All That Really Matters

by Nicole Deese

  “Molly, what can I help you with?”

  I clamped my lips closed as sweat dampened my palms. This was a mistake. I hardly even knew Silas. One long phone call didn’t suddenly make him my life coach. He probably thought I was some kind of mentally unstable hot mess of a woman. And at the moment, I couldn’t exactly blame him for that assumption. All of this was wrong. What if I’d just committed career suicide? Worse, what if I was about to get sued by Sophia Richards? I had a comfortable savings account and several investments in my name, yes, but my 401K plan was pennies on the dollar to what Sophia Richards and her husband brought in. I only needed to look as far as the inside of her bathroom cabinets to figure that out.

  “This is probably a huge waste of your time. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking to ask you to come here and get involved in this.” I squeezed my eyes closed in renewed humiliation; then I felt his hand touch mine.

  I opened my eyes and stared down at it, taking in the long corded scar curling up his right forearm.

  “I’d like to help you, if I can. Do you mind if I view the digital contract from your phone? Or do you have it printed out?”

  I eyed him cautiously. “You’re sure?”

  “I never extend offers I don’t intend to follow through on.”

  My throat tightened. “Thank you. I’ll pay you for your time, Silas.”

  “Let’s worry about that later, shall we?”

  I slipped the paperwork I’d printed off at home from the inside pocket of my purse and slid it across the table to him. “I suppose you’ll need to know what I could be in breach of, right?”

  “That would be helpful, yes,” he said with a comforting smile. And I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the same expression he wore when he first sat across from his new house residents at The Bridge. If these were the same kind eyes they saw when Silas told them they were safe, provided for, and welcomed into a home they could call their own for however long they needed.

  Unlike what I’d planned to do when I arrived—skip all the self-incriminating details regarding my foolishness and use only vague terms when it came to certain unmentionable tanning wear—in actuality, I laid it all out for him. The whole ugly saga. With one minor exception: I didn’t tell him about Project New You. Or about Sophia’s connection to a producer. There simply wasn’t a good way to share that part without Silas figuring out why I’d volunteered at The Bridge in the first place, and I couldn’t lose whatever ground I’d finally gained with him in these last few weeks.

  “So this Tubee top . . .” Silas seemed at a loss for words after that. Like he’d attempted to start a sentence and then quickly realized he had no direction to go with it. Understandable. Expecting him to wrap his mind around a grown woman fleeing a photo shoot in a beach sarong, dripping orange sweat while fighting with her manager in the driveway of a Malibu mansion was certainly not the easiest of stories to process.

  “You’re concerned about the repercussions of refusing to wear the tanning garment they provided and then fleeing the shoot before it was finished.”

  “My ex said I’d be sued for breach of contract if I left the way I did,” I said, trying out Ethan’s new title for the first time.

  A brief yet quizzical look crossed his features. “I thought you said your manager told you that?”

  So I supposed I’d left that little detail out, too, then. “They’re actually two in one.”

  “Who is?”

  “My manager is my boyfriend. Well, now he’s my ex-boyfriend.”

  Silas said nothing, but I didn’t miss the slight hitch in his eyebrows as he read through the first two pages of legal jargon.

  “And yes, I do realize how that sounds,” I said.

  “How what sounds?”

  “How dating my talent manager must sound.”

  “I’m not asking you to defend anything to me.”

  Yet I wanted to do just that. I wanted to explain that while Ethan had called me his girlfriend for several months, these last several hours of being single had brought more clarity than I’d had in the entire time we were a couple. Because that was the thing—we hadn’t ever really been a couple, at least, not in the ways that mattered most. There was always something more pressing, more urgent, more engaging to tend to than the health or growth of our relationship. And I had told myself to be okay with that. To be okay with playing the arm-candy role at every social event. To be okay with engaging in the shallowest of small talk with colleagues and sponsors who spoke to me like my brain was filled with helium. To be okay with being labeled a progressive power couple who didn’t need romantic expectations or emotional connection to fulfill them.

  But as it turned out, I wasn’t nearly as progressive as I thought I was.

  I reached for the salt and pepper shakers on the table and spun them around each other like dance partners, dipping one and then dipping the other. It was a game I used to play with Miles as we waited for our food to arrive after enduring never-ending church meetings as kids. Whoever invented the most creative dance routine for the bride and groom without spilling a single speck onto the table would get to—

  “Are you hungry?” Silas asked, plucking me out of my childish memories.

  “No.” I stopped the imaginary bridal dance. “Oh gosh, are you? Sorry, I asked the waiter to come back once you arrived since I wasn’t sure what you might want, but I guess he forgot. I can go and find him if you—”

  “I’m fine.” Silas’s mouth stretched into a sly grin. “I was just concerned that your salt and pepper dancers were going to get rowdy if they didn’t find a hot plate to season soon.”

  I smiled back at him. “You know, you can actually be funny sometimes, Silas.”

