by Emily Belden
be the perfect solution to the mounting pressure to kiss in front of an audience. Why hadn’t I thought of it? I’m not even sure
it lasted long enough to have made it on the screen before the
cameraman moved on to the next unassuming couple, but as
far as section 101 A, rows 1 through 5 is concerned, they’re
pleased. A sea of high fives descends on us as someone throws
pistachio shells in the air like confetti.
Brian leans back in his seat and looks at the sky. He takes
his cap off, briefly, and runs his hands through his dark hair
while letting out what I imagine is a sigh of relief. Relief that an impromptu kiss on the cheek, with his friend’s widow, in
front of thousands, went as well as possible.
Or, at least, better than the first time we kissed.
“Sorry, had to,” he says, gesturing to the drunk guy be-
hind us.
Do not read into this, do not read into this, do not read into this.
As we take a sip of our beers, a helicopter whizzes over the
open-air stadium.
“You ever been in a helicopter, Char?”
“Nope. You?”
“Yeah, with Decker in high school. Twice actually.”
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Decker? That
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kid had hated heights ever since he fell off the monkey bars
in elementary school. Why the hell were you guys in a he-
licopter?”
“It was our senior year of high school and it was for some
bullshit ‘Beginning Photography’ class.”
“God love him, but Decker didn’t have a creative bone in
his body. Can’t see him excitedly taking a photography class just for the fun of it.”
“Well, it was an easy two credits and we both needed them
for graduation. Happy?”
“See? I knew there was another motive,” I say, tapping my-
self on the back.
“Do you want to hear the story or not, Miss Know-It-All?
Anyway, we came up with this idea for our final project to go up in a helicopter and take some aerial shots of the 405.
His mom helped us charter the private chopper. Decker took
photos during the day and I captured the same spot at night.
And then we picked the best shots and framed them side by
side—mine and his—so you could see the juxtaposition based
on time of day. It was a cool little joint project. We both got an A on it and enough credits to get our diplomas. Did you
not see that giant print of the 405 I have hanging above my
mantel? That’s the project. Remind me to point it out the next
time you come over.”
I pause over his use of the phrase the next time you come over.
Even in this newfound friend zone, I’m not making it a habit
to wind up at his place and look at his pseudo art collection.
“So let me get this straight,” I say, returning to the conver-
sation. “The guy who hated heights and didn’t have artistic
flare whatsoever went up in a helicopter for a photography
project?”
“Yeah, and he flew to Vegas too for his bachelor party, no
problem. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to use the bath-
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room while we’re in between innings still. Text me if you
want anything from the concession stand.”
While I’m alone for the moment, I try to digest all I’ve
heard. I know it seems like a small thing, but the Decker I
knew, the one I was married to, would not have gone up in a
helicopter. Sure, I can maybe see him taking an easy art class
for a graduation credit, but Decker couldn’t stay on a hotel
f loor higher than the fourth, refused to zip-line when we
were in Mexico, and made me pay extra for an aisle seat on
our honeymoon flight to Paris just to make sure he wouldn’t
have to look out the window. He told me they drove to Vegas,
too. Maybe Brian’s memories of the bachelor party are a lit-
tle foggy—Decker did say he was blackout drunk that whole weekend.
For as convinced as I am about Decker’s aversion to heights,
I also know Brian doesn’t have a reason to lie about some-
thing as trivial as some dumb high school project. In fact, I
believe Brian’s anecdote wholeheartedly, which makes this
pesky, gnawing feeling in my stomach that much more annoy-
ing. When you’re married to someone, you know everything
about them—it’s part of the bargain. You’re the one person
who knows the other better than they know themselves. I’m
embarrassed to think that maybe I had this whole heights
thing wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a crippling fear the way I had
thought it to be, but rather just a discomfort or a preference.
Did he refuse to go rock climbing that time we vacationed
in Colorado, or did I just not give him the option because I
thought I knew what he’d say about it? I hate to spiral out, but it begs the question: What else did I not know or could have
gotten wrong about the man that I was married to?
Brian comes back from the restroom and wastes no time
asking me for a favor.
“How about a quick selfie?”
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“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, I just got the new iPhone. The camera is supposed
to be bomb. Give portrait mode a try with me?”
I crinkle my forehead yet again as I contemplate the ask.
Before I can protest, he pulls me into the crook of his arm
and I give in. What’s the harm in helping him test his camera?
