“So do I,” I say. “To a place that keeps saving me in small ways. To a version of myself that’s not always apologizing for existing.”
Harris opens a folder and slides a document two inches forward. “This is calledmutual benefit,Crew. Read the numbers before you light yourself on fire for a bookstore.”
Harris’s smile thins. “We control narrative when narrative threatens value. You’ve always known that. We tried to keep you on the field.”
“By using her as leverage.”
He tuts. “The world is leverage.”
“Yet,” I say softly, “the people who keep it turning are the ones who put their hands out andpull,notpush.”
He watches me for a beat. “How long did it take you to rehearse that one?”
“Three months,” I say. “Every night I watched her lock the door and leave the porch light on anyway.”
David clears his throat, voice hoarse. “Just do the spot, Crew. We’ll make the clause go away. We’ll say it was… overenthusiasm from legal. We’ll drip a donation at Christmas. We’ll—”
“—name a bench,” I say, mouth bitter. “No.”
Harris leans back. “Then here’sourno: we suspend you. Administrative leave pending review. You don’t talk about internal matters. You don’t step in front of a microphone without a handler. If you do, we call it breach, and we call your sponsors, and we call your agent, and we call the station that thinks it wants you in a suit, and we remind them that live television prefers predictable men.”
My heart does the thing it does left of panic and right of peace. “Predictable men don’t come home.”
“Some do,” he says. “The smart ones.”
“I’m not smart like that anymore.”
“Be careful,” David says quietly, and I hear the version of him that used to throw me passes and tell me to keep my chin tucked. “They’re not bluffing.”
“I’m not either.”
Silence stretches like a new muscle. Harris breaks it. “You’ve got tonight to think. Tomorrow we announce one of two things: your future with us, or your departure. Make me proud and let me give you a hug for the cameras.”
“Or?” I ask.
“Or I shake your hand like a man and release you with cause,” he says, and the word cause sits on the table like a snake. “That’s the path where you crawl under fences for the rest of your life.”
I think about fences. About the way a little boy looks at you when you sign his library card and ask him what he loves to read. About the way Bailey moves through her own shop like the world is meant to be tended. About goats that need corralling and shelves that need leveling and a lantern that needs rope and patience. About the way my own breath sounds when I’m not performing it.
“I’ve done enough crawling,” I say. “If you’re going to call it cause, at least tell the truth about the cause. A man who stopped being your favorite story because he learned to read his own.”
Harris’s mouth twitches—approval he doesn’t want. “Seven a.m.,” he says, standing. “My office. Wear something fans can get behind.”
“Jeans and stubbornness?” I ask.
“Those will do.”
We don’t shake hands. David follows me to the door and grabs my elbow before I’m out of polite distance. “You okay?”
“I will be.”
“This is bigger than you, Crew.”
I nod. “That’s why I’m small on purpose.”
He flinches like I hit him with a word.
The hotel room is beige and humming when I shut the door behind me. I don’t turn on the lights. Nashville glows through the blackout curtains like the city is trying to apologize for being itself. I sit on the edge of the bed, pull the paper bag out of my duffel, and open Bailey’s note.
