“Laura doesn’t need you.”
“Because she’s a decent human being,” I snap, pushing my palm to my forehead like I’m trying to press the heat out.“I’m over this.I quit.”
Silence.Complete and unforgiving, filled with all the words she’s about to say to make me feel bad about myself—about abandoning my father.
“I’m done, Bernice.With tantrums in green rooms.With water preferences and Skittles sorted by color and scented fucking candles that smell like despair.With artists who throw their Louboutins across the room because their mic isn’t metallic enough.I’m—” My voice breaks.Not out of sadness, but from the sheer relief of finally saying it out loud.“I’m just done.”
Bernice exhales.A long breath.“I was wondering when you’d say it.”
I blink, stunned.“What?”
“You’ve been holding on with white knuckles for months,” she says, her tone infuriatingly calm.“Though I hope you realize this is unacceptable and you can’t just walk out.”
Her voice, that measured corporate hush, does something to me.Something cold.My jaw clenches so tight I feel it in my temples.
“Yeah,” I say quietly.“I didn’t say anything because I thought maybe if I stayed long enough, pushed hard enough, showed up every time someone asked—maybe it would finally matter.Maybe I would finally matter.”
I’m not sure if I’m saying it to her or myself.No, this is totally about my father.How I’m still trying to get a sliver of love from him.It’s time that I realize that nothing I do will get me anything other than him asking for more.
I feel it all now—rage and shame and the bone-deep ache of someone who’s been trying too hard for too long.I want to scream, to punch a wall, to crawl out of this skin I don’t recognize anymore.
Because this isn’t about Serena or the agency.
It’s about my father.The man who built this agency with charm and grit and left it for other people to manage when the burnout came.The man who told me I’d be his favorite if I just kept showing up.If I just kept giving more of myself until there was nothing left but a fraying smile, aching feet, and silence no luxury suite could drown out.
It’s about me, dammit.For saying yes, every time.For thinking if I bent myself into enough shapes, someone might finally look at me and say, “There she is.”That’s the daughter he can be proud of.
The daughter he can love.
I want to cry, but I’m too angry.I want to blame them, but the truth is—I’m furious with myself.
For knowing this wasn’t sustainable and doing it anyway.
“I’m heading home tomorrow,” I say, voice flat now.“Then I’m done.”
“Kit—”
“I have to go.”
I hang up before she can pivot into obligation or strategy or one last plea for professionalism.I sit in the dim quiet of the room, the city humming far below, and wonder how long it’ll take before I start to feel like myself again.
Whoever that is.
My notebook’s buried at the bottom, between a dog-eared music theory book and a postcard from Cleo with a quote: “Don’t live the same year seventy-five times and call it a life.”
The hotel’s phone sits on the desk next to the laptop I hauled across the country.I plug it in, press the worn plastic keys, and wait for the dial-up to kick in.
It buzzes, clicks, hisses—like it’s arguing with the world before it lets me in.
That familiar mechanical melody fills the room.It’s annoying and comforting all at once.Like home, if home came with a 56k connection and a tendency to crash right when things got good.
The screen loads slowly, and the pixels drag like they're exhausted too.
And then—there it is.
A message from DeadStrings.
I sit up straighter.My skin prickles with something between anticipation and relief.I can’t wait to see what he wrote—what happened with Otis, his day, or whatever version of survival he’s fumbling through now.
