limelight

the printer jammed for a third time, leaving her ink-stained and fighting with the last shreds of ripped paper. it wasn't the end of the world. not being able to find a table at the café might have been. she was on a corporate deadline, an unfamiliar and sickening feeling, the fate of even more than a 4.0 resting on her ability to write a workable equation in less than the normal semester timeline.

but she's a girl of college habits, sharing studying tables with whoever was brave enough to venture into the libraries at off hours, booking rooms with people in the same class. many parts of her life are anxiety-inducing, it makes the familiar ones all the more stomachable.

"sorry, i don't, i need half a table." her arms full of books prove some of her point, the bustle around her helps to sell the rest. "is this available?"

Siobhan inhales the complementary air that comes from dining al fresco. Her body barely shows how it’s taken in and held like a reset button that must be pressed sometimes. Through her nose, it’s released slowly but steadily before her voice returns to Chloe, an attempt towards clarity.

The answer she gives is a distilled sentence, boiled down from a multitude of thoughts and concerns that add more weight than desired. “You trust him.” She’s heard enough from her to know its magnitude, defending him without a second thought or wonder to an alternative narrative that wasn’t hand-written by the man himself. “That alone is enough of a danger to consider.”

“danger?” she feels her brow furrow at the word, something so much more serious than what she'd been anticipating. these conversations were always about her father, people giving her wide eyed stares and asking if she was okay— one of the housekeepers picking up a spilled bottle and giving her a sympathetic nod. it was always something, but it was never that someone was watching her movements and they were concerned with what she was doing. or was it just who she was doing it with.

“i only talk to him about business.” even if the boundaries around that were ill defined in her own mind and would not pass under siobhan's scrutiny now. “it's my research,” to some extent at least, to the extent that it felt good to say it, remind people what was important to her: the numbers, the data. none of this was her expertise. “so, i'm not sure what else there is to consider.”

Their eyes widen to roll, as if the extra space is needed in a situation like this one. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that Chloe is real with her excuses and lies, the extent of lameness that goes with them. “Girl, I’d die if I knew you had any fantasies period.” A finger curves around their ear, pretending to brush a strand of hair that doesn’t exist, much too close to the scalp to ever slink that far. “Could not be me.” But it is the girl in front of them.

“Mm, anyways,” they go on, readjusting in position, clearly going nowhere anywhere else. “Come over to get in the dress you’re wearing for the party, please and welcome.” And before she can object, there is a hand raised so that it can circle through the air in the direction of her current style choice. “This is giving… Martha Stewart meets Catholic school. Repression chic?”

she doesn’t rise to the challenge, falling prey to defending her lack of fantasies. they're having the wrong conversation, or maybe they're talking to the wrong person. she’s not sure what would be their best scenario would be, for her it would simply be to disappear off the face of the earth. at least zion knew enough to get the hint, moving on to the meet painful topic.

“i’m not repressed— i just like the collars.” was that so bad? it certainly sounded that way once she'd said it out loud, trying to defend against an accusation she knew little about. there was nothing wrong with how she dressed, she'd compiled just enough basic neutrals to make it easier to plan outfits throughout the week. how was she supposed to prepare for this kinds of events. her mother had supplied her with a few black dresses of various length and sleeve style. good enough for her concerts and wrap parties. good enough for an art gallery— or not. “ don't make it red please,” but the invitation is a welcome relief in the face of her potential inadequacies. “i don't want to stand out.”

“Ayyy…” The sound drags out, mingles with Myles’ hands beginning to clap together in exaggerated swings that wind up bashing into each other versus applauding. Clap! Clap! Clap! “There we have it! Can finally fucking stand on the same side of the tracks on something,” he tells her. And where is his award? The glances that are stacking up towards him as he stands up from his seat at the bar. Standing ovation. “Why don’t ya take a bow!”

The clapping is put to an end with one hooking hand sweeping up the bottle he’s already snatched from behind the counter, undoubtedly put on the tab her card is absorbing. “Making a mess of things for ya again, aren’t I?” This twists and turns to become more accusation, soaks into his eyes that become glued to her. “Don’t need you pissing out my fires.”

the mess is already more than she can clean up alone, so much seems to be built on good will now. that people will accept insults as badly timed jokes, that outbursts are elaborate sketches. but she knows that cannot last, and it relies on his own popularity, not just the name on her credit card. she doesn’t bow, she stands frozen, there is no right move to make in this sort of game. they will all result in a loss. 

