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None of this answers my question of whether or not to call him though.
We’ve already gotten off on the completely wrong foot. Is a call going to make him hate me more? Not that I really care what Rhett thinks of me, of course, but the success of this weekend could very well depend on how well we get along.
The thought gives me chills.
I glance again at all my unanswered e-mails. You know what? No. I don’t give a shit. Calling Rhett is well within reason and if he can’t see that then he’s an idiot.
Breathe Liz. I can’t go into this call angry. Despite initial impressions, there’s no reason we can’t be civil, even work well together. That will never happen if I go in ready for a fight.
So with calm and stable fingers, I dial the number Sloane sent me, hold my breath, and wait.
It rings fourteen times. I count. I’m finally accepting that Rhett isn’t going to answer and that I’ll just have to show up tomorrow at the airport and hope he’s there too when the line connects.
“Jesus Christ, what? Who is this? Take me off your call list.” Rhett’s words run together in an angry stream, like I’ve interrupted something important. Was he actually fucking? It doesn’t matter, I remind myself quickly.
“It’s Liz. Liz Slate.”
Dead silence. Is he choosing his words or trying to remember me?
Finally, “How did you get this number?”
“Your mother gave it to me.”
Rhett curses under his breath. “Is nothing sacred?” he asks, though more to himself than to me.
“Apparently not,” I answer anyway. “I’m calling because you haven’t been responding to my e-mails. Where do you want to meet tomorrow? Before security? Or maybe at the gate?”
Rhett laughs. “Security? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The trip we’re taking tomorrow morning?” I say. “To Chicago?” To decide my career?
“Oh.” There’s another long stretch of silence, and I can’t decide if he’s in the middle of something or just fucking with me. Maybe both. Then he says, “I thought that was next weekend.”
I press my fingers into my temple so hard I probably dent my skull. Keep it together, Lizzy.
“Well it’s not so you better start packing. Where do you want to meet tomorrow?” My tone is getting thin, my patience thinner. Why do I have to be the one stressing while Rhett can barely be bothered to remember what day it is?
“I guess in Chicago,” he says with an exaggerated yawn. “Was that all you bothered me for? You know we’re going to be in the same hotel, right? I’m sure we’ll stumble on each other at some point there.”
“I do,” I say through gritted teeth. “I also know that we’re going to be sitting next to each other on the flight. So I guess we’ll see each other boarding if you’re going to be a jerk.”
“Wait you—” He stops, as if the realization has just dawned on him. Then Rhett guffaws loudly into the phone. “Oh no. No, no, no.”
“Are you being robbed by a clown?” I ask dryly.
He ignores my admittedly terrible joke. “Okay, Liz. It is Liz, right?”
“How I started this conversation but okay.”
“Well, Liz, there are a few things I’m gonna have to bring you up to speed on, if we’re going to be working together. One — don’t call this number. Ever. Text me. Or better yet, wait until I call you.
“Two — I saw your e-mails and I think you’ve got a wildly unrealistic picture of what exactly I’m going to be doing in Chicago. My job is to provide legitimacy. I’m the name and the face that gets you into the convention and around people like the Alencars. That’s where my responsibility stops. So whatever game plan you wanna run? Good news, it’s all you.
“And number three. Well, I guess this is more a little tidbit of info about me, since we’re getting personal and all. I don’t fly commercial. Ever. So you have fun walking on that disgusting airport security line carpet in your socks because I will be taking my jet.”
Wow. Close to a decade of corporate training has prepared me for the most difficult of personalities, but Rhett is something special. Still, his unique combination of mule-faced jackassery and condescending scorn doesn’t throw me at all.
Perhaps Rhett expects his speech to cow me into submission. Instead I answer mildly with two simple words: “Your jet?”
