I glance around the room for my phone before spotting it on the coffee table where I left it before falling asleep last night. I grab it and prepare to send a text to Wesley, but I see he already sent me one three hours ago.
Wesley:Shit is hitting the fan with the photos. Sorry to ditch. Talk later.
I doubt there is anything I can do to help him, and I'm not even sure I should be going to work right now. There will be press waiting outside the building, I'm sure, and they'll be hoping to talk to anyone associated. In one week, I have screwed up more lives than I ever thought possible.
Me:I saw the article online. Can I help you in any way?
Wesley:Can't talk to you right now. We have to remain impartial until there's a resolution.
I'm staring through the phone, and my hands seem numb trying to hold the device up. We can't talk now because I'm with Virtual Generation. My name will be slung through the mud too. I've been focusing on Wesley and disregarded what effect this can have on me.
“He can't communicate with me at the moment," I tell Layla. “Like, he's not allowed to converse with me."
Layla comes over with two cups of coffee, handing one over. “Look, I get it. You're crushing on him, you want him bad, I can see it, but this is wicked sketchy. You need a new job like pronto, and we need to make sure your name will not accompany the fallout. I'm sorry, but you need to worry about yourself and not Wesley. You know, if you offer to help the breast milk company with their supply, it will help."
Layla stares at me, straight-faced, as she offers me her advice. “What?"
“You just need to be milked, right?"
“Are you new to anatomy and physics?"
“I kid," she says. “I know you can't make milk. Your biological clock told me so."
“Dude, you're pushing the wrong buttons this morning." Layla is cracking herself up at my expense, and I'm questioning how I've been living with her for so long. She responds to trying times with humor, and it's not the time. I'm super stressed, and she's just going to go back to her computer and probably start up a new kind of business today.If only my life was that easy.
“It'll be okay. Everything blows over," she says.
“My career will be over, and I will be jobless."
Yellow tape is around my office building with a sign that says, “Closed to the press," which I'm not sure I've seen before. I'd be willing to bet Mick had someone put this tape up. Other companies occupy the building too, so I walk inside without trouble and take the elevator upstairs. The front door is closed, and there's a note on the window that reads: Closed for renovation. Nice.I don't think arenovation can fix this little problem, Mickey.
An email to the staff could be super helpful, but from what I've seen, he's not old enough to deal with big boy problems. I dial the phone number for the front desk, wondering if anyone will pick up. I know the phone connects to Mick's cell phone after hours, so maybe he'll be nice enough to tell me what's going on. The number goes right to a busy signal. This is bullshit.
With rage running through me like a double shot of espresso, I head across the street for the Starbucks to add the espresso on top of the rage, which will give me the motivation to do what I need.
Coffee in hand and my laptop open, I'm huddled in the back corner of the coffee shop, watching all the people wait to start their typical workday.
I open the article published by the Boston online paper and scroll down to the comment section, finding a long string of jokes and jabs. There's the battle between breast milk and formula mixed in there too. People must comb the internet for places to start drama each day. I don't get it. Do these people work?
My cursor is blinking in the fresh comment box, and the words are bubbling to come out. Once I begin typing, the words flow for what seems like an hour before I'm satisfied with my defense of Wesley and offense toward Virtual Generation. From the start, I stood firm with my beliefs against the campaign, and this might be my only chance to protect myself from being dragged down with the trash. Throughout my explanation, I offer my ideas for the campaign and state how disgusted I've been since starting this new job at a promising advertising company. By mentioning the illegitimate contracts and the fact, an amateur businessman drafted them should highlight Wesley's innocence. I also added in the matching hashtags to the ones I saw across the social media platforms this morning and the Lacto Natural Central company. With my fingers crossed, I press the “submit" button.What's the worst that can happen?
