Public Relations

Chapter 27: Brett

Her silence was the worst part.

Despite it being a rather pleasant summer, the air was frigid in the car. I drove with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white from how hard I was gripping, fearful that my fingers would shake if I were to lighten up. We passed more landmarks: a dilapidated barn where I had my first beer (and threw up after my fifth), the music store that patiently taught me guitar for three years, a river running under a small bridge where, as kids, we'd race rubber ducks in the spring when it thawed. I swallowed the desire to share these memories, the knife in my heart driving deeper into the flesh with every passing second.

When we pulled into the driveway, Mia wasted no time climbing from the car and heading inside. I watched her stalk off, her loose curls bouncing as she bounded up the rickety steps and slipped through the door.

I took a deep breath of the fresh air, dread settling in my lungs like dust. It hurt to breathe. I kicked myself mentally, calling myself every name I could think of before pulling out my own phone.

And there it was, trending all over social media. How Camila - who previously had no following and, more importantly, no credibility - had caught me red handed. It baffled me how the internet, as massive and presumably educated as it should be, given the population, required no evidence. Camila's word was more than enough. We'd been photographed together, thus her story was fact.

I wonder briefly why no one is more concerned about the actual lawsuits in place. People are typically more careful about their accusations, but Avalon, Jason, and Camila have not held back in the slightest. Though there's power in numbers, I suppose. Or Avalon's paying everyone off. She's got the money to do it, and I'm sure this publicity is only contributing to her wealth.

Before I fall into too conspiratorial of a hole, I shut my phone off and slip it into my pocket. I'm standing outside the car, frozen with how leaden my feet are. Regretfully, reluctantly, I head toward the house.

I don't make it halfway up the driveway before Mia reappears, her backpack slung over her shoulder, a Tupperware container in one hand, dragging her carryon behind her in the other. She nearly brushes right past me before I catch her arm.

"Hey," I say, and she swings around to face me with the force of someone throwing a punch. I almost flinch.

"What?" she spits.

I shake my head in shock, blinking like I've been sprayed by venom. "What?  Shouldn't we, I don't know, talk?"

Mia exhales slowly, her makeup-free eyes fluttering closed. "Brett," she says softly, her voice wobbling with instability. "What could we possibly have to discuss?"

A breeze runs between us, chilly and distant, and I feel myself start to come undone. "Don't leave," I plead, releasing her arm. "We can get this sorted out. I'll release a statement -"

"You will do nothing, Brett Archer." She straightens herself, shaking a rogue strand of hair from her eyes. Her jaw sets before she speaks again, her nostrils flaring. "I think you've done more than enough at this point."

She turns on her heel and walks to the passenger door of her car. I trail behind her like a loyal puppy after being kicked, desperate to make things right.

Mia deposits her backpack on the floor in front of the seat, then sets the plastic container down on the seat. I can see a few brownies in there, undoubtedly fresh from my mother's kitchen, either a test batch or just an expression of love. I see the alternate reality all too clearly, painfully so, in which we sneak in kisses between bites of my mother's brownies, overstimulated from the blaring TV or the two women bickering incessantly.