I close my eyes. "It's complicated."
"That's not a no."
"No. It's not a no."
Hank makes a sound that might be sympathy. "You're a good kid, Ivy. But you can't fix the world by yourself. And you can't expect everyone to wait while you figure out your love life."
He hangs up.
I sit in the dark.
My phone lights up again. Text from an unknown number:Ms. Hale, this is Trevor from Webb Industries. Mr. Webb would like to schedule a conversation about partnership opportunities. Would tomorrow at 2pm work?
Partnership opportunities.
Translation: he wants to buy me off. Put me on his advisory board. Neutralize my opposition by making me part of his team.
I delete it.
Then I pull up my donor contact list and start drafting emails. Damage control. Reassurances. Explanations that don't sound like excuses.
Dear Dr. Patel, I understand your concerns about optics. The seed program maintains strict protocols...
Dear Foundation Board, recent media attention does not reflect...
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Patterson, I appreciate your longtime support and want to assure you...
Each one feels like pulling teeth.
By midnight I've sent seventeen emails. Fielded four phone calls. Promised three meetings I don't have time for.
My inbox pings. Response from Dr. Patel:Appreciate the context. University legal wants documentation of your conflict-of-interest protocols. Can you provide that by Friday?
Conflict-of-interest protocols.
I don't have conflict-of-interest protocols because I never needed them before. Because my program was small and scrappy and built on trust, not bureaucratic safeguards.
I drop my head into my hands.
My phone vibrates. Rogan's name on the screen.
You awake?
I gaze at the message.
Type:Yes.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Can I come over?
I should say no. Should protect what's left of my reputation by keeping distance. Should be smart.
Instead I type:Back door's open.
He arrives twenty minutes later.Still in his chef's coat, smelling like garlic and wine and exhaustion.
"I'm sorry," he says.