I tilt my head toward his. He softly places his hand around
my shoulders and says “Smile” before snapping a few shots in
quick succession.
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13
The Dodgers lose four to two, which is exactly the ratio of
beers I’ve had compared to Brian.
For the last few hours, the biggest problem on my mind
has been how I’m going to get the nacho cheese stain out of
my ripped denim shorts, not what I was going to do with my
husband’s ashes. Even though I barely paid attention to the
game, I still call that minibreak a “win for the home team.”
While we wait at the valet stand for the Tesla to loop
around, a gaggle of drunken college bros passes us singing
the lyrics to “Closing Time,” a security guard ushering them
to stop loitering and leave the stadium.
“You don’t have to go homeeee,” they chant. “Sing it!”
They point to us to finish the line.
“But you can’t stay hereeeee,” we sing, laughing as the bros
turn around and fist-bump us.
“I had a good time with you at the game,” Brian says, look-
ing at me with his cocoa-brown eyes. They get bigger by the
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millisecond, like flowers blooming on time lapse. “It was fun
; to hang out. I’m glad we’re…good.”
“I agree,” I say, content enough with “good.” It’s neutral,
it’s friendly, it’s exactly where we should be.
“We should hang out like this more. You know, not just
wait for years to go by before we run into each other at Whole
Foods again.”
I think he wants me to say “I agree” again, but “I don’t
know” is probably a more appropriate response.
Just then, I hear my phone ding four times in a row and
my Apple Watch lights up erratically. I take out my phone, if
only to silence it, but the SOS texts from one of the TIF in-
terns are poking through one after the next like the creatures
in a game of Whac-A-Mole.
Back flat on my feet, I read the texts and learn that an invi-
tation list for a museum event that I prepped before my forced
PTO has apparently been swapped with that of a liquor tasting
event, and so now the demographic of tonight’s Calder ex-
pose is skewing on the younger, more thirsty side, while the
folks at the bar are wondering where all the expensive art is.
“Oh, shit,” I say. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Brian asks.
I ignore him as I go on to read more of the damning mes-
sages.
I know you’re on PTO, but can you call me? It’s 911!
Hel o??? Charlotte, U there?
Actually, hold on. Maybe this will be OK. These 20 y.o.s are REALLY into the art!
And I’m told the people at the bar are having fun, too!
Yup. Ignore. Clients are happy. Crisis averted.
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Do U think reporting will still be OK?
The last message sends a shiver down my spine. On the one
hand, it’s great that the clients don’t seem to notice anything is wrong at their respective events, but on the other hand, this little list mix-up is likely going to mess up the reporting for both events. I need to get to my computer and adjust the metrics, otherwise when Marigold runs the recap report on Mon-
day, it’ll look like we totally missed the mark on who their
target demo is—at least from the numbers side of things. And
that’s not a fuck-up for which I’m willing to admit any fault.
This would never have happened if I was still in the office.
“Char? The car’s here,” Brian says, trying to get my atten-
tion. “Is everything okay?”
I finally tune him back in. “No, it’s not. My team screwed
up something really major with two important clients and
now all the reporting is going to be fucked come Monday.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Come here,” he says, attempting to pull me
in for a hug. I bob and weave and call the intern back instead.
“Hello?” she says, shouting into the line. It sounds like she’s at a New Year’s Eve party.
“What’s going on with Calder?”
“Everything is fine! I can’t talk… I’m schmoozing!” she
screams before killing the line all together.
“Wow, that girl was a loud talker. But I guess the good
news is that everything seems okay,” Brian says.
“Yeah, but it’s not—trust me. Because of some stupid in-
tern who couldn’t read a file name correctly, not one, but
two outcomes that were supposed to happen tonight, won’t.”
“So?”
“So my reporting is going to look like a third-grader put
it together. This is seriously so messed up, you have no idea.
Can you just drive me to my office? I need access to our work
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server so both these clients don’t end up canceling our con-
tracts when their event recaps make no sense whatsoever.”
“You want me to drive you to your office right now?”
“Yes, right now. I know traffic is bad, but it’s not that far.
We can take side streets.”
“I don’t care how far it is . It’s a late. You’re on PTO. I don’t think your boss expects you to be the one to fix this right
now. Can’t this wait?”
Is he kidding?
“No. It can’t. I need to put together an alternative group in
case the client wants to redo the event, and it wouldn’t hurt
to run some preliminary reports to see just how screwed up
this embarrassing mistake looks on paper.”
