I grab my keys and walk out before either of us can take it back.
Chapter Eight
A Life That Doesn’t Fit
Sarah
The office smells like burnt coffee, the kind that’s been reheated more than once. Half the staff is huddled around the main monitor, whispering like the volume of their voices might change the headline. “It was supposed to be off-record,” one of the assistants says, wringing his hands.
“Off-record doesn’t exist anymore,” I remind him, as I scroll through the first headline already climbing the feed. “We deal with what’s real, not what was supposed to be.”
The words are already spreading, a post game comment from Jace Prescott, clipped on every sports feed. “Hard to win when the refs are more focused on their whistles than the game.” The athletic director wants a statement ‘yesterday,’ the coach is on a plane, and the intern who was supposed to record the Q&A forgot to hitsave.
It’s chaos. The kind I’m built for.
The kind where everyone panics and looks to me before they even realize they’re doing it. Control has a sound— quick typing, short breaths, something I can trust.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands once. “Everyone breathe. I’ll handle the statement. You,” I nod to the intern—“find every live clip from that press feed and pull the original quote. Context is our friend.”
She nods, wide-eyed, and scrambles toward her desk.
The room exhales a little, and I feel that familiar shift, the one where noise becomes clarity. My fingers fly across the keyboard, rewriting what Jaceshould’ve saidif he’d thought before speaking. And if frustration hadn’t gotten the better of him. I build sentences one after the other until the mess starts to sound less like damage control.
By the time the athletic director calls, I already have a draft ready. “It’s all set,” I tell him, voice calm, steady. “You’ll have the release in five. I’ll also send you the talking points for the follow-up interview too.”
He sighs, relieved. “You’re a miracle worker, Sarah.”
“No,” I say lightly, clicking through the final draft, “just good at what I do.”
Not a miracle. Just practiced. God knows I had to put out a million and one fires in my last position.
I hang up, reread the statement, and tighten it until it sounds like something people will actually believe. This job is a constant balance, half triage, half theater. Control the story and control the fallout.
The hum of adrenaline fades, leaving only an ache between my shoulder blades. I stretch, roll my neck, and glance at the clock, it’s seven-thirty. The rest of the office cleared out an hour ago.
Of course they did.
I’ve made a habit of being the last one standing, proof that purpose feels safer than rest.
I should go home and eat something that isn’t vending machine junk. Maybe call my sister Rachel before she starts leaving her “just checking in” voicemails. Life of a college student I guess. I’ll have to remember to pin her down one day and meet up. Instead of doing any of that, I open a new document and start outlining the next week’s media schedule.
I keep moving and fixing things on it until I think it’s perfect. This also gives me less time to think about things that shouldn’t be running through my head. More importantly, someone.
My phone buzzes once.
Ellie: You’re still there, aren’t you?
Me: You say that like it’s a bad thing.
Ellie: Because it is. Go home before they start charging you rent.
Me: One more thing, then I’m gone. I promise.
Ellie: Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.
But what’s the alternative? Go home to silence and memories that don’t stay in the past where I put them? I’d rather face crisis PR than sit in the quiet of my own thoughts.
I delete the next three lines of a report that no one will notice tomorrow, then rewrite them anyway. It’s easier than admitting I don’t know what to do when the world isn’t demanding something from me.
