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The message is immediately followed by the sound of Kendra ordering someone to stop.
I don’t have a chance to respond to the first message before Trinity has thrown open the office door and stormed in. Kendra and Trinity both talk at the same time.
“I’m so sorry. She just barged in,” Kendra says.
“You need to explain what’s going on. Right now.” Trinity has her hands propped on her hips as she glares down at me.
I look to Kendra and say, “It’s fine. I have time to meet with Ms. Lewis.”
Kendra glares at Trinity, before giving a huff of indignation and walking out.
Trinity is dressed all in black today, black miniskirt, black tights, black on black t-shirt with Darth Vadar’s helmet, and of course, the omnipresent Doc Martens. Her mood clearly matches her color scheme.
If teenage me had submitted a list of dream-girl attributes to a Genie, she would have popped into existence looking like this. Adorable and charming in her anger and indignation.
Pretty sure I just lost my feminist ally card for even thinking that.
I gesture toward the chair. “Have a seat.”
She doesn’t sit. “I want answers.”
“About what?” I can make a guess, but there’s a lot I can’t legally talk about. And possibly even more that I’ll avoid just because I can.
Trinity steps closer, her glare narrowing. “So you’re going to play dumb?”
“Why don’t you ask whatever questions you have and I’ll answer what I can.”
“I signed your stupid NDA. Shouldn’t you be able to talk to me now?”
“The NDA allows Savannah to talk to you and insures you won’t share what she tells you with a third party.”
“What third party? You? So what, I’m never supposed to talk to you again? Is that it?” Her voice rises with her emotions.
She sounds distressed by the thought of us never speaking again. Which I suppose is good sign, since I feel like I’d rather gut myself than never talk to her again. I know I don’t get to have her. I know I’ve made the entire situation unfuckingbelievably complicated. I know she probably doesn’t want to talk to me. Despite all that, the idea of not ever talking to her again is like a knife to the gut.
Not that I can admit that out loud. Instead, I say, “Specifically the NDA is meant to prevent you from discussing Ian with a third party from the media. But it would also apply to anyone you might make casual conversation with. Someone who might in turn share what you told them to the media.”
“Why on earth would I want to talk to someone in the media about Ian?”
I can’t decide if it’s cute that she doesn’t understand why Ian needs this kind of protection. Either it’s cute or naive or it’s just a sign of how fucked up my own life is.
“For the money. Obviously.”
“For the … Is that what you think of me? That I’d try to sell some story about your boss to the media? Is that why you ghosted me?”
“I didn’t ghost you,” I try to remind her. When I walked out of my apartment that Sunday morning, the ball was in her court. “I left you a note.”
“Oh, sure.” She finally sits down. Sprawling into the chair with the same, petulant annoyance I’m used to from her. She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. She’s adorable, even when she’s glaring at me like she wants to vivisect me. “Because you had a ‘work’ emergency.”
“I left you my number.” I state it like the fact it is, doing my lawyerly best to remove my emotional reaction from the statement. My unrealistic hopes. “I expected you to text me.”
“Right. So you could pay for an Uber and you wouldn’t have to risk running into me later when your ‘work emergency’ was over.”
“Stop putting the word work in air quotes.”
“Why?”
“Because it was a real work emergency. Not something I made up to avoid you.”
