My heart twinges, all those conversations where we had fun and laughed and got shit done. The part of him that lit up whenever he talked about his youth program—the one for underprivileged kids who grew up similar to him, nothing but talent and a dream.
“Well, I’d say that’s a little unfair, Ezekial. I used to give you all kinds of advice, but you got me fired.”
My voice and hands are trembling, and my face is too hot, but I actually said it. I’m sure once the panic dies down, I’ll be proud of myself.
“That wasn’t me,” he insists. “I was mad at first, but I told your boss you knew your shit. Annoying as fuck sometimes, like a gnat in my ear, but good at your job. But you really should’ve picked up your phone that weekend.”
I know. And it fucking killed me. But what I say is, “I’m about to put down my phone.”
“Wait-wait-wait, I didn’t mean it. I’m fucking up right and left, with Dahlia and you, and I need you to tell me how to make it right.” His signature charm warms his voice, and I roll my eyes, refusing to play into his antics. “I miss you fixing my fuckups.”
“That makes one of us.” It’s out in the air before I can think better of it. I so shouldn’t have said it, but I refuse to take it back now, and when he laughs in response, the knot in my chest actually eases.
“How do I get her back? I’ll do better, I promise. Just…please.”
The fame unquestionably got to his head over these last few years; he’s cocky and played rough, no question. But he was also the first to lend me a jacket when nobody else noticed I was shivering. Little things like that.
Mostly, I can’t turn off caring about someone like a tap. I cared.
I sigh and say, “My only piece of advice is…ladies love a grand gesture. Not so much showy as uniquely tailored to them. And obviously you can’t get her back and then return to being an asshole boyfriend who cheats—in fact, that’s my one condition for helping.”
Over the next five minutes we discuss options, proving I’m bad at following my own rules, and he wants to know how he’s going to pull off any of these ideas without me. There’s a part of me that gets a rush from the idea of fixing a situation messed up this badly.
“Hey, Mia,” Ezekial says as we’re winding down the conversation. “Remember that night you persuaded that ferry driver to abandon his usual route and charter the team across the bay to LIV for an impromptu celebration with Pitbull?”
It’s a shot of adrenaline to my failure-obsessed soul. Early on in my career, I was so eager to prove myself worthy, I charged onto that ferry and insisted they take the team across the bay so we’d get there in time for the afterparty.
Although to be fair, the exchanging of currency was also involved. “You dragged me into the VIP lounge to meet him, too.”
He declared I didn’t do all that work to miss out on the reward, not letting me skip an incredible experience due to my shyness.
By the time I hang up and slink down in the covers once again, Fifi’s left the room, leaving just me and my resolve to whip Lakeview back into shape.
Ezekial’s call not only served as a reminder of how hard I hustled in the beginning, it also means I’m good enough that my former client still calls me for help.
In a lot of ways, King EZ’s all gas, no brakes philosophy aligned with the retirees in the community.
Now to apply that to a group of people all out of fucks to give.
Chapter Fourteen
My nerves churn through my belly, set to extra high, and my forehead prickles with sweat beneath the blazing gymnasium lights.
It’s hard to know whether to chalk up this evening’s attendance to the change in topic or my allyship with the Cronies, but whatever the reason, we’ve got a full house.
Sadly, there are hardly any gentlemen in the mix—all genders would be better off learning to love themselves—but I’m not sure if they’re MIA due to the topic; the Cronies not having male connections; or if there are as few available men around here as they say.
Clusters of younger women are also scattered throughout, which I’m taking full credit for. I didn’t start small, I went huge, canvassing this neighborhood and the ones next to it, as well as posting on social media about our featured speaker.
Then I called up Claudia Caldwell, the journalist Jan turned away—the one who wouldn’t stop writing slam pieces on us—and invited her inside to see what we’re up to these days at Lakeview. I’m equally anxious and thrilled she’s taken me up on the offer.
“Welcome,” I say, scolding myself for the accompanying wince. While it’s a myth bears attack when they sense fear, these silver-haired devils absolutely did.
But I’ve put a ton of knowledge in my head on this subject, and there’s not a doubt in my mind that our guest speaker will be absolutely phenomenal. All I’ve got to do is make it through the introduction and mini presentation I put together myself, no accompanying Images of Doom. “Welcome to a night of rejecting societal beauty standards and learning to love and accept our bodiesexactly as they are.”
At least I feel more on top of my game, my belief in the topic carrying me through, although I’d hardly call myself an expert. When it comes to self-talk, I tend to be pretty rough on me.
“It’s so incredible looking out at this audience and seeing so much wisdom and beauty,” I continue, regaining a sliver of my battered confidence. I’m the best at convincing others how amazing and gorgeous and perfect they are.
