boats against the current

maybe it was the laughter that peeled through the air, or the distinct lack of her husband that seemed to tether her to any purpose at the post-screening happy hour. she should have been relieved that it was finally the time of year to cover the steady rise in celebrity for the lucky few potential nominees. for once the stories turned towards quoting speeches and running polls instead of the same drudgery that had started to consume each and every aspect of her days in the office.

instead, she was still left on the out. some producers still formed a loose half circle, pitching their stories and jostling for ad space on the magazine. but she — the envy of all, and envious of them right back, could not find any meaning to the words other than, "yes, we'll have to set up a meeting."

It’s not blood; it’s the taste of the kill he’s found on his palette. The hunt. The victory. The feeling of the gladiator being able to walk out of the coliseum with the lion’s head being grasped by its mane. The memories are few and far between these days, but moments like this parallel to how Xavier Reeves would come back home with the night’s dinner. His son understands the feeling. His first real hunting trip. Cleaner. Not barbaric. Transactional. He doesn’t return with a rack of meat still smelling of entrails; he’s immaculately kempt with a bottle of champagne and glasses to split it with.

He wants only one person tonight to share the spoils with. She’s the same person he knows is committed to staying in the office at this hour of the night. The same person who’s as tireless as she is pretty. The closest thing he has to a partner in business for a man whose venture is named after him. It’s what earns her his smile the moment he’s pointed out.

“This is an event,” he informs, lips spreading further before he flips over the dangling flutes from between his fingers, a performance of a host entertaining his guest of honor. Upright and bases resting now against the desk she’s sat herself at, his eyes return to her. “Tonight is the night we take the next step.”

she pulls the papers she was working on into a stack, capping the pen that was set out to edit them when she sees what he’s brought with him. the sparkling clean glass speak to some kind of celebration that she’s not quite sure she understands, but is already flushed with excitement to be a part of. the sort of toasting events that might have populated an otherwise normal life has thus far eluded her. carrie and neil always found something to pop a bottle of champagne over, but they rarely remembered to invite their daughter down to the living room to join them. in practice, she was the type to clean up the party, not be its sole guest— hanging on every word, waiting for the reveal. 

“establish a formal night shift?” it’s the closest she ever seems to get to a joke, the type of statement that isn’t so much funny as it might be true. still walking cautious edges of some unknown propriety even as her heart flutters in her chest. she watches his movements, unsure what she should do to match, if just watching is participation enough for a moment. “or...” she searches through the files of her brain, trying to parse out something big enough to require champagne, something that she alone could have done to help. “did you sign a deal?” 

the title of her job seems to grow murkier each day, as though there isn’t a word big enough to encompass everything that she does for axed!, everything that she wants to do. each slash of her red pen across copy, extra cup of coffee poured, seemed to be for something. she had learned early in life that unbridled optimism left people with nothing but foolish stories. the insurmountable wall of debt that her parents were still climbing while she shrugged off their asks for money with college loans and internship wages. there was no flooding joy in the work she was doing, her feet stayed planted firmly on the ground. 

but there was a cautious confidence with each new article, that perhaps not everything that had her name attached to it was simply smoke and mirrors. emma hawn was structured in solid research and valuable sources, and she continued to work deep into the night, stagnant coffee and ink smeared pages cluttering the space around her laptop still aglow. a mess she privileged for herself alone. at least that’s what she had assumed.

“what are you doing here?” the blond figure outside the conference door broke her self-rumination, pulling her from both work and thought with an easy smile. “i thought i was the last one for the day.” as though it were a competition that she needed to win, to prove some inextricable thing for herself and the company. “no events that needed your attention?”

They could have been standing anywhere. Surrounded by priceless artworks, underneath northern lights, in the middle of Piccadilly Circus; she was the crown jewel against a black backdrop. Couldn’t help but give her a winding smile, the kind of smile that’s folded away a shared secret close to the chest, safe from prying eyes, near enough to peek at.

“Know a shortcut. Wouldn’t feel right taking alone. Might have to have you jump on my back, I might,” he teases, all implication of something that’d bother Ophelia swept up in jest, smoothed out by sparkling grey eyes. Home it is. Always waiting for her to come through its doors, no matter what answer might follow through. “Couldn’t have you take a sprint with me tonight, yeah?”

she smooths over her own elation, the image conjured some part absurd, some part complete truth. some loving gesture to be taken as whatever she wants it to be. that they will make it over the finish line together, whatever that might be. wherever it might take them— far from the marbled galleries of old. the light finds its way to bury itself again, reminders of time and place have her step a tile back. her eyes find their way back to the painting. 

