Brian’s suggestion that I should just let fate play out at these two client events screams DEFCON-1-level disaster to me. Maybe it’s not a big deal to him, but to me, it’s data in, data out. That’s how it has to be.

“This isn’t about whether or not the client is happy,” I snap. “This is about the numbers adding up like they are supposed to. Someone dropped the ball. But if I can take control back, then why not do it? Why not give these people the outcomes they were expecting, the outcomes they paid for?”

Still standing outside the car, Brian is silent and shaking his head with a bit of a smirk.

“What?” I ask.

“What if you just table the math of it all for just a second, Char? What if you let people be pleasantly surprised by how good things went tonight?”

“Yeah, and then what?”

“Then, when you’re back in the office, you explain there was a glitch and everything still turned out fine. This isn’t open-heart surgery. An art party and some boozy event seem like situations with a little room for error.”

“Do not belittle what I do, Brian. Just because I don’t save lives for a living doesn’t mean—”

“That’s not what I meant. At all. You know that.” He turns serious.

“You’re right, no one is dying on a table right now, but this stuff matters—to me, at least. And I’m pissed. Can’t I be pissed? Can’t you just let me be pissed?”

“Then so be it,” he says, throwing up his hands. “Be pissed.”

“I will. And screw giving me a ride—I just ordered an Uber,” I announce as I briskly walk away to flag down my driver.

The Uber from Dodger Stadium to The Influencer Firm took thirty-two minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic and cost fifty-six dollars because of surge rideshare pricing. And when I got there, I was greeted with a disabled fob and locked entry. I tried texting a “911” message to Zareen explaining why I needed in, stat. But all I got back was a short and not-so-sweet: Client = happy. Reports = Marigold.

The next Uber drove me from my work to my apartment in Studio City. It took eighteen minutes, a decent amount of traffic, and cost seventeen dollars.

By the time I unlock the door to my apartment, I’ve wasted nearly an hour and the same amount of money as a bag of Leno’s high-end dog food. And for what? I can barely answer that myself, as the only thing I have to show for it is an alert on my phone reminding me to tip and rate my drivers as well as an oversized shirt that smells like a combination of cheap beer and nervous sweat.

As I help myself to another one of Casey’s LaCroixes in the fridge, I spot the two tickets to the singles cruise and remember not only that it’s this Sunday, but that I agreed to go with Casey. Here’s to hoping I can somehow get out of these plans, or that there’s a onetime pop-up mummy exhibit she’d rather go to instead.