Page 36 of Cuts like a Knife
The thing I’ve been imagining for so long, obsessing about, and actively dreading most of all imaginable things (at least on a personal scale), has happened. I’ve come face to face with them and … it was fine. Ultimately pretty anticlimactic, right? Awkward, yes. But it was pretty banal in the grand scheme of things.
That’s good and bad, I guess. It was neither as dramatic nor as satisfyingly sarcastically vengeful as I hoped during some of my better late-night reveries, but neither was it a disaster. It was just … a run-in. Neither good nor bad.
They didn’t say anything, really.
Rian tried to pretend I didn’t exist.
Adele clearly wanted to apologize. (I have no intention of giving her the satisfaction of absolution.)
Owen was vaguely superior (nothing new there).
Kelsang was his charming, untrustworthy self.
And most importantly, even though Drew was right there beside me — a witness from my actual life, someone who knows my real family and friends — he still has no idea.
That’s the main thing. The thing worth focussing on. For a moment, I think a bunch of hopeful thoughts.
Maybe this means I’ve spent the last two years worrying for almost no reason. Clearly, the people from Flash aren’t dying to spill the beans. Maybe this is all a sign that what happened to me will stay buried forever.
Then I remember the email130.
But … the email was vague. And whoever sent it hasn’t told anyone yet. Maybe they want something? Who would want to get me fired? Like, who would benefit from that?
I may not have been to Journalism school, but I’m not an idiot. There has gotta be more to the email threat thing. Surely, whoever sent it wants more than to get me sacked. Rian is the only person I can think of who’d want to get me fired just for the fun of it. He’s the only person in the world I can think of who’s always hated me for absolutely no reason. But … he could just call Lars up on the phone. There’s no reason for him to send me a weird anonymous email about it first. I mean, besides to torture me131.
But it doesn’t make sense. No. There’s gotta be more. The email read like a blackmail threat. Whoever sent it is probably going to write me again. Ask for something. That makes way more sense than them just emailing me out of nowhere, with no ask.
Actually … maybe they’re waiting for a response? When I saw the email I panicked and threw it into my spam folder. But why? Why torture myself with waiting? If this f—er is going to threaten me, I’m not going to wait around on their schedule.
I click into my work email on my phone and find the message in the spam folder. I tap out a quick response.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: You’re going down
Who is this and what do you want?
There. Simple and to-the-point. Let’s move this along.
Now that I’ve come face-to-face with those jerks from Flash, I feel almost … zen about it all. I’m not remotely ready to relax about it — not completely — but the bottom line is that the near-worst has happened, something I truly dreaded, and nothing has really changed. In some circles, I’m still a disgrace, but not everywhere. I still have a job. My secret is still a secret.
Still, I realize I’d better gird myself to the inevitable fact of the matter: I’m going to see them all again. Probably many times this week. This is a big hotel, but it’s not that big. And we’re all here for one reason. We’ll be at all the same events, all week long. And even in the broader world, we’re all in the same general professional circle.
This had to happen at some point.
So what I need to do is to focus on doing my job and doing it well. Poise. That’s what I need. Poise132.
Everything is fine. For now.
Besides, I’ll be damned if I’m going to look like a frightened little mouse in front of any of these people. I made one mistake.
I still deserve to be here.
With a deep breath and a determined stride, I make my way to the ballroom where the opening conference is being held. It occurs to me that I ditched Drew with my bag. Oh well. If I know him, and I do, he’ll have taken it to the desk and checked it for me.
The opening conference is a classic PR kick-off event, with the show’s stars and key players lined up at a long table on a raised dais at one end of the large room, and the rest of us packed in like cattle, in a scrum, expected to elbow each other in order to get to the strategically-placed mics to ask our questions — something I have absolutely no intention of doing133.
