“I’m sorry, I have to?—”
“Ten minutes,” he says, already turning to his assistant. “Tell Ivan we’re running late for his session.”
In the break room, I press my phone to my ear. “Is everything?—”
“Tyson’s fine,” the school secretary says quickly, and my heart rate slows. “But we had an incident during gym class. He got into an altercation with another student.”
My son, who cries at ASPCA commercials and rescues spiders from the bathtub. “What kind of altercation?”
“The other boy was making comments about... family situations. Tyson reacted physically.”
“Thank you for letting me know.”
Back in the booth, Callum’s already packing up his notes. “We’ll have to reschedule.”
“I can finish the chapter,” I say, even though we both know I can’t. Not with the right energy, not with the right focus. Not when my son needs me. “Maybe push Ivan back?—”
“This is a professional studio, Golda.” His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “We work on schedule. We deliver on time.”
In the doorway, Jenna from the morning shift is watching with poorly concealed interest. She does breakfast cereal commercials and children’s audiobooks, her voice bright and bouncy as a rubber ball. Last week in this same break room, she told me all about her Hinge adventures while I pretended to understand modern dating.
“You should try it,” she’d said, scrolling through profiles. “Get back out there. How long has it been?”
I’d smiled, noncommittal. Didn’t tell her that the thought of strange hands on my body makes my skin crawl. That trust isn’t something you can swipe right on.
Now she catches my eye, mouthing: Everything okay?
I give her my commercial smile, the one that sells smoothies and sunshine. “Just kid stuff. You know how it is.”
She doesn’t, actually. Her greatest commitment is to her goldfish.
“I’ll have my agent call about rescheduling,” I tell Callum, already gathering my things. “We can finish this week, if?—”
“We’re booked through Friday.” He won’t look at me now. “And the client needs the final audio by Monday.”
The implicit message is clear: they’ll find someone else. Someone more reliable. Someone without complications.
I should fight harder. Should remind him that I’ve never missed a deadline, that my reviews are solid, that I can do this job better than half the voices he books.
Instead, I say, “I understand.”
In the elevator, I catch my reflection in the polished doors. I look put together: clean lines, subtle makeup, the kind of woman who belongs in this building. You’d never know I woke up at 5 AM to record smoothie pronouncements, or that I spent twenty minutes this morning hunting for Blythe’s other shoe.
My phone buzzes again. Evan.
Heard from school. Handle it. Can’t take calls during task force.
Three years ago, that message would have sent me spiraling. Now it just settles into my chest, another weight placed onto the pile of guilt trips and manipulation tactics.
The elevator doors open onto the lobby, all marble and morning light. A young woman in studio makeup brushes past me, script in hand, whole life ahead of her.
“Hold the door!” Jenna calls, clicking across the lobby in her impossible heels. “Golda, wait!”
I do, because that’s what professionals do. Because maybe someday I’ll need her to hold a door for me.
“Drinks tonight?” she asks, slightly breathless. “That new place on Seventh? Could be fun, could be terrible, but either way there’s wine.”
For a moment, I let myself imagine it. Being carefree enough for impromptu drinks. Having stories to share that don’t revolve around custody schedules and school incidents.
