Iris doesn’t back away, which I take as a good sign.
“I’ll think about it …aftermy meeting with Oliver today. Right now, that’s all I can think about.”
“Fair.”
We save our game and shut everything off, then go upstairs to bed. Poor Iris tosses and turns the rest of the night, and when her phone alarm goes off at four thirty, I doubt she’s even had a solid hour of sleep. Maybe two broken hours, if she’s lucky.
I offer to make breakfast for her, but she waves it off, claiming too many butterflies in her stomach to fit any food in there. I guess I understand, but it’s a blow to the ego to have her dismiss my omelets, which I know she loves.
I walk her out to her car as she gets ready to leave, and now I’ve got butterflies, too. Her nervous tremors are back, and I don’t like the idea of her driving into town like this.
“Hey, why don’t you take my car? It’s got more safety features, and I’d feel better if you were in it.”
Iris pats my shoulder. “I’ll be fine, Micah. Besides, what if you need to drive Hailey somewhere? You’d be stuck with just my car to get around, and there’s no car seat in mine. No, I’ll just take my own vehicle.”
“And you’re sure this couldn’t be done in a Zoom meeting?”
Iris chuckles. “I should be glad Oliver is insisting on a face-to-face. I think if he canned me over Zoom I’d never get over it. At least this way it’s not so impersonal.”
I envelop her in a bear hug before she can get in the car. “Be safe, Iris.”
I watch with a heavy heart as she pulls out of her driveway and drives off towards town. The nervous fluttering in my gut refuses to go away. I’ve got a bad feeling about today.
Chapter 31
Iris
It’s sweet of Micah to worry, but I’ve driven to work hundreds of times. Just because I normally work from home doesn’t mean I don’t know how to navigate the early LA traffic.
It’s a little thicker than normal this morning, though, and not long after I leave our neighborhood, I notice a few cars keeping unnervingly close as I head for the interstate exit. Just to be careful, I take a few extra turns.
Sure enough, the cars follow me. Fuck.
I thought the press conference would satiate the media’s thirst for blood, but it seems at least a few of them still want a piece of me. The single ad agent who’s “sleeping with all her actors” probably is a hot story right now, so I guess I won’t have any luck that they’ll give up.
There are a few harrowing moments on the freeway where a car gets dangerously close just so a cameraman can lean out the window and snap a pic of me driving. I don’t know what they expect to get from that; how exciting is an image of me gripping the steering wheel? Surely no tabloid or magazine is going to pay big bucks for that.
I make it to the office with only a few close calls, though it doesn’t stop there. A horde of press junkies waits for me in the parking garage, and they follow me to the building, snapping pictures and shoving recording devices in my face all the way. I do my best to ignore their shouted questions, but it’s tough. My knee-jerk reaction is to loudly defend myself, but I realize after yesterday’s debacle that it’s pointless. No matter what I say, it’ll get spun in an unfavorable light.
It’s a relief to get to the front door and past security. They warn the reporters to get lost while I slip inside to face my fate.
I drop off my purse and company laptop in my office before heading for Oliver’s office. I debate on whether I should just pack up my few belongings now, but I decide to wait. Maybe I won’t get fired. Maybe Karen’s lies will be seen as what they are. Maybe Oliver will look over the tapes again and see that she’s just full of shit.
Maybe I’m dreaming.
Oliver’s office is a long elevator ride up from my floor. People get on and off as the elevator makes its stops along the way, and from the sideways glances and judgmental looks, word has spread. No one so much as gives me a friendly nod of greeting, and a couple people even whisper to each other when they see me, casting furtive glances my way until they reach their floor.
When I exit the elevator at the top, I’m a bundle of wound-up nerves. My stomach churns, and I swallow back a bit of bile that threatens to jump out of my throat. Even with nothing in my belly to throw up, my body wants to run to the nearest restroom and empty itself of whatever’s in there causing trouble.
Oliver’s assistant stops me outside his door and picks up her phone. After a few terse seconds of “Yes, Mr. Franklin. It’s her,” she buzzes me in.
My hands are sweating so much that I can’t twist the doorknob without them sliding clean off of it. I finally wrap my hand in my shirt and try again. This time, the knob turns, and I slip inside.
Oliver stands with his back to me, his large body framed by the huge windows lining one wall of his office. My office has one tiny window, with a shitty view of the building next door, but Oliver overlooks all of LA from his office, and I’m a little jealous. I’d come to my own office more often if it meant views like this.
“Iris.”
That’s it. No “hello,” no greeting of any kind. Just my name, spoken like an accusation.