What else can she do but smile and nod when her name is repeated back to her? Yes, that’s my name! Good job! “Yeah, without the ‘y,’ which was kinda something when I was really little. Some people were like 'Zo,’ which I get, but like who goes by that, right?” She’s trying to make conversation, an anecdote sacrificed from her own life that plays a version of musical chairs without any place to sit, spinning around and around before Emma’s expression unplugs the stereo. She returns to her instincts: smile and nod.

“They’re… pretty neat, too…” She forces herself not to expand on what she remembers being a Goya and what’s called a Caravaggio. They’re dark. Too dark for her tastes. She has a flashing memory of cannibalism and beheading, respectfully. “Art history wasn’t really part of my courses…” she admits, a careful confession that barely waits for a gauge to be taken before she continues. “But isn’t art like supposed to be subjective or something? That’s what makes it art instead of a science, don’t you think? I mean, the Ophelia one def doesn’t seem like those, but you guys like it, right? You and Mr. Reeves? It’s gotta mean something special to be with the rest!–I think it’s kinda romantic, anyways.”

the journalist smiles and nods at her, she offers nothing in return. certainly it wasn’t so long ago that she was as eager to please, making sure that every detail of a story was in its place. but that was before she found herself so often mentioned in them, a feat that zoe has yet to accomplish. perhaps if she were not so worn in with the fervor of her own work it would have elicited a more charmed response. instead she is still unsure of the point. there is only one point that she catches on, keeping her rooted in place instead of leaving the conversation “romantic how?”

She knows the reference. It doesn’t conjure up memories of movie theaters and all the related accoutrements you’d find in one to enjoy what was playing on the screen. Before knowing the man the camera captured, she had research to do. There are enough reservations held to wonder if Emma did something similar with only motive differentiating them. She doesn’t accuse in her gaze, but suspects, the patient stare of one searching for evidence to indict.

“I don’t pretend to understand your position in every detail,” she allows room. Emma Reeves is known in public fact, uncolored by personal detail. Carlisle would have her depicted in a vivid spectrum; Siobhan’s copy of her is printed in monochromatic grays. She knows more than anyone that a woman is more than a wife, but a husband becomes a blot on an otherwise pristine silhouette. “The direction you take, however, is your choice.” Not Axel’s. Not Carlisle’s. Not her own, no matter what is warned, threatened, or advised. “If you truly agree with me, you won’t choose the path that will lead to his destruction.”

her lower lip trembles, just slightly, just enough. the one flicker past a steel exterior. she might have considered herself master of many universes, but this emotion was unknown, unquantifiable. it had the possibility to destroy. “i don’t want that.” spoken in clear concise terms, removed from the allegedlies and the denials. honesty glimpsed in a phrase, shielded once more from those who might use it against her. it might have been understood, if she was in the presence of the person she thought then it was. she is not a person of elaborations, the point, however dangerous, can only be made once before it is moved past. “but you’re right.”

she shifts, posture straightens, embodies something less than she is, something more akin to what she should be. “you don’t know me.” it’s a shame really, she cannot think of one person she might say that about in open friendship, but she cannot think of those choices now, they filter into the problems that are unsolvable. she wavers, hesitates. she knows that this conversation has gone poorly, given away too little to assure that she has no motives, worse given up nothing at all. finally, she says her one daring thing, she expects the worst in repercussion. “i would have wanted a friend to fight for my best interest too.” 

The engine makes its presence known. It stamps the air with not just the Bugatti logo but the Reeves name. It’s as fitting as wealth and power, a match that’s better than any marriage that’s encapsulated behind its two doors. The night bleeds in through the glass. Los Angeles’ streetlights flicker over passenger and driver alike, a highlight of differences that a tinted windshield doesn’t betray to any outsider. You can hear the reverberation of the cancellation inside, how it translates through the pedal of the car, the heavy decompression of the second seat.

“Dinner and tomorrow’s headline,” he corrects with the corner of his lips upturned. His mood is colored in crimson. It matches Emma’s dress. It’s emphasized in a few of the threads. There are traces of it on the jacket he put around her shoulders. A dose of it feels to be shot in his veins. Not even the tone she has chosen can kill the buzz.

“It can join what you spilled tomato sauce on.” His smile is thrown to her from the profile-view. What separates a stain from what she cooked from what they watched? A good night. It’s a mark of action, an action that she had no hand in, could never have. “You can’t see it unless you’re close enough,” he goes on. And it is not consolation. Not for the sake of the dress. Not when his hand wraps around the silk that covers her thigh. “There’s no one else that would be this close, Emma.”

of course hums through her mind but does not make its way to her lips, a thought half-formed, too untoned to be a part of the the conversation. they circle around profits, font sizing, gruesome details relayed in demure typeface. she would have offered to write the article before, hopped on the opportunity to be the front page byline. but she does not need the credit, she turns to her husband as he rests his hand on her leg. she does not want the validation. a switch has flipped, the gust of wind blown through her cold and sharp, the fervor of news replaced with distrust of ease. 

