Page 107 of When We Were Enemies
Mom and Mac had broken up by awards season, and she attended with my thirteen-year-old niece, Nora, keeping the fame cycle running for another generation. Nonna passed a lot down to us—Varietysays it’s her smile, but that’s one minor part of our inheritance. She worked tirelessly for her place on the screen, and it pulled her and her family out of poverty. I do wonder whether it’s fair to benefit from her fame rather than pave our own paths. It’s a hollow existence wondering every time I find success if I’d have reached it without my family’s name following my own.
I politely disengage from the conversation, and Monique eventually departs. RROCK is my domain now, and I want to be immersed in it. As Oscar and Ciara walk Monique out and greet our next candidate, I return to my spot and think of Nora at the Emmys all dolled up in a gown and fake lashes. I’ll see if Jim will let her spend part of her summer with me working in the community kitchen, maybe taking a trip to my dad’s ranch. I’m not pretending to know what’s right for my brother’s kid, but I know what helped my soul, and very little of it had to do with red carpets or flashing lights. If I’d remembered that a little sooner, I would’ve walked away fromBombshellbefore all the damage happened. No boom mic; can lights; camera lenses; Edinburgh, Indiana; or Father Patrick.
My phone buzzes just in time to keep me from going down the well-trodden path of regret labeled “Patrick Kelly.”
OSCAR:Got our next one. Be right in.
It’s no use reliving that storyline anymore. Walking away from Patrick was different from walking away from the film or Hunter or even my mom. Patrick was innocent. He was my friend. He was real. And unlike Hunter—I still miss him.
I take out the next résumé without looking at it and place it on the table as the boardroom door opens. I hope our next applicant doesn’tknow me, or if she does, she isn’t gutsy enough to bring it up. Though it’s pretty likely any candidate will do a healthy amount of research before their interview, so maybe it’s a red flag if they haven’t seen the documentary. I chuckle at the irony as everyone returns to their seats.
Oscar clears his throat and starts the meeting.
“Good afternoon. We’re so glad you made it out today. I know Hanna and Luis met with you earlier this week and you and Ciara had a long call yesterday and you finished up a tour of the kitchen and our other facilities. Now, we wanted to bring you in today to meet both myself and our president, Ms.Elise Branson, for a few questions and to see if you had any for us. So—welcome.” Oscar rattles off his spiel as I finish fidgeting with my notepad, forcing myself to come back to the present moment.
“Thank you. I’m honored to be here.” A masculine-sounding voice with a temperate quality to it replies, making me check the résumé. And there, on a stiff, white piece of paper is the name I’ve been running away from for close to two years.
“Patrick?” I say, just as surprised as the first time he played a switching game on me as I pontificated about stained-glass windows in Holy Trinity. Sure enough, when I look up, there he is—dark hair, kind eyes, playful but steady smile.
“Well, yeah. Or ‘Mr.Kelly’ if you’re looking for something more formal.”
Oscar laughs, and Ciara presses her trimmed nails against her lips like she’s covering up a grin. Patrick is dressed in plain clothes: a neat dark blue pair of jeans and a Ralph Lauren jacket that was popular four or five years ago. His short boots are a rich brown leather. Most interesting of all is the dress shirt he has on. It’s not the white oxford shirt itself that catches my eye. No. It’s the lack of a clerical collar.
“M ... Mr....,” I stutter, caught on the casual title but trying to look professional. “Mr.Kelly.” I read over his résumé and find itmatches what I know of Father Patrick, which apparently also applies to Mr.Kelly.
“Ms.Branson,” he responds, calling me by my formal name in a good-humored way.
“You two know each other, then?” Oscar asks.
“Uh, yeah. In a way, I guess. We knew each other from ...” I don’t know how to describe how we know one another. From planning my wedding? From the movie we did together? From church? From the tabloids? From conspiracy videos on TikTok?
“Operation Allies Welcome. Working with Afghan refugees at Camp ...”
“Atterbury. Yes. Mr.Kelly was a big part of that project.” I’m speaking to my team now in order to avoid eye contact with Patrick. “Actually, seeing the lack of resettlement resources for that particular base was one of the inspirations for RROCK.”
“Well, isn’t that full circle?” Oscar asks, holding his pen in the hand clasped under his chin. “Your résumé struck me as particularlyunique.” He lingers on the last word, and I’m sure it’s because he’s savvy enough to know not to bring up an applicant’s religious beliefs in a job interview. “What brings you to our organization?”
Patrick sits up in his chair and straightens his jacket like he’s preparing for a one-on-one with Mac Dorman rather than a job interview.
“A lot like Ms.Branson, I’ve recently made a huge shift in my career,” he says, speaking directly at me, uninhibited. “And I’ve always been passionate about helping others.”
“Wait,” I blurt, wedging myself into the conversation, dizzied by the unexpected cameo. “Your career changed?”
I haven’t seen Father Patrick since the night we parted in front of the church. I considered reaching out more than once, but after that last conversation with Father Ignatius and several conversations with church officials investigating the photograph situation, I thought it’dbe best for Patrick if he never saw my face again. Why would he even want to talk to me, much less work at my company?
“Uh, yeah. It’s a long story, but—to answer simply—yes. Yes, it changed.” He rubs his chin and uncrosses his legs and then lays an envelope on the table. “I was freed from the clerical state at the end of last year and have been laicized. It’s all in here if you need the documentation.”
“Well, your religious orders are really none of our business,” Ciara reminds Patrick and the rest of the room, pushing her long, curly hair off her shoulders like the tension is making her warm. It may be none of Ciara’s business or Oscar’s or RROCK’s business for that matter, but it damn well seems like one of the main reasons he’s come here is to give me that piece of information.
“You know what—could Patrick and I have a second? I think we need to catch up before we continue. You all right with that?” I ask my team, knowing full well they have no other option but to say yes.
Both executives clear the room without protest. Once we’re alone, I settle into a chair closer to his but not so close as to seem aggressive or presumptive.
“You know you could’ve just called me, right?” I ask, taking him in from this closer proximity. He’s different. Not quite so buttoned up, literally and figuratively. His hair is neatly combed but touching his ears and collar. And from here, I can see a light stubble on his chin that’s ruggedly handsome to say the least.
But he’s also completely unchanged, and so is my reaction to him—his mannerisms, humor, the way he makes me feel like he knows all the worst parts of me and doesn’t give a shit about any of them. Our eyes connect in that way that makes my insides melt and my ears ring.
“I wanted to. But I didn’t know what you’d think of me now.” He gestures to his new look or perhaps his new self.
