraging me to continue like my snapping intrigues him. Something about that silent nudge of respect spurs me on.
“Everything I said was true,” I continue.
“I mean, as true as a person’s completely subjective feelings about something that happened years ago can be.
But we did go on some dates, we did hook up, it was terrible, he did ghost me.
I know there’s some concern about slander, but I didn’t lie.
And that’s the long and short of it. I didn’t plan this out, I didn’t mean for it to blow up like this, and I definitely didn’t mean for my employer to somehow be dragged into the mix of it.
Again, I didn’t really think anyone would see my video or care. ”
Everyone is quiet again, Landry’s eyes boring into me with a calculating heat I can feel through the computer screen, while her son’s cool expression sends a chill down my spine.
“Your intentions with the video don’t signify,” she says at last. “What matters is you’ve created a spotlight of attention on yourself, one that illuminates your segment as well. Our organization as a whole.”
I hang my head. She’s going to fire me for being a dumbass on the internet. Why does this end not feel more shocking?
“And we’re thrilled to capitalize on it.”
My head snaps up so hard my teeth rattle.
“What?” Aida and I crow in unison. My gaze flicks to hers, and she looks as bewildered as I feel.
“Which word did you not understand, dear?” Landry asks calmly, looking off to the side like she’s reading an email, bored with our ineptitude.
“I mean, I have a working definition of all of them separately,” I say. “But strung together in this context has me a little…”
“Shocked,” Aida finishes, voice cracking.
“Shocked?” William’s cool facade cracks for a moment like the word offends him. His gaze pivots to Aida, and even I start sweating from the intensity of it. “I would expect the talent to lack foresight, but I’d hope one of our head media producers would have better instincts than to be shocked .”
Aida’s expression shifts from bewilderment to defiance. “Excuse me—”
“I guess I’m hung up on the word thrilled ,” I interrupt, scared of the bloodbath that would happen if she finishes that sentence regardless of William being our new boss.
Aida’s favorite ranting topics are nepo babies and men, and William checks all her boxes. “I thought you were going to fire me.”
“Fire you?” Now it’s Landry’s turn to look shocked. “My dear, we would be fools to do anything but utilize this excellent opportunity you’ve created for us.”
My blank, balking stare doesn’t earn me any further respect from Landry, and she tuts in annoyance.
“Eva, you are the face of a satirical celebrity interview segment,” she says slowly like she’s talking to an exceptionally dense child.
(Me. I’m the dense child.) “That segment does fine but it is not a household name. It does not have steady subscribers. It is fun, fluffy filler on that little tab at the top of our website that says Pop Culture . Are you following me?”
I manage to close my gaping mouth and nod.
“Your guests are decreasing in status and value as a result of Sausage Talk being filler, thus perpetuating a stagnation that doesn’t condemn your segment but certainly doesn’t lend itself to much growth.
The value of your videos is based on viewership,” William adds, picking up the condescending cadence of his mother. How precious.
“Overnight,” Landry continues, “you not only put your personal account front and center of said viewership—having them foaming at the mouth at this tasty little story that completely destroys the persona of a highly popular social media personality—but also, by association, Sausage Talk . Our engagement has spiked since this took off. We are going to use that spike for all that it’s worth.
Because that, my dear, is what we in business call an opportunity. ”
“Use it how?” My cheeks are on fire, spine crushed to dust.
William offers me a gleaming smile, all teeth, like his happiness expands as I grow more and more embarrassed. “As we speak, our people are reaching out to Rylie Cooper’s.”
“What the fuck for?” I cry, immediately slapping a hand over my mouth as I realize what I said to my boss. Aida makes a choked noise from her corner of the screen. “I’m sorry. So sorry,” I rush out. “But… but why ?”
William’s glee is full force. “Because you’re going to do an interview. A live, in-person interview…”
No. Please god no .
“With Rylie Cooper.”