Page 34 of A World Without You
My gaze bounces from my notes on the desk to her bright blue eyes in rimmed glasses, awaiting her answer.
“You better be ready to handle fucking anything.”
“Wow. I’m obnoxious.” I can picture the mock intimidation presenting high life or death stakes to this poor hatchling fresh out of college, like her life depends on whether or not I’ll need an extra shot of espresso in my coffee and find myself stereotypically intolerable.
But still, the sentiment works. I stand, take the meeting notes on my desk, and hold them close to my chest. “Well, then, let’s fucking go do that.”
She grins, her shoulders drawn back in pride.
The meeting is full of seven suits, none of them paying attention to me except for the man in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.
Jeremy Jansen, I presume. Then, next to him is a woman in wide-legged slacks and a blue silk blouse. Sarah Montoya. I’ve followed her on social media since I moved to Roslyn. The first influencer who ever took hold of my attention. Beautiful. Smart. Educated. Influential.
She could convince me to buy a paper bag and wear it to Christmas Eve service if it was the right color for me.
But I stick to the notes, delivering each point rigidly and embarrassingly. Twenty-four minutes in, I realize I’m losing all of them. They exchange bored, regretful glances and I know they’re wondering why they even took this meeting with me, so I ask, “Sarah, what makes you want to represent a brand?”
She looks surprised, a bystander supporting her billionaire boyfriend, then she meets my eyes to answer. “Quality and integrity.”
I nod at each answer. “Right. And how does a brand convince people they have both.”
“Reviews.”
“Besides that,” I counter.
She draws in a breath, rubbing her mauve glossed lips together. She’s contemplating, but I know exactly what she’ll say. I’ve followed her religiously for the last four years. She smiles. “Personality.”
I don’t miss the slight lilt in her accent. I nod and ask, “And how do people get to know the personality of a brand.”
She grins wider. She knows I know her. Studied her. Observed her. But really, I consumedher. In another world, at least. “Social media.”
Her answer is reluctant and exactly what I need her to say. I turn to her boyfriend, Jeremy. “How much time do you think the average person spends on social media, Jeremy?”
He shrugs. “An hour a day?”
“On average, it’s two and a half hours per day,” I answer. I close the folder with the weird notes on the table. “And in between the people they’re following—the friends, the celebrities, the wanna-bes—these social media users are being bombarded with ads. And last I checked” —approximately thirty-seven minutes ago— “Jansen Enterprises barely spends a fraction of their advertising budget on social media.”
Jeremy narrows his eyes on me, his brow creasing and his eyes darting toward his girlfriend, who’s wearing a smug expression. I can already tell she and I are on the same page.
“I told you—” she scold-whispers, and he hushes her. I hate it, but it also tells me I’m running down the right track.
“You’re missing the mark not because you don’t have the right service but because you’re not telling the right people. With my skillset with lifestyle photography and Bella Mae’s proven track record of targeted advertising, you’ll be expanding ten-fold by next Christmas,” I say and lean over the conference table, holding my gaze on his. “Let me help you.”
Jeremy Jansen flashes a glance at his colleagues, and I look at his girlfriend. We hold our stare and exchange a grin.
“We’ll be in touch,” he finally says, rising from the table.
––––––––
IARRIVE BACK AT THEapartment after seven, and Colin is nowhere to be found. He’s probably still working, and I have no intention of hassling him home. I spend the next hour picking up a few things around the apartment and starting a few loads of laundry. I wipe down the counters and light a candle. Sushi is delivered ten minutes before Colin walks through the door at 7:57, just as I pour two glasses of wine.
“How was work?” I ask, ignoring the flutter in my belly. Ignoring how much I love him. How much I want him. I ignore all my emotions in an attempt to remain as calm as I can in the presence of the love of my entire life.
It’s painful to restrain myself. A pain I know I deserve because I lost him on my own accord. But even still, all the years I’ve missed him—all the years I’ve wondered about him—are compounded into one feeling swimming in my gut.
And all I have to offer as reparation is a good bottle of wine and sushi from Pike Street.
He smiles at me and says, “The same. How was today?”