  “Don’t tell anyone.” He moved to the third page of The Fit Glam Kit contract, sliding his finger down. And then he stopped. “Ah, here we go. ‘The Brand Ambassador retains the right to refuse to create content that may injure, tarnish, damage, or otherwise negatively affect the reputation and goodwill associated with Makeup Matters with Molly or that of the Brand Ambassador’s existing sponsors.’” He looked up at me again. “There’s your out.”

  “That’s it?” I looked down at the document.

  “That’s it. According to the Brand Ambassador’s protection clause of this contract, you have the legal right to refuse to create any content you feel will damage your reputation. There’s no breach of contract.”

  Relief rushed over me. “Thank you, Silas. Thank you.”

  He gave a nod. “You’re welcome. I can write up an official statement if you’d like me to. To send to your . . . manager, or to the sponsor herself. I’m not a practicing lawyer, of course, but I can make it sound pretty convincing if you need me to.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “It’s the right thing to do after such an unfortunate occurrence.”

  I released a self-deprecating sigh. “I should have read it all over first.”

  “No, your boyfriend never should have put you in such a compromising position. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  As my eyes met his, I felt it anew. The drastic divide between the man across the table and the man I’d shared far too much of myself with over the last year.

  “You’re right,” I said with adamant resolve. “He shouldn’t have. And he won’t have the chance to again.” A statement I’d said aloud for the first time yet knew it wouldn’t be the last. “Would you mind taking a look at one more legal document for me? I think I understand this one a bit better, since I had a lawyer present when I signed it, but I’d like to be sure.”

  “Of course.”

  I slid the rest of the Cobalt Group contract on the table, asking him the specifics of the consequences of an early-exit strategy. But unlike the first contract, Silas’s finger never stopped trailing the clauses. He didn’t get that aha look on his face as if he’d just reeled in a marlin when he’d been expecting a catfish. Instead, he confirmed what I already knew: My contract w
ith Cobalt was ironclad until it renewed at the end of this calendar year. If I broke it, if I exited early, I’d not only forfeit any profit brought in by the sponsors, endorsement deals, and campaign promotions that they’d secured for me during our business partnership, but I’d also lose the $100,000 Dream Big Scholarship I’d secured for The Bridge.

  No matter how much I was beginning to despise him, I could tolerate Ethan as a manager for six more months. I’d have to.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish it was better news for you.”

  I shook my head, sighed. “It’s okay.” I’d make it be okay.

  I reached for my phone to pay him through Venmo. “How much do I owe you for your time tonight?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it really is, because if I end up needing something more—like a written statement, I want to be able to ask you without feeling like I’m taking advantage of your generosity.”

  “I can respect that,” he said, eyeing me cautiously. “But I don’t want your money.”

  Something grabbed in the pit of my stomach at the change in his tone.

  “But I could use your help,” he continued. “If you’re willing.”

  “Of course, with what?” I set my phone down, giving him my undivided attention. Silas wasn’t the kind of man who asked for favors. Whatever this was, it certainly wasn’t an easy or casual ask for him.

  “That fundraiser idea you mentioned in your syllabus. Is that something you might be willing to take on? I know it will require more volunteer hours and more time away from your work responsibilities, but the head of the trustee board called me this afternoon. It’s why I was out at my folks’ house this evening. I was consulting with my father.”

  “What did he say—the head of the trustee board?”

  Silas smiled. “She’s a woman, actually, Mrs. Cecilia Harleson. She told me about a fundraising option called the Murphey Grant. Essentially, it’s a dollar-for-dollar matching grant for nonprofit organizations like ours looking to expand. There’s a lot of red tape to the application process, a lot of documentation needed to prove our program meets their requirements, plus an approved building plan by our trustee board.”

  “How much will the Murphey Grant match up to?”

  “Five hundred thousand.” He put out his hand like a stop sign before I could let my excitement explode across my face. “But the catch is that we can only apply for this particular grant once every five years.”

  I crinkled my brow, thinking through the implications of his statement. “Meaning that if they approve your application but you don’t quite reach the financial goal you need, you can’t reapply next year.”

  “Correct.” But something like doubt remained cemented on his features.

  “So, what’s the issue? If the grant is willing to match whatever you can fundraise, it seems like a no-lose situation.”

  “The issue is that the trustee board at Fir Crest Manor will only approve my proposed expansion plan on the condition that we secure the entire sum of money needed to complete the project before we break ground.”

  “Ah, so the Murphey Grant won’t approve the release of their matching funds to The Bridge without an approved building plan, and the trustee board won’t approve the building plan without securing the total funds.” I sat up straighter, my focus becoming more and more clear. “So what do we need to raise? What’s the total sum?”

  “A million dollars,” he said, as if the impossibility of that number was greater than the possibility of it. And I didn’t believe that for a second.

  “Silas,” I said, no longer able to contain my enthusiasm, “that’s amazing! You only need to fundraise four hundred thousand dollars for a project that’s worth one million! Why aren’t you more excited about this?”

  “Because we’d have to secure it all before September first. The funds actually have to be in and accounted for by the morning of August thirty-first—that’s the cutoff date for the Murphey Grant. Less than three months from now. And the total we have to bring in is five hundred thousand, not four.”

