"Michael. For fuck's sake."
Rosalie pinches the bridge of her nose without looking away from the television, her knee bouncing a mile a minute.
On screen, Kelly Leighton from KTLA sits in her anchor chair, describing last Saturday's events with the careful enunciation of someone trying very hard not to laugh on air. Behind her, the headline reads: SULLIVAN STAKES: BILLIONAIRE'S WILD NIGHT LEAVES LITTLE TO THE IMAGINATION.
The footage is grainy. Someone's phone recording in low light — but unfortunately not grainy or low lit enough to make me unidentifiable.
There I am. Thirty seconds of me, chest deep in the Pershing Square fountain at two in the morning, holding someone's shoe above my head like a trophy while three of my college roommates do the same around me. We are all completely naked. I am laughing, and I look like I'm having the time of my life.
Iwashaving the time of my life. That's not really the problem.
"My entire career as an attorney," Rosalie says, "is funded by your bullshit, Michael."
"That's not true. You have other clients."
"Name one that brings me this much business."
I can't, so I reach for my coffee.
The news segment cuts to a panel. Four people with opinions about my life that I didn't solicit. Some woman in a red dress saysat what point does the board step inand a man in glasses saysthe real question is what this says about Sullivan's leadershipand I stop listening because Rosalie has picked up the remote and turned up the volume, which is her version of making a point.
"Rose."
"I'm watching the news."
"You're makingmewatch the news."
"There's a difference." She sets the remote down. "The board called in a PR firm last Friday."
I set my coffee down. "Who told you that?"
"Jackson." Her eyebrow goes up. "Your own best friend and CFO calledmebecause he didn't think you'd pick up."
"I would have picked up." I pause. "But a better question is why Jackson is calling youdirectly. Why are you calling him Jackson instead of Mark, and how does he even have your number?"
"I'm your attorney. Whywouldn'the have my number?"
I put a mental pin in the fact that my sister and my CFO slash best friend are apparently in contact without my knowledge and file it underproblems for a different day."I had a late night."
"A public fountain, Michael."
"The water was warm. It was a good time."
She looks at me the way she has looked at me since I was fourteen and said stupid shit with great confidence. The look that means she loves me and also, I am an enormous pain in herass. She has seventeen years of practice with it, and it has only gotten more precise.
I lean back onto the couch and look at the ceiling. The penthouse ceiling is high; twenty feet, with custom plaster detail, cost more than some people's houses. I picked it because I liked the space. Rooms that breathe. I spent enough of my life making myself small.
"What does the board want?" I ask.
"What do boards always want?" She reaches for her own coffee. "Optics. Stability. A version of you that doesn't trend on Twitter for reasons that require pixelation."
"The footage wasn't that bad."
"Michael."
"Nobody saw anything important."
"Michael."
