Public Relations

Chapter 3: Brett

In so many words, I needed to tell her everything and nothing.

I stare at the phone in my hands, the florescent screen pulled up to my most recent text.

B: Hey. Sorry. I do need something. Could you come over?

What did I need?

What didn't I need?

At the moment, I could use a hot meal. A warm bath. A good sip of water or several. I could use a dog on my lap or a comfort movie on TV. A drive in the mountains of some state closer east, windows down and music playing. I could use a night in, or a baked good, or a delicious candle. I could use a call from my sister. Maybe just being with a friend. 

I pause.

A friend? Good god, Brett. Get yourself together.

But that's what this text was, wasn't it? I was lonely.

Mia had graced me for the first time ever with her attention, a resource I'd never recognized for as addictive as it was. And naturally, that attention was entirely due to some drunken mistake on my part.

My feet shuffle me to the living room couch, where I admittedly spend most of my free time. It's a large space, this house. Decorated by a professional - an interior designer, not a decorator, which makes a difference, as I learned. It had that LA flare: high ceilings, lots of windows, modern, but in a post-industrious kind of way. Almost like Dune, if Dune was also a hospital or a regret.

My sliding glass door is open behind me, a soft, warm breeze pulling in the smell of the dry grass of my yard. The pool gurgles, the birds scream. My next door neighbor grills food for his kids, some CTO at a Fortune 500 who resents my existence for being under 30 and having essentially no talents.

I would too, frankly.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

M: I'll be over in 15.

A breath falls from my lips. There's relief bubbling in my chest for reasons I don't fully understand. I don't know Mia intimately, and I get the sense she doesn't like me. She's also, embarrassingly, handled quite a bit of my scandals involving women. Namely, an ex who lives for public drama.

Avalon Bruins. She's got the influencer look - bleach blonde, lip injections that are slightly overdone, a very tasteful boob job. She spends her time in Pilates and clubs, activities that feel like they would cancel each other out, but I don't frequent either enough to weigh in on it. She spends every dime she's ever made, but creates videos with the material possessions for the sake of tax write-offs. I admire her and despise her and envy her.

Envy, mostly, for the sake of how easily she blends into this world.

She's not a dumb woman; she's not a shallow one either. She is a business woman with her Master's degree in herself, in building a brand online. That brand is the stereotypical influencer,  because people love to hate, which boosts engagement, which equates to dollars. And that's a life she's perfectly happy living.

I consider my content; usually meaningless audios, whatever's trending that week, with a funny enough caption. I make an effort to look good - which really boils down to styled hair and a bare-minimum outfit for men - and that's enough to work for me. I post consistently and interact sporadically, and I have made my living from it.

Mia's car pulls into the driveway. I start at the sound of her door slamming, unsure if I'd been floating in and out of sleep or simply daydreaming hard enough to disassociate completely.

The front door opens before I can make it there to greet her.

She's in the same outfit as this morning, a strong indicator she hasn't been home yet. She's carrying her typical backpack, a thick, black bag that looks as if it weighs more than she does.