Public Relations

Chapter 14: Mia

Something unique about influencers is that they're almost never invited to do proper interviews.

That kind of press is usually reserved for artists about to head out on tour, actors promoting their new project, people with talents discussing those talents.

What's more likely for the influencers, much to my chagrin, is filming hour-long podcasts with their fellow influencers to discuss what they're up to. These events are informal and usually tight-knit. It's often held together by a skeleton crew, just one or two guys making sure everything is working and recording the way it's supposed to.

I don't normally supervise these tapings - partially because I don't need to, but also because they're catastrophically boring. But I'd been sent here explicitly by Tony in lieu of the legal correspondence going on behind the scenes with Brett.

He's sitting in a beanbag, a backwards hat tucking his coffee waves to his forehead. I try not to think about how good the oversized faded t-shirt looks with his black cargo pants, or how he's got the headphones covering only half of his left ear so he can still hear the rest of us in the room. I try not to think, actually, about anything at all.

The interviewers - two girls named Mel and Mollie whose podcast went viral years ago for being one of the only ones discussing the candid sexual struggles of girls in college - are dressed equally comfortably, wearing tanks and sweats and fuzzy jackets. They were nice enough when we'd first arrived, if not a bit flirty with Brett.

But that's to be expected, I suppose, with a man who has one of the largest followings on TikTok and who also looks a bit like a AI-generated male model.

"How did you get started?" Mollie asks, shamelessly digging a finger into her ear. She removes it and inspects what I presume to be earwax under her acrylic, then wipes her hand on her sweatpants.

I take this as my cue to absorb myself in my phone.

I'd brought lunch, a to-go salad with extra dressing and extra chicken - for bulking, or something - and crack it open as quietly as the plastic container will permit. The three of them don't so much as spare me a glance.

My phone buzzes in my hand as I shovel bites of crunchy salad into my mouth, email after email coming in, email after email going out. I lean back in the fold-out chair they'd set up for me, my head bouncing off the drywall behind me. There's not so much as a decoration beyond what the camera can view, nothing but wires and ring lights and laptops.

A text comes through.

S: Could I see you tonight?

It takes everything in me not to react, either with a groan or a sigh or just by dropping my phone completely. 

M: Is everything alright?

S: You tell me. You haven't spoken to me since I told you about the job.

S: And don't say it's work. I've seen you work. You usually spare me a text or two.

I frown at my screen, my heart clenching painfully in my chest. He's right - I've been avoiding him. It could probably be mistaken for heartbreak or sadness or maybe even jealousy. And frankly, it might be jealousy. I envy Sean for being able to pack up and move somewhere beautiful to pursue a dream that is both work and a hobby. It crushes me, honestly, to watch everyone else lead such fulfilling lives while I'm babysitting a man in his mid-twenties talking to two women about -

"When's the last time you had sex?"

Christ. That.

I try not to give away that my ears have perked up at that question, continuing to scowl at the text on my phone and chewing another bite of salad.