Peyton,
Thanks for reaching out. We’d be happy to discuss parameters and opportunities around a Ryan McAllister feature. I can meet at Frost Bank Center this afternoon.
Parameters.
Opportunities.
Fine.
I put on the blazer that says professional adult and the boots that say I might still climb a fence if the story deserves it. Then I drive to Frost Bank Center with my phone turned on, because maturity is apparently a series of poor compromises.
My father calls while I am parking.
I let it ring.
He texts thirty seconds later.
You are making it difficult to help you.
I stare at the screen until the words stop moving under my skin.
Then I type: Good.
I delete it.
Growth, regrettably.
Frost Bank Center does containment beautifully.
Every hallway has a camera, every door a badge, every smiling staffer who knows exactly where I am supposed to stand.
Nobody blocks me.
They just guide.
A leash looks almost elegant when it has money.
Jennifer meets me in the lobby in a Stampede-gold dress with a tablet tucked against her ribs.
“Peyton Hayes,” she says. “Glad we could make this work.”
“That makes one of us.”
Her smile does not move.
Credit where due.
Behind her, a photographer named Samantha Cole crouches near a sponsor wall, telling two stiff rookies to relax their shoulders.
“They are relaxed,” one says.
“You look like you’re being held hostage by a polo shirt.” She shoots the picture at exactly the right second.
I like her immediately.
Very inconvenient.
Jennifer leads me toward the executive level, then stops at the elevator and looks at me. “Ms. Hayes, I know what PR sounds like. I also know when reporters walk in ready to punish everyone for the existence of PR.”