“who could be.” she replies finally, the words falling inharmoniously.  she thinks of their possible message, the aching reminder that they have worked until they could get to this point. how she has climbed her way up to greatness right beside him, the helping hand of ceo. doesn’t it mean that it’s she who was risen next to him. doesn’t it mean they’re the only two in the world that could be so alike in understanding. doesn’t it. “i’ll get started on it first thing.”

There’s a hint of a laugh that brews against his lips, soundless but noticeable, rings through in grey eyes. “Can come up with a slew of them, really,” he tells her, the vision of her slipping in before sliding back to dear Ophelia and her pool of flowers. “Nearly knocked the wind right out what with talk about your orchids.” Boyish mischief doesn’t fall far from the smile that is pouring over his face. “Just about anything would do the job. Always up for a bit of a run, I am.” His drink lowers slightly, just enough for the side of his arm to brush against hers, just enough to feel the warmth of her skin, just enough to be a nudge that’s meant to tease only her. “Does help some to think who’d be waiting right past the finishing line.”

the heat of his arm against hers, a slight, unobservable pressure, coils something in her stomach that has no easy description. her instinct is love, delight, the easy knowing that in any situation he might find his way to her. the next layer anxiety, stress, the building fear that there was in fact someone who could see right through her, read her mind and see that there was hardly room for her own husband in her heart any more. there might be a slew of topics for him to run towards her for, she can think of one thousand more to keep the sane person away— but what was love but a mad girl’s song. 

There is no reason to belittle. Another one sitting in her chair may act the part of bully or tormentor, attacking for the minor grievance that an answer has been delivered to her in such slim fashion. But she sees the nod for what it is. It is not carried through with such little respect that a verbal response is not garnered; it is the closest movement to appeasement that can be offered. Should there be anything more than that, becoming her tormentor will be no task at all for Siobhan to master.

“As would I,” she answers her with finality, similar to a death knoll, tolling for thee. “We should be on one accord, now.” And yet the gravity of the room has not lessened. There is an atmospheric weight that has bolted down every item in the office, a pull that centers from the eyes that have sharpened themselves on Emma’s face. “Had you been less competent, Mrs. Reeves,” she returns after a moment of silence, of false hope that their conversation had concluded, “I would have already expressed to you how I don’t agree with Mr. Remington’s decision to pursue this.”

she’d hoped to be done, too much said already even given the relative privacy of the office. her purse almost resituated on her shoulder, goodbye cut off by mere seconds as siobhan gives her commentary on the situation. the shield that so often stays in place when she converses slips, she’s been struck off balance by the first true thing that’s been said between them. they were so insulated, completely separated from the world, to walk through the front door of his home was to skip into an alternate universe. she could think of no greater peace, no comparable sense of happiness. it hadn’t crossed her mind as a simple do or do not, only as the way to breath in the stifling los angeles air. 

her eyes blink slowly, turning over answers that she could use but doesn’t truly feel. should she be reasonable, she would know that siobhan was right. they were approaching danger, and yet she just nodded. the sentence had done its job. she was wounded and warned in turn. “silly things done by sensible people.” she says finally, turning around a quote that’d been attributed to her namesake as she was often reminded. “for what it’s worth, i agree with you.” a sigh escaped her lips, the sad wistfulness of a bird’s wings beating against a cage. “funny how that doesn’t change anything.”

Nothing escapes her. There’s a hawk-like attentiveness that follows Emma as she sits there, absorbs the words that are spoken to her, jostles with the uneven ground beneath her. Siobhan tallies up her responses in polite wait, mentally jots down where the fault lines are, eyes on someone who has become translucent to her.

“In your position, Mrs. Reeves,” she starts, “this should come to you as no surprise at all to know that the nicer one is, the larger the target grows for someone of a certain immoral caliber to take advantage of.” Carlisle has been coasting on good luck for years to not have it happen to him a second time already, to not be cancelled on the whims of another. She will not allow it to be tested further.