“The event is going well, Charlotte. Whoever you just
talked to said she had it under control and the client is happy.
Did you not catch that? Does that not count for anything?”
Brian’s suggestion that I should just let fate play out at these two client events screams DEFCON-1-level disaster to me.
Maybe it’s not a big deal to him, but to me, it’s data in, data out. That’s how it has to be.
“This isn’t about whether or not the client is happy,” I snap.
“This is about the numbers adding up like they are supposed
to. Someone dropped the ball. But if I can take control back,
then why not do it? Why not give these people the outcomes
they were expecting, the outcomes they paid for?”
Still standing outside the car, Brian is silent and shaking his head with a bit of a smirk.
“What?” I ask.
“What if you just table the math of it all for just a second,
Char? What if you let people be pleasantly surprised by how
good things went tonight?”
“Yeah, and then what?”
“Then, when you’re back in the office, you explain there
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was a glitch and everything still turned out fine. This isn’t open heart surgery. An art party and some boozy event seem
like situations with a little room for error.”
“Do not belittle what I do, Brian. Just because I don’t save
lives for a living, doesn’t mean—”
“That’s not what I meant. At all. You know that.” He turns
serious.
“You’re right, no one is dying on a table right now, but
this stuff matters—to me, at least. And I’m pissed. Can’t I be
pissed? Can’t you just let me be pissed?”
“Then so be it,” he says, throwing up his hands. “Be pissed.”
“I will. And screw giving me a ride, I just ordered an Uber,”
I announce as I briskly walk away to flag down my driver.
The Uber from Dodgers Stadium to The Influencer Firm
took thirty-two minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic and
cost fifty-six dollars because of surge rideshare pricing. And
when I got there, I was greeted with a disabled fob and locked
entry. I tried texting a “911” message to Zareen explaining
why I needed in, stat. But all I got back was a short and not-
so-sweet: Client = happy. Reports = Marigold.
The next Uber drove me from my work to my apartment
in Studio City. It took eighteen minutes, a decent amount of
traffic, and cost seventeen dollars.
By the time I unlock the door to my apartment, I’ve wasted
nearly an hour and the same amount of money as a bag of Le-
no’s high-end dog food. And for what? I can barely answer
that myself, as the only thing I have to show for it is an alert on my phone reminding me to tip and rate my drivers as well
as an oversized shirt that smells like a combination of cheap
beer and nervous sweat.
As I help myself to another one of Casey’s LaCroixes in
the fridge, I spot the two tickets to the singles cruise and re-9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 155
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member not only that it’s this Sunday, but that I agreed to go
with Casey. Here’s to hoping I can somehow get out of these
plans, or that there’s a one-time pop-up mummy exhibit she’d
rather go to instead.
My Apple Watch lights up with a new text. It’s from Brian.
Did you make it to wherever you were going?
Ya , I say, clearly still pissed—not necessarily at him.
Good. BTW you left your purse in my car…
His text is a subtle reminder of just how high I flew my
freak flag earlier. I was so worked up that I left my bag with
Decker’s urn in Brian’s car. I assured Debbie that her son was
not rolling around in the back of my trunk, but I guaranteed
nothing about him floating around in the back of Brian’s Tesla.
Am I unfit to take care of this myself after all? Was she right that I had no business handling his remains?
I call Brian immediately but it goes straight to voice mail.
I dial back and the same thing happens. So I move on to a
frantic text instead.
U have D, right?
Thirty seconds rolls by with no reply.
Right?
A minute.
Hello?!
Two.
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My mind spirals as I begin to think the worst. Brian is pissed
at me for acting like an ungrateful diva tonight. I don’t blame him. I look down at my phone. Still no reply.
I can picture Brian ignoring my texts as he drives to Deb-
bie’s house to hand off the urn because that’s how far I’ve pushed him. I don’t listen to anyone. I’m a control freak. And
above all, I’ve been a widow longer than I’ve been a wife and
I can’t play the sorry-I-was-drowning-in-grief card anymore.
Why, Charlotte? Why did you have to run to work right then and there like an absolute lunatic?
I’m usually a girl full of answers, but I can’t even begin to
tackle that one. The one thing I’ve kept an eye on so intently
that it almost cost me my job (and frankly still could), is the same thing I just happen to leave behind in someone else’s