Page 11 of Falling Off Script

She tilts her head. “But it’s a good brand.”

“I was trying to expose him, not end up starring in a slow-mo thirst edit.”

“You do realize you’re going viral?”

“Oh don’t even. I’m the punchline in his sales funnel.”

“You’re the main character in a narrative you didn’t write. That’s still better than most people.”

I roll onto my side. “Why are you being calm? You’re never calm. Where’s the outrage? The righteous judgment? The extremely specific memes?”

There’s a long pause.

Then she sighs. “I’m too broke for principles tonight.”

I blink at the ceiling. “Jessie...”

“I overdrew my checking account buying a reusable water bottle. I thought sustainability was supposed to pay off.”

I try not to laugh. Fail. “Your bank account died for the planet. Brave.”

We’re quiet for a moment.

Then she clears her throat. “So. On that note... I applied for a job.”

“Okay,” I say, cautious.

“A bunch of jobs. Mostly depressing ones. But there’s one you’re really gonna love.”

That tone. The one she uses when she knows I’m going to hate something.

“Jessie.”

She pauses. “Just don’t freak out.”

“Jessie—”

“I applied to Zayne Media.”

“WHAT...” I sit bolt upright. “You can’t. You literally can’t. He’s the algorithm’s gift to fragile men. He’s the Big Oil of gender dynamics.”

“He’s also hiring an assistant. And I... need groceries.”

I flail so hard I almost drop the phone. “So what, you’re just going to sell out?”

“If selling out means having dental again, I’ll consider it.”

I bury my face in a pillow. “You can’t work for him.”

“Why not? He’s a CEO with a budget and—God help me—benefits.”

“But it’shim!”

“I’ve applied to seventeen jobs this week, Em. I’m one spreadsheet away from monetizing my panic attacks.”

There’s a long pause. I can hear her breathing. I hate that it sounds like mine.

“You know he won’t hire you,” I mutter.

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