Public Relations

Chapter 11: Mia

My eyes peel open to an unbearable sunlight slanting in through my blinds, and I wish hell upon this day immediately.

My mind is throbbing, swelling, screaming in response to me sitting up in bed. I've left myself Ibuprofen on my nightstand, with a tumbler of iced water, because I'm a control freak even when I come home drunk. I say a silent thank you to the me of the past and wash the Ibuprofen down before checking the time.

My phone is a mess of notifications, some urgent and panicked, but most not. It's not even 8 AM on a Saturday - everyone can wait.

And then I remember, much to my own chagrin, that when I step into my living room, a tall, infuriating man will be there. I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging directly across from my bed - my bun having fallen in the night to be a collection of loose strands and a knot at the nape of my neck. I think how think how considerate, how appropriate it would be for Brett to have slinked out at the wink of dawn.

I don't have any hope for that, though.

I allow myself a brief moment in bed, wrapped warmly in my oversized sheets, the room dim and untouched by the movement of life today. Outside, the dull whirring of lawn mowers floats four stories up to my window, lacing in with the hum of my ceiling fan. I lie in this white noise until it is overridden by the shriek of my phone, which, though silenced, demands my attention immediately.

"Fuck," I mumble as I roll my feet onto the wood floor below. My body aches and my stomach lurches. I won't throw up - I refuse - but I'm toeing the line dangerously.

But when I look at my phone, unassuming on the nightstand, the nausea intensifies tenfold. It actually incites a reaction so visceral I nearly cry.

I'll give it a few minutes, I decide. I'll check if Brett is still on the couch and I'll make some coffee and lemon water. And then we'll deal with work.

The door betrays me when I crack it open, a loud squeak to announce my incoming. I curse it, then swing it ajar in defeat, its song echoing down the hallway as I do.

"Mia," Brett says distantly, urgently, obscured by the walls of my hall. "You need to come see this."

My footsteps quicken, bringing me into the fully sunlit front room. Brett has already folded his blanket and put it away, assuming he had used one in the first place, and is sitting erect on the couch, the best I've ever seen his posture. His own phone sits horizontally in his hand, the indiscernible sounds of a woman's voice coming from the speakers, amplified by his cupped palm. His eyes meet mine, worry darkening them severely.

"Avalon made a new post."

I take a seat on the couch beside him, glaringly aware that neither of us have brushed our teeth and my morning breath could eradicate a small village, but I try to push the thoughts aside.

It's a similar format to her last video, but this one posted to YouTube, the progress bar reading that it spans over twelve minutes in length. She's sitting squarely in front of the camera, her signature Whore House neon light turned on behind her. This time, however, her face is bare, her eyes sunken and tired, her hair knotted and greasy. He's rewinding it, mumbling about how he's watched it twice already, and then we're starting from the beginning. 

It opens with a sniffle - classic - and then, "This is my full truth on Brett Archer's violent behavior."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I moan, taking the phone from his hands. Brett stands from the couch and paces behind me while the video plays out.

She starts with a brief summary of the recent events - how Brett punched someone at a bar, which spurred her to feel comfortable enough to come forward and tell her story, and then she recaps her last video. The remaining few minutes detail times in which Brett threw plates and punched holes into walls, with photos attached that include neither Brett, Avalon, or any solid proof that it's even their own homes. But photos have been produced nonetheless, and that's enough for people to believe her.