Public Relations

Chapter 19: Mia

We take separate Ubers to the hotel - an allegedly fancy building somewhere in the depths of the city. Late night rain lightly patters the pavement outside, turning the streets into something more like a handful of glittering gems. I make stiff small talk with my driver - her name is Olga, she's a bulky Russian and man is she pissed off at her boyfriend right now - and try to plan out the weekend ahead of me.

Brett's filming something early in the morning, of which I will silently and mindlessly accompany him to. I've been promised there will be snacks, and graciously I was allowed to choose two or three. It feels like a consolation prize, all parties thanking me weakly for sacrificing my time to watch over my adult liability. Tony went as far as to send me a $100 Amazon gift card for clearing my calendar to make the trip. He'd made a lame attempt at explaining why he - the manager - couldn't go, something about his kids, which I obviously can't dispute as a young adult with no offspring.

Whatever, I thought bitterly. I'll sit through the stupid filming and answer one million emails and be promoted by my return on Tuesday.

Olga coughs and it's wet and phlegmy. "I told him, I have one hundred pounds on you, scrawny man. I sit on you and you die."

I blink, trying to understand where the conversation went left. I choke out a light laugh.

"You have boyfriend?" she asks, flicking her eyes to look at me in the rearview mirror.

I shift in my seat, pretend to fiddle with the laces of my boots. "No."

"Why?"

My mouth opens and closes in rapid succession, a dumb, gaping fish mouth. Why? What kind of a question is that?

Olga seems to catch my confusion and it amuses her greatly, but she doesn't offer any other context to the question.

"Uh-um," I stammer. "I guess it's because I hate men?"

She slaps the steering wheel in delight. "That's right! Don't forget it!" A car cuts her off, and she leans elbow-deep into the horn with her left middle finger out the window. She's swearing aggressively in Russian. Or I presume they're swear words; they're certainly spoken as such.

I feel myself sink into my skin. It's too much stimulation for right now.

"I ask because you have man in heart."

"I'm sorry?"

"Is it in mind? You have man. In you. You have man in mind. Who is he?"

I swallow, my mouth sticky and dry. Is Olga some kind of omnipotent god overseeing my every thought? If she is, could she clarify if she's talking about Brett or Sean?

The fact that I'm in a messy situation with not one but two men is something I never could've dreamed up. It's exacerbated by how starkly different the two of them are - Sean being a wholesome angel who deserves more than I could ever offer him, Brett being - well, Brett.

Olga honks again and releases what I'm sure is a very colorful string of Russian words. "Do you not know how to drive in rain? Pea brain little man."

She shoots a glance back at me. "Sorry. Man. Why none?"

"It's complicated," I say, tugging on the drawstring of my hoodie.

"It is always complicated. Why not figure it out?"

I sigh. "I don't know if I want to."

She nods at this, seemingly in approval, with her bottom lip jutted out. I glance at the phone mounted to her dashboard, but it's in vain. She's pulling up to the doors of the hotel, parallel parking us into a spot that might be eight inches longer than her SUV is. I catch myself white-knuckled gripping the arm of my backpack, anxious that she's going to clip one of the cars boxing us in. She doesn't, because of course Olga can parallel park like an Olympic champion.