“Wh—really?” I should leave it at that, but I don’t. Instead, I say what I’m thinking. “It seemed like the sketches I presented didn’t work for you.”

“This is a moment we need to move on,” she says, as though I haven’t spoken at all. “You’re on the verge of a brand transformation.”

“Yes, I agree, but I thought the ideas I proposed—”

“Hidden messages,” she interrupts. “It’s brilliant. We want to do a whole line. We’re thinking messages of motivation, maybe one over the course of each month? I’m sure you could work it out—I saw that program! Anyway, we think it could be a hit, especially if we do it quickly. Sort of a game for our consumers, you know? It’s terrific.”

A game.

That quickly, my house-of-cards confrontation schedule collapses all around me, fresh pain about Reid punching through my chest. Every game I played with him had felt so sincere, so honest, so special. And every game had led to work—and to a relationship—that was sincere, honest, special. Now all of it feels trivialized, false. My name and Reid’s tied together in some shallow, scandalous narrative, and I can’t even speak to him to find out what’s true and what’s not. All my effort and creativity for Make It Happyn reduced to this, a half-baked offer to turn my mistakes into money.

This is such a mess.

“Meg?” Ivonne says. “Are you still there?”

Part of me wants to give her a hard no, to simply hang up at this ham-handed proposal, maybe even to block her number, too. But I’ve been self-employed in this city for too long to do anything that reckless, and anyway, I feel dangerously close to one of those blurting, I’ve-reached-my-limit outbursts that’s gotten me into so much trouble before.

I compose myself enough to make an apology, and a request to call her back, given what I describe as “some distraction” in my current circumstances. She laughs congenially and agrees—ha ha ha, isn’t scandal hilarious?—but asks that I call her first thing Monday.

“Sure,” I promise before hanging up, though I don’t see how I’ll have any more clarity on this issue by Monday.

It’s a slog to get home. It’s muggy and gray, my personal worst weather combination, and anyone who’s out in it seems like they don’t want to be, including me. Sure, I’m glad I got to talk to Cecelia, but maybe that’s enough for the day. Maybe I could let myself hide for a bit longer, hand over my phone to Sibby until tomorrow, while I wait and hope for Reid to call.