I do “got this.” And if I don’t, I’ll keep my mouth shut and let my very capable fake girlfriend do the talking.
Hannah extends her microphone, slipping into a fuller-sounding “reporter voice” as she asks, “So what brings you two out to volunteer? Why are the Harvest Princess Charity Ball and the cause it supports important to you?”
I know Charlotte is ready to jump in, if needed, but this is the kind of question I feel okay to handle, so I say, “Domestic violence is a problem we should have solved a long time ago as a society. Everyone should feel safe at home. I can’t imagine how scary it must be to be in a situation where your home isunsafe, let alone so dangerous, you have no choice but to leave, especially as a kid. Anything I can do to make that even a tiny bit easier for NOLA kids in that situation is important to me.”
“What he said,” Charlotte agrees.
I glance down to see her beaming at me with admiration that I wish were real. I want Charlotte to admire me, I realize. I want that as much as I want management off my ass and this PR crisis behind me.
Maybe even more.
Hannah makes an approving noise. “And are you two planning to attend?”
“Sadly, no,” Charlotte says, turning back to the camera. “We have work conflicts, but we’re so glad we were able to be here this afternoon.”
As we banter through a few more softball questions, Charlotte’s hand comes to rest on my back, steady and warm. I loop an arm around her waist, my fingers curled around her hip.
Being close to her feels natural. Right.
So right that when Hannah and her camera operator step away, it isn’t easy to let her go…
Thankfully, I have another excuse to get close a few minutes later, wrapping my arms around her from behind to hold“Belle’s” bodice in place as Charlotte adds straw to her bosom to keep the dress from sagging in front. We turn out to be so skilled at straw princess breast augmentation that we’re christened the “designated boob squad” by the other volunteers.
We round out the afternoon posing for a photo with Belle for the New Orleans Alive! blog and giving another short interview to a NOLA social media influencer who swears she already has “fantastic B-roll” on us. Whatever that means. I decide to take the “fantastic” part at face value and roll with it.
By the time we finish adjusting the last bodice and sliding the final crown into place, the sun is sinking behind the browning corn stalks, and the other volunteers have beat us to the parking lot.
Charlotte peels off her gloves with a happy sigh as we wander toward the barn. “Well, I think we can declare that an unqualified success.”
“Thanks to you,” I say, passing my gloves over when she holds out a hand.
“No way,” she says, tucking them into her purse. “You were amazing. Honestly. I was sweating for a second there, thinking I was an asshole for not prepping you for the interview questions in advance, but you came through with flying colors. Your answer couldn’t have been more perfect.”
“It was the truth.” I pause by the open barn doors, waiting until she turns to me to add, “I wouldn’t lie about something like that. I promise.”
Her gaze softens. “I know. Obviously. I could tell you were being sincere.”
“Good,” I say, my chest warming as she gifts me with a tender smile, one I haven’t seen before. “That’s…good.”
“It is,” she murmurs. “You’re really kind of a sweetheart, aren’t you?”
“When I’m not punching people,” I say, not willing to let myself off the hook.
She tips her head thoughtfully to one side. “To be fair, you don’t punchpeople. You punch men. Usually, men who are hurting women. Would you say that’s an accurate characterization?”
I nod, growing uncomfortable with this conversation for reasons I can’t quite name.
“Okay, so why?” she asks. “Why the punching? When it’s obvious, you’re usually the kind of person who would rather fight with your words, not your fists.”
My shoulders hunch. “Because some men deserve a punching?” When that answer doesn’t seem to satisfy her, I add, “Because… I don’t know… Because Fanon said colonialism only loosens its grip when there’s a knife at its throat, and that felt true when I read it, so…”
“Okay.” Her brows pinch closer as she mulls that over for a moment. “So, you’re saying you think violence against women is a form of colonization? Like, the fear of it lives rent-free in women’s heads? Doing damage even when they aren’t in immediate danger? And the only way to disrupt that is with some punching now and then?”
I blink. “I wish I’d thought about it that deeply. I just think violence is necessary to force shit to change more often than people like to believe.” My lips curve as I exhale a soft laugh. “But your answer is better. I’m impressed. I like our conversations.”
“I do, too.” She shakes her head. “You surprise me, Baylor Nix.”
“You surprise me, too. I like it.” I step in, bracing a hand on the doorframe above her. “I likeyou, Charlotte. A lot.”