“What is publicly acknowledged is rarely the whole truth.” There is a subtle change in the expression passed along, one that echoes what has already been stated, a reality that she should be well familiar with. There is no name like Axel Reeves that is breathed aloud between them, but his name still lingers heavily like a stench that refuses to leave. “Regarding what stands privately, in comparison, a warning may easily be converted into something more actionable should the need arise. Is this clearly understood?”

she thinks of the niceties that built cal, the kindness in each gesture whether knowing or not. the gentleness that leaks from the way he might simply glance over something that didn’t even deserve his time. there is something to be said for the kindness of him. she is far from the one to say it, fenced off by her own design. only allowed to witness what is possible. she acknowledges nothing but the barest of nods. enough for both parties to know the words have been heard, nothing further. 

is it more dangerous to acknowledge the threat or to pretend it hasn’t already brightened the yellow flags that have been sent up. “i simply don’t see a potential need.” she says, though there is no decisiveness in her voice. she wishes it were the case, she thinks of the lifetimes in which it might have been true. “your intention is fully understood,” humorous if asked, trembling if held fast, “i’d hate to think of someone less competent.”

She’d call herself an empath. It’s more curse than blessing, always picking up on the feelings that surround her, or maybe it was just her own mind playing tricks on her. She senses something particular from the Mrs. Reeves that has her second-guessing. She doesn’t know her, not by face, not by name, and not by association. “Oh. No! It’s totally cool, for sure. I mean, I’d def be surprised if you did know me. It’s not like I’m on the payroll or anything. Opposite, actually! I work for the big competition!” She jokes, or at least she finds it a little funny in a David versus Goliath type of way, but she sees it doesn’t land before there’s much of a chance for Emma to combat it. “Ampersand. I work for Ampersand,” she corrects herself with a nod, followed by a quickly constructed smile. “My name is Zoe Marshall.” A hand extends itself out to her, and if it isn’t taken, it will turn into a short-lived wave that will equal the awkwardness brought on by its predecessor. “Zoe for short because… that’s my first name. Can’t get any shorter than that!”

A chuckle is breathed out, an empty noise that rattles from self-awareness before she is able to jump to the next set of words like a lifeline. “I was a guest at the art gallery party you guys threw! I was a plus one, but it was really nice of you to let me in and take a look around. Your house is so pretty, and I really vibed with the paintings.” Most of them. “The Ophelia one, super heart-breakingly beautiful!”

the word ampersand pulls her farther back, were that even possible. interactions with strangers were to be kept at the absolute minimum, interactions with the competition were simply unacceptable. zoe marshall doesn’t seem to know of such lines in the world, or she does and she’s decided insurrection is the best route. there’s no telling, and she simply doesn’t want to be the one to say. “zoe.” she says once, perfunctory smile, the gestures of someone who is receiving and retaining but not truly understanding what is said. as though she has already defaulted to editor of this conversation. 

“the gallery is certainly a center point.” one of the only parts of the house that guests were allowed in, always well stocked and well serviced. all she had to do was stand in the corner and allow the night to wash over her. she wondered when that had become her fate, ophelia about to be drowned instead of holding court. the world closing in instead of opening. “most people prefer the goya, the caravaggio.” she searches for more last names fit for a textbook that hang in the same place she calls her home. the names that have been repeated to her again and again until their importance is implicit. and she recites what should be: “you’re not too familiar with art history?”

@emmareevcs​

Okay, there was no such thing as cheap groceries in L.A. Maybe if she knew where the markets were, that’d be the ticket, but then what would she make? Would farmer’s markets sell cup of noodles and gummi bears? Probably not. That didn’t seem like something that’d fit the farm-to-table motto. It was her own fault for leaving it to the last minute, anyways. Her basket only had room in the budget for the essentials, cans of cat food at the top, before she could round the corner for the noodle aisle.

“Mrs. Reeves?” The words were barely thought of, eyes acting first to spark open the mouth, the power of surprise. “Hey! Hi!” She readjusts herself, straightening up from leaning over. She probably doesn’t recognize her. “It’s Zoe. Zoe Marshall. I know Rowan, so maybe you kinda know me, not that we’re like super close or anything, but…” Her bottom lip is drawn in to stop the rambling, sight drifting to what she’s taken off the shelves for new conversation. “Do you like always do the shopping?” Def felt like an assistant would be on the payroll for that sort of stuff. “That’s really cool! Looks like you’re making lasagna or something? Sounds yum. I wish I could make that!”

she pretends she does not hear her name, the harsh grating over the mrs amplified by her surroundings, by the other thoughts that have found their way into her head. reeves is cushioned between enunciated thoughts about what pairs best with aged sottocenere, whether she might venture out into pastas yet uncharted, recipes not yet tried. there is little room for the decisions to be made as she’s approached with introductions and names she should know. 

