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We’re a week post the PPB incident and we’ve turned in our work. It’s a blind selection from Arco Dog Food and Eva and Rinaldi. We all hate not being in the room. But our work needs to speak for itself. We’ll know by the end of the day. I’ve been flipping a pen cap on and off for about twenty minutes. We literally have no work. Nothing to button up or brainstorm. Sophie throws a pillow at my face.

“I’m going to kill you if you flip that fucking cap one more time.”

I throw the pen across the room. She dodges it.

I say, “It’s the only thing keeping me sane.”

“The pitch is awesome.”

I stand and put my purse on my shoulder. There’s no reason we should be here. “Let’s get drunk.”

“Cool, I’m going to pee, then we’ll go.” Sophie always informs me of her bodily functions. No clue why.

I was flipping the pen to stop myself from texting him. We’ve not exchanged messages since his apology. The next round of this insane competition, we fly to New York and he can’t dodge me with Hulk makeup. I know Sophie and I will go on. Maybe I’m so anxious because I want him to go, also. I don’t want to get this job out of pity from the fucking PPB incident. I want to face him head on.

It's as if he’s reading my mind.

JERKFACE: I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

I grin at his double entendre.

BETTE: On the count of three.

JERKFACE: One.

BETTE: Two.

JERKFACE: Three.

I push enter to give him access to a folder on our cloud. And he does the same.

It’s stunning. They hired an artist to paint a watercolor. Theirs is more pastoral, but we basically pitched the same fucking concept. Ours had a more modern edge to it and we didn’t commission outside work, but it’s good.

JERKFACE: You’ve got to be kidding me?

BETTE: I know! Insane. Yours looks really good. Not as good as ours but good.

JERKFACE: I disagree. Ours is the better version. But ‘ARF’ is inspired.

BETTE: Well, I guess if they hate our collective concepts, we’re all out.

JERKFACE: Or we’re all in. And then New York.

BETTE: And then New York.

BETTE

I'm sitting off to the side at a bar in Clinton, also known as Hell's Kitchen. I'm humoring Sophie by going out because she flew here for moral support. I'd rather be back at my hotel. Four teams moved on: Vancouver, LA, Chicago, and of course, Boston. I can't wait to meet him, then crush him. But there's also the part of me that wants to see him. I'm curious about the person that's opened me up a bit. I still hate him, but I wouldn't miss this meeting for anything in the world.

Sophie is sucking face with some shaggy-haired blond man. Kinda hot watching them. I can't imagine what it's like being them. He seems familiar, but it might be because she has a type. Oh. She just made a big move and climbed on top of him.

I need to climb on top of a man. It's been so damn long my vagina would probably creak if I spread my legs. I start thinking about Hayden a bit. What if he's not the Hulk? Hideous? Or finds me hideous? Or I've imagined all this heat?

Sophie waves to me and drags the man behind her out the door. The voyeurism portion of her evening is complete. I wave and play with my ruby drink stirrer.

I have a killer outfit for tomorrow—chic and it hugs all my curves. I might be on the shorter side, but I'm proud of my hourglass figure and my shoes. They're Chanel, and I slept with them on a pillow next to me last night.