Lucas
It’s beentwo weeks since I gave Jess the bracelet.
Two weeks since she looked at me like I was something more than a PR partner. Like I was someone who mattered to her.
Two weeks since she hugged me without cameras, without fanfare, just soft and close, her head against my chest like she belonged there.
She’s in my space now. In my head. In that quiet corner of me that I’ve spent years keeping locked down. The part that wants things I don’t usually let myself want.
I haven’t been able to shake it.
I’m in my office at Wonderland Studios, where I’m trying to focus and pretend my inbox isn’t eating me alive. My phone pings for the fourth time in as many minutes. I don’t have to look to know it’s from legal, asking if I’ve reviewed the third draft of ourPink Slipholding statement.
I have.
I just hate it.
I scroll to the bottom of the Word doc on my laptop and rework the ending for the fifth time. I need something that doesn’t sound like a studio executive was held hostage by a publicist and forced to read cue cards with a gun to his head off-screen. It has to sound human.
Levi Peterson didn’t kill anyone. With a blood alcohol level that is protected by HIPAA laws and a damn-near heroic claim of avoiding a neighborhood cat, he swerved into a tree and was mildly concussed. The internet has already meme-ified him into some kind of pet-protecting vigilante.
Unfortunately, there’s a video now, not of the crash but of him stumbling out of the car and muttering, “It’s always fucking cats.” It’s not ideal.
But now, instead of keeping this story to myself like I did when it broke back in Vegas, I find that I’d like to work through it with Jess. She’s infiltrating my home, my thoughts, and now, it looks like, my workplace, too.
LUCAS
Any chance you can record today’s podcast episode over here? The Levi coverage is turning into a mess. Would be good to align.
JESS
You mean you want me tonottorch your studio this time? I guess. Studio? 30 minutes?
LUCAS
Conference room B first. I’ll have coffee. And donuts. And moral high ground, if there’s any left.
JESS
Ooooh, bribery and self-awareness. My favorite combo.
I forward the most recent internal update to her inbox. If we’re going to thread this needle, I’d rather do it face to face. She’s the only reporter I trust to handle this with integrity—and the only one who could blow it all up if she’s not given the full picture.
My assistant catches me in the hallway. “Legal is waiting on the Levi update.”
“Tell them it’s coming by noon.”
Thirty minutes later, I walk into the conference room, and Jess is already there, perched on the edge of a chair with her laptop open and a cold brew balanced on one knee. She’s in one of those outfits that make her look like she didn’t try at all, yet still, somehow, radiates presence: tight jeans, oversized tee, and with her hair up with a pencil stabbed through the bun.
She doesn’t look up as she types. “You’re late.”
“You’re early,” I counter, setting the coffee and pastries between us. “You always show up early when you think I’m going to lie.”
“I was nearby,” she replies still focused on her laptop. “Interview with someone from the costuming team forSurvivor. Also, your intern downstairs offered to park my car.”
I pause. “We don’t have interns who valet.”
“Then I just gave my keys to a stranger in aDazed and ConfusedT-shirt.”