“no.” is all that escapes her mouth, as though that much contradiction is enough to potentially start a wildfire. there’s a mess, but she can’t clean it up yet. the bottle tucked under his arm means that instead of a wind down, the night is just getting started. she parses through excuses that she might use to make a swift exit. reasons why they can’t take the same car home, something.

finally, she settles on something simple and calm. she doesn’t emphasize any syllable. she waits to sign her name against any number and a 45% tip. “there’s no fire.”

“Never?” He’s curious. What is life like growing up in the household of a contract? Myles Delaney has never shown signs of being present enough to dictate what plays on a television screen in front of an impressionable young girl at midnight. She must have seen at least one. Everyone has.

“Martin was only the first,” he tells her as if this knowledge is common with their partnership. If it’s not for her, it will be. “I’m offering full access to Axed’s analytics.” Axe’s eyes meet hers. Blue for blue. “For your research,” he goes on, “and for your eyes only.”

“not...never.” that would be a bluff, from anyone. they were as inescapable as getting caught in the rain. the chances of being in a place where the tv channel could flip without warning, displaying the latest of the cancellations. “not recently.” which correlated with the downward trend of their broadcast. it didn’t help the numbers on her screen to try and associate them with people that she knew, guests at her fifth birthday party, people who shared parts of her genetic make up. logically, death was a statistical inevitability. 

she took a sip of her drink, bitter and strong, nearly enough to shock the thought from her mind if his next words hadn’t wiped both completely. she just manages to suppress the cough that comes from her hasty swallow, eyes widening. “full access? that’s—” she searches his own expression, unsure what she could possibly find there to make sense of what she was being offered. “that’s unheard of.” she finally finishes, glances fluttering from bloodstain back to axe, as though there is something to make a connection with between the two. something that she’s just missing. 

“i don’t even know if one person could parse all that data.” but her mind is already configuring algorithms to tidy the sets, to search for what was needed in a given projection. “have you been keeping records since you incorporated? have you—” just as the tunnel of her work starts to close, she makes it back to the painting again, remembers the party around them, the red tape that snakes around everything. “what are you hoping to find?” 

This isn’t his. He’s paid for it. It makes it his. To say it aloud will ruin her concentration on the main course he’s serving her. He watches her simply instead. The gears behind the irises stir. She shuffles through her database. The smart girl with a computer for a brain, cross-referencing what has been uploaded to her programming to find the solution he’s asked of her. She comes back with the result he’s been holding onto before he’s pressed the return key.

“It was,” he tells her, a congratulations of sorts, an easy smile for her hard work. “I was told the cancellation was filmed in front of this for poetic justice.” He would know. Wasn’t it Axed! that broke the story first about Martin’s habits? Weren’t they the ones responsible for the justice their founder mentioned? Didn’t she, too, have a hand in it like him? She was the computer. He was the user. “I like to think this was our first collaboration, Chloe.”

collaboration. of course she knows the word, can define it in multiple languages, who is to say what it means to agree with another. but this feels like something else, perhaps because of her own perspective. the weight all ascribed to status, the heaviness understood by justice. after all no one would miss idris, it was the designation of bad choices and bad decisions. 

“proof of concept” she finally says, as though that will bring some color back to her complexion, undone what has been done in the good faith of numbers versus words. “i don’t watch them” there’s a strike of nerve, as though it’s vulnerable to admit that cancellations do not rank highly on he’r television, or even her phone. she wonders if its obvious. if it’s too soft. 

“poetic by your standards is enough for me.”

“Advisor.” One word difference that is amended for her over his shoulder, the type of difference that separates collector from investor, where one outweighs the other when the closing bell tolls. A mere collector would entertain this route of conversation, meander through it; the investor serpentines his way through it to find the value. “You should’ve known the chances of that.” He’s joking. His smile to her is the proof. There is nothing to question.

Another painting is viewed. It’s theme does not fit what surrounds it. There is a field illuminated by the sun, and a girl with blond hair is in the center of it with flowers in her arms. She stares at her observers like visitors, a daisy held in her hand for someone to take it. It’s raining. The drops are a muted red. This is not rain. This is not paint.

“This is recent.” One the advisor proved herself on. “Do you recognize it?”

one word replaces the other, she changes the perception of who is in charge of the upkeep for the paintings, not their actual positioning. there is an element of control handed back to people who curate their own works, they do not need the input of others, they choose to take it into consideration. there are no chances of what she’s suggested now, she scratches the thought. 

in front of them now stands another odd one, too bright, a spring theme that does not match with the rest of the gallery. flowers in the reeves collection might have connotations that others could theorize, but she will stop at the fact that nothing else is daisies. “this isn’t yours either.” the obvious is stated, though she has a feeling that was supposed to be intuited at this stage. she will still take the mark. daises, red splattered across. her files of cancellations open in her mind, searching for potential details. it takes longer than it should, she specializes in numbers that keep people alive, not details of how they died. not usually. “was this martin?”