“rowan young?” she gives a hollow stare, just barely warmed by the corners of a smile. the kind of frigid politeness that lets someone know that they were never called upon in the first place. in these moments she liked to believe in her anonymity, but the truth rarely matched. she does not glance back down at what’s in her basket, the makings of some warm meal and quiet night. it wasn’t lasagna, but she wasn’t going to start correcting now. “i don’t believe i know you, i’m sorry.”

He has earned much in his life. Wealth. Power. Status. He has not earned the ice that spreads out from his wife’s veins. The night has been reconstructed by his own hands from the rubble that she left behind. Their table at The Grove will hold the two people in this room. There is no invite extended to anyone else. And still there is no sense of importance returned to him. He is the lone possessor of effort. It is becoming a task that is less effortless than he makes it out to seem. A shadow swallows up the spark in his eyes before he answers her.

“The idea was my wife would be better company,” he tells her. The spark reemerges. It is ignited in his grin. It grows at the same speed hemlock does. This is coincidental. “Marc won’t appreciate how you look tonight either.” Or any night. He is joking for her sake at the expense that will never become too great for him not to afford. There is nothing left for her to think too hard on. He has little doubt that she won’t try to manufacture something else. The hand at her lower back guides her forward to try to outrun the possibility.

“Let’s not change that,” he adds with a simple rub of his hand against silk. He wants to have a nice night with her. He will get exactly that. They will together. It’s written in his expression. The same one that is given to her after the Bugatti’s door is opened for her. “There’s too much to look forward to tonight.”

there is a bloodstain on her dress. the crimson stain does not stand out against the fabric, how could it. but it is there all the same, staring defiantly back at her, marking her as one who has seen. she was present, and of course, she had only watched, sat there as another contract was pulled from the middle of their life and sent off. she remembered when she used to run, copies in hand, eyes bright as she announced what had happened, what was going to pull their paper from obscurity. but whatever feeling had spurred such reactions was gone now, she was left with nothing but a cold sick feeling spreading in her lungs. when had contracts become real tangible people, trapped instead of volunteered. 

“dinner and a show.” she says, there is no humor to the line, and she has not enjoyed the time. she would have preferred a night in with her husband, the coziness of a meal across their kitchen table, nothing to interrupt them. it would have been the first time she’d be able to look across at the man she married and see him, really see him. the less the world intrudes on her, the nicer she was finding her life. but instead they had been focused on the imminent story. “this will have to be dry cleaned.” she says in her cold quiet voice, she thinks it will have to be thrown out, the kind of stain that when gone she will not be able to unsee.  there is no reason to wear this dress again. 

Siobhan has never been in the business of offense for the sake of offense. That is the status quo of a dictator, where one’s pleasure comes from disrobing opponents for little to no reason other than to demonstrate that it can be done, that their power allows them such privilege even when it is no right of anyone’s. All the same, she does not give any privacy to Emma Reeves as her pallor is put on display. Instead, she holds her ground firmly, not a single crack in her foundation beneath her feet while her guest’s spiderwebs.

“If you do not wish to enter into a discussion, Mrs. Reeves, that is your right to do so,” she states, “but it therefore allows me to share with you my thoughts without interruption.” Lips are sharply painted in a fine red, words that are cut from them give them the appearance of being chiseled. There is no room for softness. “Mr. Remington has become a dear friend of mine. Although he hasn’t spoken in direct terms, I am of the understanding he has grown a particular fondness for someone that has entered into his life as of late.” Emma is watched closely, the name etched in the reflection of the producer’s eyes. “Because of this, I am extending the courtesy of a warning should those feelings be manipulated in any manner or by any relation.”

the name need not be spoken aloud for her to understand who siobhan was talking about, but to hear it in the open air, even just as a last name breaks through any facade of calm. her husband has torn all the iron from her bones, leaving a weakness that she cannot hide under such direct focus. she is unsteady and wounded in turn. she wants to speak to defend, she knows it will only incriminate. 

“if there was a person—” the ground here must be tred carefully, there is no room for missteps with such stakes. she doesn’t dare to imagine what would happen if she lost him now, she refuses to upset someone that he might consider a friend. “i don’t think manipulate has ever been a part of their thoughts.” there wasn’t even a plan, it was as though she had been struck by lighting. like ice had cracked, unsticking her from her existence. the kind of instantaneous change that someone can’t prepare for. they only find that it happened when they’re stuck in the middle of the new reality. “he seems too nice, to be taken advantage of. i can’t think of a single name who would do it.”

“but as it stands publicly, i don’t know mr. remington at all really.” before this, she’d done little more than write his name in various articles. there was never a fully formed version of the man like the might talk about now. “a warning, is a little much.”