The narrative writes itself.
I snap my mask back into place.
It’s not even the hit that’s going to stick. It’s the way it looked. I already know it. One bad angle, one clipped video, andsuddenly I’m the asshole goalie who can’t keep his temper in check. No one’s going to see him leaning on me first. Knocking me down and trying to hurt me on purpose. No one’s going to care that he kept coming into my space jonesing for a reaction. They’ll see what they want to see. They always do. I press my lips together behind the cage, trying to force everything into place, but it’s too late for that.
The damage is already done, and somewhere three thousand miles away, my mom is standing in a house that’s falling apart, watching this on TV, while I’m out here proving everyone right about me.
Chapter Two
Remy
Clementine paces across the meeting room floor, talking a mile a minute. “I don’t understand why Colin’s doing this! He was sleeping with that drummer for, like, eight months, and youknowthat wasn’t the first time he cheated on me. What gives him therightto blab to the tabloids? And now he’s trying to make it look like I was cheating onhim,when he’s the fuckboy?” She stops mid-pace, pulls up the floppy collar of her cream boatneck sweater, and screams into the plush wool knit. Even in the midst of a full-blown panic attack, Clem manages to look mostly put together, though her thick bottle-blond hair is starting to resemble a lion’s mane the longer she freaks out.
Clem’s publicist, who’s seated at the table across from me, makes a helpless gesture in his client’s direction. He’s fairly new, and he looks awfully young, maybe early twenties. I offer him a gracious smile. There’s no point in interrupting now. Until Clem burns off some of her anger, I won’t be able to talk any sense into her.
When she’s screamed herself out, she drops the collar back into place and resumes her pacing.
“What does it matter to him, anyway? I’m alifestyleinfluencer. Nobody wants to be influenced by someone with a shitty reputation. I’ve already hadfour clientscancel partnerships! Four! I’m being canceled on, like,everysocial media platform! Should I post an expose? Should I refute him? How do I fix this?”
“Easy,” I say.
I can already see the shape of the solution before she finishes the question. This is the part I’m good at—finding the lever that shifts the whole situation without breaking anything else.
Clem stops pacing and whips toward me. “What?”
I gesture to the seat she abandoned. She rushes over and drops into it, clasping her hands on the table in front of her as she waits for my advice.
I lean toward Clem, subtly prompting her to mirror my posture. “At the end of the day, who is Colin?”
“Um.” Clem sticks out her full bottom lip and looks up at the ceiling. “He’s a cheater. And a liar. And…” She trails off, clearly unsure what I’m fishing for. “A freeloader?”
“Exactly.” I reach across the table to lay my hand on top of hers. “He’s nobody. He’s just talking shit about you to stay relevant. But do you know what he really wants?”
Clem shakes her head. “That’s exactly what Idon’tunderstand.”
“He wants the two most valuable things you have to give: your time and your attention. He knows how to get under your skin. When you let him, you’re giving him exactly what he wants.” I reach for my coffee and take a slow sip. I keep my movements deliberate, forcing Clem to slow down, too. “But you know Colin as well as he knows you, right?”
Clem nods slowly. “Yeah. I mean, I donow.”
“So tell me: What would get underhisskin?”
One corner of Clem’s mouth curls upward. “If I ignored him.”
I nod my agreement. “Exactly. If you respond to his trash-talking, you’ll just give him more of what he wants. So here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to kick off a new campaign. A ‘get-ready-with-me on your way to a girl’s night out.’ A ‘fit check before a spin class.’ Don’t mention Colin’s name at all… Talk about your hot, single instructor instead.”
“Oh, my gosh.” Clementine claps her hands to her cheeks, already glowing as she ponders the ideas. “You’re right. He’llhatethat. Ooh, and I could do some collabs with that pole-dancing instructor who’s always giving the funny relationship tips. What’s her handle?”
“Ava Rice.” The publicist looks utterly relieved.
“Ha! That’s right.” Clem practically bounces in her seat. “Ooh, I’m going to throwsomuch shade.”
I sit back and sip my coffee, smiling to myself as my client’s mood does a complete 180. I genuinely like Clem. She’s one of our smaller clients, and her relative level of drama is low on the semi-official Remy Callahan Petty Bullshit Scale. Yes, I have criteria. Yes, I made a chart. On her worst days, Clem caps out at a three out of ten: She’ll catastrophize and scheme, but she’s not actively evil. In other words, she seeks justice, not revenge.
And she listens. That’s the real difference. Most clients don’t. Most of them want a miracle without doing the work, and when it falls apart, they look for someone to blame. Usually me.
If only the rest of my clients were so receptive to my suggestions.
By the time Clementine and her emotionally battered publicist depart the firm, we’re all in a decent mood. I drain the last of my coffee on the way out of the meeting room, fully intending to refill before I head to my desk. Alas, it’s not to be.
