Hello Adventure

Chapter 11

The text vanished before my eyes. It was there and then, just like that, it was gone like an amateur magic trick. It took me a second to realize this was because Stasia Dimonico was calling my phone. With wobbly hands, I swiped to answer the call.

"Hello?"

"Sloane, how's everything going? And before you answer, I don't mean with you or Italy, I mean with Brooke."

"Right," I said after a pause, thinking of the deck that I sent her earlier. Should I mention it?

"Right, Brooke..." I repeated stupidly, just then remembering her secret relationship with Dale and her sham marriage. I wondered if I should actually tell Stasia about this. Hearing from Seb again left me distracted and self-doubting. Maybe I was as socially stupid as Amina suggested and I wasn't equipped to handle this type of thing at all. But can I really call for backup so soon?

"Where is she? You're with her, right?" Stasia asked.

"Brooke is great. I mean, she's fine. She seems happy. I mean, not like suspiciously happy, just regular happy," I babbled, while I considered my options.

"No." Stasia said then, cutting me off.

"No?" I repeated. "Wh—what?" I asked, fearfully. Shit! Did she already know about the sham marriage and Dale? Was this some kind of test?

"Sloane, I just got out of this gnarly SoulCycle class and I'm still living off of this barbaric diet of mainly chia seeds and bitterness. My banks of fucks to give is severely depleted," she stated in clear warning with her trademarked eye-popping honesty.

"Please don't tell me you're already falling apart on me. If there's a problem, come to me and we'll fix it. Now, Sloane: Is there a problem?"

"No!" I said, even though now was the exact time to mention it. Instead I squeaked, "Everything is fine?" (I didn't mean to make it sound like a question.)

She sighed at length. "Why aren't you with Brooke?"

Stasia waited. "If something is really wrong, then of course, I want you tell me, so I can fix it. But if you're having a crisis of confidence, then I need you to boss up. I told you I couldn't have someone who's easily rattled."

"I know," I said, hearing the high-pitched note of tentativeness in my voice. I did my best to channel normalcy.

"Ryder has been on the edge of his seat waiting for you to fail because he knows I'll have to send him to replace you. Do you want me to send Ryder to replace you?"

"NO!" I near-shrieked this time.

"Do you need a reminder of how lucky you to have this job?"

"I don't! Working at Swish has been my dream!" I sounded hysterical even to myself.

I heard Stasia's naked wrath from being underfed come through the phone.

"Anyone would literally murder you for this job. And I'm not using "literally" in a grammatically incorrect way that has somehow become colloquially acceptable; I really mean that Ryder may actually resort to cold-blooded murder in order to take over your job. You are like Charlie Goddamn Bucket winning the golden ticket. Say it!" she all but yelled at me. But then, there was nothing but dead air.

"Pardon?" I asked timidly when the quiet went on too long.

"Say 'I am Charlie Bucket!'" she roared.

I wasn't quite sure if this was a rhetorical demand, so I didn't respond.

"Say it!" Stasia snarled again, making me jump.

"That I am Charlie Bucket?"

"Yes! You are Charlie Bucket! You have the golden ticket and the chance to win the whole damn chocolate factory!"

I do? I whispered silently.

"Do you think I—Anastasia Dimonico"—she pronounced her first name exotically with five syllables: Ah-na-sta-ci-a—"in all of my experience and expertise—would be so stupid as to give this golden-ticket of a job to someone who I thought was incapable? Someone who I didn't think had potential at Swish? Do you?" she barked.

"No, I don't," I said, hearing my voice grow more potent, my confidence rebuilding.

"You think I would risk my business, my reputation, and this campaign to do a favor for someone, to give someone a chance, to give someone a little adventure? I'm not that nice of a person—I would not do that. You do get that, don't you?"

And suddenly, I did. Stasia must have seen the deck I made her after all! I vowed then and there to keep working hard on the side project and not worry Stasia with any of the silly Brooke drama that I could certainly figure out on my own.

"I expect you to check in before and after every shoot. And I expect you to keep Brooke close," Stasia told me crisply and hung up.

Bolstered by what Stasia had just reminded me of, I stood upright

Seb's message popped back on the screen when the call ended. Before I could lose my fortified nerves, I swiped to delete them—three times—until each message was gone, melted into some digital black hole.

Fine. I let the shit in, but I didn't have to let it stay. I was weak to open the messages, but I wasn't so weak that I would respond to them. No, I wouldn't do that to myself, to my new life.

Then I went to my contacts and erased Sebastian Lacombe's number from the phone. I tried not to feel anything. I tried not to let any of that niggling hurt in, and before it could wiggle its way toward the sensitive parts of me again, I grabbed my stuff and headed down to gardens to start my first photoshoot.