Chapter 89 – Pleasing the Boss

Brystin POV

The next several days are spent untangling my life from Elvis’s. Or beginning to, anyway.

I meet with a lawyer on Tuesday to start the separation process.

Wednesday morning, Elvis and I have a cordial conversation via telephone about division of property. He’ll keep the apartment in the city, of course. I’ll get the one in Edison. We arrange a time for him to get movers to pack up his stuff when I’m not there. He sends an Uber with the few items I have in Manhattan. It’s only enough to fill two boxes.

It’s an allegory of how our life together has always been—he takes all the space while I make myself small to be in his world.

I imagine I’ll eventually sell my Edison unit—it all depends on where I find a job—but wherever I end up living, I plan to occupy every square inch.

Our finances are harder to agree on. Without a job, I will need to depend on Elvis and on savings. He, on the other hand, is under the imp**ssion that Hadrian will be my new sugar daddy, which is frankly none of his business, but even if we end up together, I want to deserve my keep. Maybe some people view alimony as no different than being put up by a man, but I earned that money. I’m responsible for Elvis’s success as much as he is, and I’m not giving away what’s mine.

For the time, he gives me the checking account with a lump sum to tide me over, and he takes control of the savings.

We don’t say a word about my departure from the show.

I spend the rest of Wednesday getting my resumé together and talking to a headhunter who says my job outlook all depends on what recommendations I get from my previous employer, but I’m not ready to ask Elvis or Hadrian for any favors so I leave that on my to-do for another day.

Thursday morning, Shiloh has breakfast with me before she heads into the city. She’s been kept on to do hair and makeup for the anchor who has temporarily filled my spot—a filler who’s been a regular at the network for years. Shiloh makes her out to be a monster, but I know she’s just trying to bolster my spirits. I’ve met Megan before and seen her work. She’s always been both kind and professional. Frankly, she’s probably more entitled to the job than I am.

When Shiloh’s gone, I almost break down and text Hadrian.

That night, Hadrian texts me.

I’m missing you.

It’s late, and the timing fits so many of our nighttime sexting sessions, so I respond with the obvious.

What part of me?

All of you, Brystin. All of you.

It takes me several minutes to catch my breath. When I do, it takes another several minutes to compose a response. Before I settle on the right direction, he sends another.

But if you send me a picture of your fi**gers in your p**sy, I’ll make it worth your while.

You already have a p**sy pic.

Not one with a landing strip. *wink emoji*

Two orgasms later, I sleep better than I have in days.

Friday, my strength leaves me, and I spend the day in bed with my phone off and a tub of ice cream. And a bag of Ruffles. And a medium gluten-free margherita pizza.

Saturday night—or Sunday morning, I guess, since my phone says it’s twenty minutes after midnight—I show up at Hadrian’s apartment. The doorman has to call before he can let me up, so Hadrian’s not surprised when he opens the door to find me standing there.

“I’m not here to talk.” I set the terms straight up front. It’s the most selfish I’ve ever been in a relationship, taking what I need for me. Making demands.

He doesn’t ask questions, and he doesn’t argue, and when he wakes to find me dressing at five in the morning, he gets up to make me a travel mug of coffee and calls me a car.

Later that day, he sends another text.

I’m still going to figure out how to prove it.

I don’t tell him that he’s, little by little, already proving it.

Monday, I put on my big-girl pa**ies and go to the Seymour Center to deal with exit paperwork that Hadrian insists I can only sign in person.

Just kidding—I don’t wear pa**ies at all because I take it for the booty call that it is, and after I put my signature on the dotted line, he bends me over the worktable that we never got to the last time we f**ked in his office.

After that, we text on the regular. Sometimes it’s dirty. Sometimes it’s mundane commentary on our day. Sometimes we veer into emotional sentiments, but we both steer clear of talking future plans. It’s like we’ve both accepted that this is a season in limbo. A season of transition. A season meant to get our shit together alone before we can work on getting our shit together together.

Thursday, Shiloh comes over again for breakfast, and this time she seems like she isn’t lying when she says I’m looking better. I fill her in on everything, as I always do, including the texts and the booty calls and the movie Hadrian and I watched together over the phone last night.

“What the hell are you doing?” Her tone is more of curiosity than judgment.

“Honestly? I think we’re dating.”

We’re still laughing when my phone rings. It’s an unfamiliar number so I send it to voicemail, then play it afterward on speaker.

Hi, Brystin. This is Jessa Jones. We met earlier this year at Adeline. I was wondering if we could grab lunch.

Two days later, I take the train to Brooklyn to meet with Jessa at one of her favorite spots for brunch.

Have you told Hadrian?

Seeing Shiloh’s text on my screen stirs my guilt. I turn my phone over, wanting to ignore the question so that I can ignore the answer, because of course I haven’t told him, and of course that makes me feel like shit.

When I don’t text back, though, she calls. And since I always arrive early when I’m nervous, I don’t have anything else to do but answer.

“Your lack of response is all the answer I need. Are you afraid he’ll be mad?”

“I don’t know.” More like I worry he’ll feel betrayed. “I don’t know the details of their parting, but I think it was not good. I’m sure that’s why she wants to meet up with me, right? She probably realizes I’m not on the show anymore, and she probably thinks I’ll trash talk with her.”

“Then trash talk. Get it out of your system. Use her to spew all the shit so you can move on.”

“But if I use her to trash talk, what do I need you for?” The bell on the small café door jingles, and I look up to see Jessa walking in. “She’s here. Gotta go.”

I hang up and tuck my phone away, then wave at Jessa so she sees me. Always awkward at these sorts of interactions, I don’t know if I should stand or not, which is so stupid. If I were on the job, I’d be able to handle the whole exchange with grace.

Then just pretend you’re on the job, doofus.

The change of mind frame helps, and I stand to greet her with a casual but professional hug.

“Brystin, it’s so good to see you,” she says, sitting down. “I enjoyed our time together so much that weekend in April. I really should have met up with you before, but well, you’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

She’s so good at the lead-in, reminding me why she’s always been one of my idols. It’s surreal to think that a woman like her wants to know about me, but I give her the PG-rated lowdown, leaving out most everything personal. When she asks why I left, I tell her it wasn’t the right fit in the end, and she leaves it at that.

Aware that she actually might have a bone to pick with me, I address that early on. “I want to say, Jessa, I’m sincerely sorry if I stole your spot at SNC. I would never have taken a job if I’d known it was at your expense.”

“Please tell me that isn’t true.”

I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t.

---