Except when I looked up from my phone, Mike was still there.
I reached for my laptop lid.
“Wait, Lyssa.”
It was automatic to stop for a voice like that. Authoritative. Confident. All of my problems had begun with a voice like that.
“What?”
Mike surprised me by asking, “Seriously, are you okay? You look like shit.”
My main concern was that I smelled like it. Thanks MTA.
“Don’t be so rude,” I replied, defensive. “ ‘Your tartness would sour grapes.’ ”
Coriolanus, misquoted.
“Huh?”
“ ‘Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit, for I am sick when I do look on thee.’ ”
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, quoted perfectly.
“I forget what the signs of a stroke are. Is this one? Lyssa, can you lift your left arm? Wink twice if you’re having a stroke.”
Despite myself, this made me laugh. “I’m fine, Michaelangelo. Like I said, I just had an issue with a livestream. It’s not a big deal.”
It was a big deal.
I had no idea how I was going to pick up the pieces of my career now, or if I could pivot to full-time influencing without my fashion job. Or if I even wanted to. Today, for the first time in twelve years, I wanted to log out of every account and turn off my phone.
“I know I said hard work would kick your ass, but maybe you should come to New Zealand for a bit. Get away from New York.”
I laughed at his joke.
“For real,” he insisted, and I realized he wasn’t laughing. “Why don’t you come and visit? You seem a bit jacked up. It might do you good to get out of your bubble. You can drink real coffee, and breathe fresh air, and chase Mini Mike out of the pantry.”
“Mini Mike?”
“He’s my miniature pony. Hasn’t Caroline shown you pictures?”
“Believe it or not,” I said, rolling my eyes, “our discussions don’t revolve around you.”
Mike fished around the pocket of his shirt for his phone. The button-down was a red plaid, worn unbuttoned over a black T-shirt, and had been washed so many times its softness was visible even through a grainy Zoom call. Not for the first time, I thought that such a big chest and soft shirt were wasted on Mike Holliday.
He held his phone up to the screen, and I squinted at the picture of a very small brown horse wearing a pointed hat on its head.
“Cute.”
“Adorable,” Mike corrected.
“Why is he wearing a hat?”
“That’s not a hat!” He pulled back his phone and clutched it to his chest, offended. “That’s his unicorn horn.”
“Sorry. What an adorable unicorn horn.”
Mike looked mollified.
