Something happened between our talk last week and this morning to sour Valerie Simmons on me. She must have heard about the police searching my house. That has to be it. She’s in the news business, and somehow she found out.
My face burns with shame. As annoyed as Mike was that I brought in this job, he’ll be furious that I lost it.
“Allie!” Mark calls from below. “I’m leaving!”
I dress and head down to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to salvage the situation. I can tell Mike that I will be pitching to Senator Fielding, Sarah Ramirez’s boss. Maybe that will appease him.
On the counter, I find a cappuccino Mark has left me, emblazoned with a foam heart. But this small act of kindness does little to lift my spirits.
Mark needs to know it’s going to take a lot more than a fancy coffee to patch things up between us.
Cole remains uncharacteristically calm when I inform him that we are out of peanut butter and he will have to settle for a Lunchable. I always have a few on hand for those mornings when making lunch from scratch seems a Herculean task.
I manage to pop one in his backpack without feeling like it is a strike against my mothering.
After dropping Cole off at school, I drive to work. The dread growing as I get closer to the studio. Parking along H Street to get to work is tight as usual, and I have to cruise around for a while before I find a spot. By the time I park on Tenth Street in front of a small French bistro that just opened, my palms are sweaty and I feel nauseated.
I speed-walk past the Gold Spot check-cashing joint, a reminder that this area was not always dotted with beer gardens and artisanal pickle shops.
Upstairs at the studio, a young, round-faced woman I’ve never seen before sits at one of the desks. She’s fussing with a mass of streaked curls, trying to tuck them all into a topknot on her head as I approach.
“Hi.” I stick out my hand. “I’m Allie.”
Her small eyes dart back and forth behind her bright red glasses. “Rebecca. It’s my first day.” She stops fixing her hair to place a limp hand in mine.
“Oh, I didn’t realize we were hiring anyone. Welcome.”
Rebecca’s chapped lips twitch, and she won’t meet my gaze. Does she know I lost the Valerie Simmons job? Ridiculous. I chide myself for being paranoid. We both turn as Mike steps out from one of the back rooms.
Mike gestures toward a young woman in leggings and an oversize Howard University sweatshirt sitting on one of the white pleather sofas. “Rebecca, why don’t you get our client situated in room two? Allie and I are going next door.”
“We are?” I ask. It’s obvious something is up. He must know about Valerie Simmons.
“Let’s not do this here.” He grabs a leather jacket off a hook on the wall and gestures to my bag. “Bring your laptop.”
My pulse quickens as I rush to catch up to Mike. He’s already down the stairs and entering Drip, a coffee shop specializing in six-dollar cold brews. I try and think of how I am going to spin having my house searched by the police as a giant misunderstanding.
As we enter the coffee shop, I prepare a small speech about how I’ve contacted a lawyer and everything is under control.
Although it’s almost ten, the café is full. I recognize several regulars who come here every day with their laptops, checking their emails or punching out the Great American Novel.
Mike doesn’t bother to order, but goes straight toward a tiny two-top along the exposed brick wall and sits down. He doesn’t bother to take off his coat.
“What’s going on?” I ask in a low voice, nurturing a last flicker of hope that this is not about Valerie Simmons canceling. Mike stares at the table, tracing a groove in the worn wood with one finger. We sat here for my first interview just two months ago. It was a sweltering August day, humidity seeping into every nook of D.C. I remember ordering an iced coffee and the way the condensation dripped down the glass onto the table. Mike and I chatted as if we had known each other for years.
The hiss of the espresso machine punctuates the soothing electronic music coming from the ceiling speakers. I think of the standard advice to break up in a public place so your partner won’t throw a scene. “Did I do something wrong, Mike?”
I flash back to my first week on the job in early September, when I had sent out a contact sheet to a client without letting Mike see it first. He was understanding, but he made it clear that I was on probation for my first ninety days and I needed to be more careful.
“I don’t even know where to begin, Allie.” He regards me as if I am a stranger to him.
“Is this about Valerie Simmons?”
He looks taken aback. “Valerie Simmons? What about Valerie Simmons?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Please just tell me what’s up.”
“What’s up? Let’s see. You violated the agreement you signed when you started here. That’s just for starters.”
I frown, racking my brain to remember the three-page document I signed. A typical contract. The only thing that stands out to me is the extra attention that was paid to forbidding the use of work I did as a Mike Chau employee for personal gain. “I haven’t used the photos I’ve taken here for anything else, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
Mike rubs the barbed-wire tattoo around his left wrist. “No? How about your Facebook page?”
My Facebook page. That’s what this is about. That’s why Valerie canceled. She must have seen the page. “Mike, I can explain. That page is fake.”
But he’s in no mood to listen. He motions to my bag. “Take out your laptop.”
I put the laptop on the table. “I’ve already contacted