“Oh no.” They’re sitting up straight, now. What does she mean she wasn’t going to go? “Bitch, I know you’re not about to serve me up some undercooked lies. I don’t know who you think you’re talking to right now.” Because it can’t be them. The way Zion’s scoff echoes in the back of their throat like a stifled laugh is the final punctuation their conversation needed. It’s just not the period Chloe is searching for unless it’s camouflaged in fluttering eyelashes she’s receiving. Unbelievable.

“And it was the art that made you go.” Nope! “Unless you thought you were going to get pinned up Axe’s wall, don’t start.”

“ugh—” the conversation circles back to the same point that zion keeps trying to make, as though there is some inevitability in her relationship with axe. as though they know her better than she does herself, the thoughts that couldn’t be known without being articulated. “i wasn’t going to go!” but the alternative was to sit at home, to remember that she had been labelled friendless, that she couldn’t carry on the kinds of conversations that a delaney once had been able to. “but it was that or drive back to berkeley for the weekend.”

is it a cop-out to say that, imply that she would simply hate to be away from hollywood for too long. it is, but at least it’s not about the reeves. that could be anyone. “i don’t share your fantasies here, okay?”

“Sure.” He understands. He gets it. There’s half of a heart behind the short-lived smile that flickers on and flickers off of his face. “You’re off the clock.” It’s more than that. He doesn’t need to be told about legalities in anything. He’s probably better off not knowing the details, anyways. Would it still count as a surprise if he’s actively trying to get cancelled? Is it more of a goal that’s just out of reach? Maybe there’s an answer at the bottom of his glass, but the tide changes in the same instance as the drink shifting closer to his lips does.

He was right. He was better off not knowing. Anyone else would take it with great relief, even gratefulness. Congratulations; you’re going to live. Whoopee. The news is no news at all, a confirmation of what he already knew but didn’t want to face, sitting like a lead weight on his shoulders. Both of his hands cup around his glass while his forearms rest on the bar counter.

“Not even a bunch of duds can send a guy like that packing, huh?”

he’s testing her hypothesis for weak points, but her proposed theory is ironclad. there are plenty of people that rely on the data that she’s providing, old stars that would like nothing more than to die in peace. they do not need a-list points, they simply need to survive. “depends how many” any career can survive a bad film, the system was not foolproof. not everyone was always the best actor winner, but if they were well established, there was no contest. “and how quickly they’re put out.”

gears turn, trying to figure the exact number that would be needed, if it was even possible to sink a career that quickly. she would have to research prior actors, she would never be able to given damion an exact answer. “but i’m off the clock.” finally she repeats his words, before she gives away anything too serious, before she asks for too many personal details. “most people don’t talk about this over drinks anyways.” she doesn’t know exactly what they’re supposed to talk about, but she gets the feeling that this was serious for him. some weight that she has not yet been able to label neatly. “why are you concerned?”

“That’s not an argument that can be proven.” Her tone chills the glasses of water more than the ice cubes that float in them. It’s Chloe who is speaking, but it is not her that garners Siobhan’s distaste. She holds that for the man in question and all those that are cast from the same mold as him. She sits with poise, continues to have the same temperance as if this is a meeting of business rather than personal. She’s not biased against Axel Reeves; she has referred to facts, not feelings.

There are murky waters when it comes to what he is willing to share, or in his case, barter with. She withholds her contempt, reserves it for a future date that will undoubtedly approach her soon. For now, she sees the young woman in front of her for who she is, and what she has felt all her life. There is something kindred in this detail. A broken home makes you vulnerable, makes you blind, makes you desperate, all so that you can escape. You don’t. You make a new prison.

“Mr. Reeves might appear to be different,” she starts, “but when all you know is fire, a hot stove looks safe.”

there is no evidence to support the statements that she makes, just the current data points. she has not yet been deceived by axe, that counts for just as much as any other relationship she currently has. there is no exact calculation for the fail rate of interpersonal connection, she should have thought before she spoke. the concession is almost formulated, but siobhan continues, adds details to color her own position. 

“i don’t live in fire.” the only spark gained is her father, but there is no way that she’s going to expose such details over an informal meal. she is not at a therapist’s, better— she doesn’t even need one. “and you’re speaking like i should be watching for something serious.” untoward, immoral, verging on illegal. but there is no reasoning behind such a deviation from the baseline knowledge. “what’s different?”