Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER2.

Still 314 days before the deal.

I'm already running late, and I haven't even started getting ready. It's not my usual thing to go out for drinks on a Wednesday night, but this is a special occasion that I can't pass up.

Tony's final warning, "be careful," echoes in the back of my mind, along with everything else he told me. I hurry inside the house, clumsily placing the grocery bags by the front door. I rush to the kitchen to put away the kimchi I had already taken out, managing not to trip over the untied laces of my brand-new cobalt blue Converse.

My flatmate Liz notices I'm home, and I can tell she's sensing urgency in my movements.
"Hey, Mae," she greets, her apron stained with gravy as she diligently chops a carrot, "you're back earlier than expected."

I nod, take off my shoes, and throw them into my room . "Yeah, I made a quick stop at the supermarket, but I have to go back out soon."

My roommate looks at me with a puzzled glance. I can tell my answer sounds weird to her, but she tries to hide her confusion.

"Oh, so you're going out?" she asks, and I reply with a soft "yeah."

"And where are you off to?"

"I'll tell you in a sec," I say, stepping back into the kitchen after taking off my bulky star-patterned wool sweater. "Actually, I wanted to get your advice on something," I add, leaning against the cluttered kitchen island, narrowly avoiding dipping my hair in the homemade béchamel sauce that Liz had just prepared for her special homemade lasagna. Her girlfriend Ali must be really lucky to have her.

"Sure, go ahead. I'm listening," Liz replies, her attention now focused on stirring the sauce on the stovetop.

"Okay, so... for context..." I begin, trying to convey the mix of emotions I've experienced in the past few hours, "today, at the office, we had the TV on as usual, and they started reporting about a guitarist who was found dead in his hotel room," I explain, my tone filled with a sense of concern and sadness.

"Oh. That's tragic," Liz comments, her eyes still fixed on the sauce she's stirring.

"Yes, it's incredibly sad. But my colleague Tony believes that the singer the guitarist worked for might be the one to blame," I admit, my voice tinged with confusion.

"And who would that be?"

I breathe in. "Harry Styles."

"No shit, really? He thinks the Harry Styles killed the poor guy?!"

"Well... um, not exactly. But Tony's heard rumors that Harry Styles is associated with bad luck, and that those who work for him or get too close to him eventually get to experience something tragic. Tony basically believes that the guitarist died because he was struck by his bad luck or something," I clarify.

"You've got to be kidding me," Liz says, a hint of skepticism in her voice. "I mean - what the hell? He can't be for real if he believes in that kind of crap."

"Exactly! That's what I told him," I say, confirming her skeptical remark.
"So, anyways... Tony called me about an hour ago, telling me there's a chance I could get a big promotion. But he needs some sort of strong justification for it. He thinks what I've done so far isn't nearly enough," I admit, my voice lowering to a whisper, blending with the simmering sounds coming from the pots.
"That's why I need to come up with something impressive or unforgettable," I confess.

"Liz, Harry Styles will be performing three shows in New York, starting tomorrow. One of Tony's friends owns a club in SoHo, and they told him they got a reservation  worth $50,000, basically booking the entire place.  The owners will basically let us in, and Tony wants me to take care of this whole thing."

I continue, feeling a mix of anticipation and unease.

"Tony firmly believes that the guy who made the reservation is no other than that singer, Harry Styles. The cursed singer."

"Shit, why doesn't Tony take care of this thing himself if it's that important? He's basically gifting you his old job" Liz asks, a hint of disbelief in her voice. I know she's processing the information, just like I did when I first heard it.

"I guess it's because Tony is a bit superstitious. He's afraid something bad might happen to him. Plus, I was the one who said they don't believe in this kind of stuff, and that I would do whatever it takes to get that promotion," I explain. "He wants to see if I can bring in a new client for the agency. Or, worst-case scenario, if I can get some information I could use for an article that could help me get the promotion. That's why I need to get to know that singer. I've got to know more about Harry Styles and the rumors about him being a bad omen."

"Mae," she calls out to me, "aren't you afraid it could be a risky move?"

I shake my head, responding silently. "Liz, opportunities like this are, like, super rare. I've got to ditch my usual routine—it's basically a flashing neon sign reminding me I'm failing as a writer," I confess, feeling her sympathetic gaze upon me.

"I mean, if that's how you see it... I guess you should go out there, be bold, determined, and show them what you're made of. You deserve that promotion," she says, embracing me tightly, a mix of freshly washed clothes and the scent of tomatoes filling my nostrils.

"And hey, we don't believe in all that superstitious nonsense, do we?"

"Not at all," I confirm, nestling comfortably into the space between her chin and shoulder. Liz smiles at me, giving me a reassuring shake, as I rush off and dive into the chaos of my overflowing closet.

From the kitchen, I hear Liz's voice once again.

"By the way, how'd it go with that moldavite stone?"

⭑✧⭑✧⭑✧⭑✧⭑

does anyone believe in the power of moldavite?

I do!