  “Nope, numbers may not be a strength of mine, but I promise I’m not wrong on this math story problem. We only need to fundraise four hundred thousand out of the five hundred thousand we need matched, because . . .” I beamed, nearly coming out of my skin. “Because I recently secured a one-hundred-grand scholarship for The Bridge through my agency. It’s a pay-it-forward perk that Mr. Greggorio runs every year with nominations from his clients. He already chose mine and approved it. I don’t have the check in hand yet, but it’s solid. And don’t worry, the scholarship has nothing to do with Ethan.”

  “Molly, I . . .” I’d never seen Silas speechless before, and I had to admit, it was kind of nice. “I’m not even sure what to say, other than . . . thank you.”

  Outwardly, I waved off the compliment, but inwardly I was melty and warm. “We have several weeks to raise four hundred grand. Totally doable.”

  This time when he shook his head and laughed, I laughed with him, lowering my chin to catch his eye. “No more debating or consulting necessary. Apply for that Murphey Grant, Silas. We’ve totally got this.”

  Because whatever part I could play in making Silas’s off-the-page goals come true . . . I would do it. And for once in my life, I wouldn’t do it for my own personal gain. I would do it for Silas. And Glo. And Clara. And for all the kids who’d spent way too many years of their life struggling to get ahead of their circumstances.

  To: Ethan@cobaltgroup.com

  From: Molly@makeupmatterswithmolly.com

  Ethan,

  Despite the unfortunate events occurring last Saturday at Sophia Richards’s private residence in Malibu, I am prepared to honor my contractual agreement with Cobalt Group until the time of its expiration at the end of the calendar year, unless there is just cause for early termination—see clause 5.6 located on page 4 of our agency contract.

  In the meantime, please respect my personal and professional boundaries regarding all further communication. My business hours will be 9 a.m.-4 p.m., M-F, via my assistant, Val. Also, for your consideration, I’ve sought legal counsel regarding any and all circulating rumors regarding a breach of contract due to the incomplete The Fit Glam Kit photo shoot. Clause 3.2 of The Fit Glam Kit contract states that I have the right to reject any content that could damage my brand’s reputation. It also states that all damages and/or fines will be directed to my sponsor and talent agency.

  Sincerely,

  Molly McKenzie

  To: Sophia@srenterprises.com

  From: Molly@makeupmatterswithmolly.com

  Dear Sophia,

  First off, please allow me to say thank you for your kindness in sharing my videos on your fan pages, and for the invitation to your beautiful Malibu home. I’m sure, at this point, you’ve heard from your staff and my agency about the failed photo shoot last Saturday. And while I know this personal contact from me likely goes against wise counsel, I hoped I might appeal to you—woman to woman.

  You see, I love all things glittery and pink and summery and fanciful. Almost all the items you included in your campaign box are things I’d happily promote without reservation. That being said, the Tubee is not a product I feel comfortable modeling or endorsing to my audience.

  My goal with this email is not to offend you any further than I’m sure I already have, but I’d love the chance to explain my decision to leave the shoot unfinished. I’ve recently started mentoring a group of young women at a transitional home for youth who’ve aged out of the foster care system. They’ve never had much in the way of support or guidance, and to say they’re impressionable would be putting it mildly at best. Though the goal of the program is to equip the residents with life skills and confidence to thrive in the real world, their role models have often been 2-D filtered photos of celebrities and social media influencers who’ve made a living doing much of the same publicity work I have done over the last few years. And while I’m grateful for
the platform and reach I have, I’m becoming increasingly aware of the audience my influence impacts.

  I have no doubt the Tubee will bring in many sales for The Fit Glam Kit, but I can’t, in good conscience, attach my name to anything I wouldn’t recommend to these six young women I’m now responsible to mentor. Please know I’m deeply sorry for the time, money, and energy your company has lost due to my decision to leave. I wish you and your company the very best.

  Thank you for understanding,

  Molly McKenzie

  18

  Molly

  Despite the new boundaries I’d placed on Ethan, I’d been anticipating his phone call. Or, at the very least, a string of text messages. But there had been nothing from him at all since my email, and it was almost noon on Monday. Had he read it? Had he been angry? Indifferent? These mentally draining questions were likely why email wasn’t advised as a communication strategy between exes.

  I clicked out of my email inbox for the twentieth time since I’d woken up and tightened my high ponytail, letting the ends of my hair hang over my right shoulder. No matter what kind of emotional tug-of-war I was in, today was a work day.

  Val had slated the Fresh Summer Faces tutorial to go live later this week, which meant I needed to do my part and actually film the compare/contrast of this year’s trending tinted moisturizers and top blemish balms—BB creams—and get it uploaded to her by the end of the day. Tomorrow would need to be reserved for selecting a dozen or so professional outfit options for another session of “Dress for Success” at The Bridge . . . as well as a brainstorming session with Silas on the upcoming fundraiser. Pulling together such an important event by the end of August and working a full-time job would be tight. Then again, I didn’t have to do any of it alone. There were twenty-four able-bodied residents I could recruit for help, plus my secret weapon—Val, the most resourceful woman I knew when it came to finding deals and generating fresh ideas on a budget.