“Sorry. You’re so sorry, got it. Moving on.” I’m here for a reason, and every second we sit here with the bullshit apologies is a second I could be doing my job. I just want to hurry this along, and, ultimately, go drown my sorrows at the fully stocked bar less than twenty feet away from me. I grab the fully decked-out iPad that the Mustangs supplied me with from my purse and swipe out of the Twitter app covered with endless tweets about the man in front of me before opening my notes. “So, we both obviously know why we’re here.”

“Because I’m making Mahler and a large portion of the country uncomfortable.” The words come out conversationally, but there’s an undercurrent of anger powering them.

I was not expecting it.

And from the way he shakes his head and then aims a perfectly white, perfectly straight, perfectly fake smile at me, he wasn’t expecting it either.

I’m not sure which part surprises me the most, the fact that he showed me his anger or that he’s so good at hiding it. I never saw it during his interview.

I put the iPad down on the table and level my stare with his. “Is that why you’re doing this? To make people uncomfortable?” My words don’t have any of the malice the reporters had. I’m honestly curious. Unlike Mahler, I don’t disagree with the stance he’s making. I just can’t help unless I understand his motives and goals.

“No.” He slumps down in his chair as he deflates before me. Like the confidence helium he sucked down before meeting me has finally dissolved. “It’s not that at all and I hate that the point I’m trying to make is now being lost in the politics of it. That people are saying that I’m trying to get attention. They have no idea how personal all of this is to me.”

Aha!

I move to write it down, but I’m not a therapist and I don’t want to spook him out of telling me more. So I make sure to tuck that little nugget of information into the depths of my memory.

“Of course it’s personal. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t do this at all.” I try to relax in my chair, which, though insanely cute, is not the epitome of comfort. “I think I have an idea that could make everyone happy.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the expression that crosses his face says everything. He thinks I’m full of shit. Which could be accurate. I want everyone happy, but I really don’t want to take a journey down to the unemployment office.