Public Relations

Chapter 6: Mia

Despite my best efforts, I barely corralled Brett long enough to copy my pre-written statement into his own handwriting. I scheduled for it to be posted to his story later that evening, when people were off work and out of class. 

He'd spent so much of the time poking and prodding into my life, my thoughts, my likes. I dodged what I could, tossing him crumbs to keep him satisfied enough to stick with the publicity antics I needed him for. It was bizarre, this sudden interest in who I am.

Some part of me felt frustrated with it. I would never risk my career for a man, let alone Brett.

Is he attractive? Sure, I'm not blind. He'd built a whole livelihood from it - to deny this fact would be dishonest. Am I attracted to him? That's the real question.

If life had unfolded in a different way, if I wasn't in this position, if he wasn't my client, perhaps I'd be interested. But fate has her methods, and our futures were woven in different directions, loosely intertwining for these few professional engagements. I'm happy to leave it there.

I stand in my kitchen, a disinfectant spray in my left hand and a paper towel in my right, playing housecleaner like I've spent more than a few hours at home in the last week. The apartment smells of lemon and something probably a touch toxic or cancerous from the candle burning on my counter. The wood floors twinkle, having been swept and mopped. The rugs and couch cushions have been vacuumed with such precision and neuropathy that they bore vertical lines in the fabric's direction. The place is so clean I wouldn't be able find a dust mote dancing in a beam of afternoon light seeping in from the window.

There's a knock on my door. I shoot a nervous glance at the clock on the stove: 5:45 PM.

Shit. He's early.

"One second!" I shout, hightailing it to my bedroom to change from my oversized hoodie and leggings into something a bit more put together. I stare at a skirt for a ridiculous amount of time,  mentally calculating if it's too formal. When I hear him knock again, I tell myself nothing matters and throw it on.

Moments later, I'm opening the door to my father.

He's a round man, carrying weight in his beer gut the way only men over sixty can. He gives me his feline grin, the kind that unravels from the inside out and holds up his bag of Chinese takeout like a trophy.

"Hi, sweet pea," he says as he pulls me in for an embrace. I allow this rare display of affection, file it away for later when something seems off.

"Come in, Dad." I wave him through the threshold of the door and to the table.

We don't speak as we unpack the contents of the plastic bag, bearing no log other than THANK YOU written across it several times. He'd overdone it, as he's apt to do. Lo mein, egg rolls, crab Rangoons, Mongolian beef, orange chicken, containers filled to the brim with white and fried rice. My stomach hurts just looking at it, the variety of brown and fried foods displayed across the table.

"We can't eat all this," I say.

"Leftovers for the week!" he counters, tossing a piece of beef into his mouth with his bare fingers. I try not to make a face.

He sits down, without utensils, napkins, or a drink. I check the bag - a handful of crushed napkins, already saturated with the extra grease from the bottom of the boxes plus six pairs of chopsticks that he can't use - and head back to the kitchen to grab what he'll inevitably ask for.

When I bring him a fork and a glass of iced water, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sun. "Oh, thank you, Mi! You didn't have to do all that."

My lips pull into a thin line. "Yeah, I got you, Dad."

I take the chair across from him, noting how he's already helped himself to some of everything, already several bites in.