15. Daphne

15

DAPHNE

"Daphne, darlin', if y'all don't answer that thang, I will!" Aunt Rhonda's voice infiltrated my deep slumber.

Awareness hit my consciousness in stages. First, I was aware of the loud threat my aunt was making. Next, I heard a ringing sound, which I quickly identified as the ‘thang' Aunt Rhonda was referring to. After that, I was struck with the reality that my eyes were glued shut, or at least, that's what they felt like. It was as if they'd been dipped in cement.

With more effort than should be required, I forced my lids open only to find that my vision was blurrier than a Monet landscape. When I tried to reach for my phone, my arm also felt coated in dried concrete. I attempted to sit up only to discover that my arm and eyes were not the only victims of invisible mortar; my entire body was heavy.

When I was finally able to overcome my perceived physical limitations, grab my phone, and look down at my screen, my sight was still hazy, but I was able to see I had ten missed calls, and they were all from Alexandra. The other numbers of note on my device indicated the time. It read 4:15. That couldn't be right, since my flight was at 3:45.

No. That couldn't be right.

Adrenaline fueled me, infusing my bloodstream like I was mainlining a double shot of espresso.

"What the fuck?!" I cursed beneath my breath as I checked the time on the alarm clock. It also read 4:15.

I'd slept through my flight.

Was that why Alexandra had called me so many times?

No. It couldn't be. How would she know that I wasn't in the air? This was a personal trip, so she wasn't privy to my travel arrangements.

I was still trying to wrap my head around my current predicament when my phone started ringing again. It looks like I wasn't going to have to play the Why Is My Boss Blowing Up My Phone guessing game.

"Hello." My scratchy voice sounded like I was ninety and had a three-pack-a-day habit.

"Daphne?" Alexandra questioned.

It was actually flattering that she hadn't just assumed it was me.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Are you sick ?" she asked with all the maternal/nurturing nature of Bette Davis in Mother Dearest .

Alexandra had been a germaphobe before the pandemic, but since the global health crisis, her condition had worsened. As a rule, everyone she came in contact with was treated with general disdain, but if you dared to sneeze or God-forbid cough, you might as well have the black plague. You were a ‘walking petri dish of infection and disease that should be burned at the stake.' That was an exact quote.

"No. I just, um, I lost my voice last night," I lied.

I wasn't about to say that I was sick and get banned from coming into the office, possibly permanently. But there was no way I could admit that I'd just woken up, either. My boss's contempt for germs was only surpassed by her deep, abiding hatred of laziness.

"Did you get my messages?" she asked in a clipped tone.

I was metaphorically biting my tongue so hard I tasted the metal from blood that wasn't actually there. Alexandra referring to missed calls as ‘leaving messages' was one of the more frustrating aspects of dealing with her, and believe me, the list was long.

"You didn't leave any messages." I pointed out in vain.

"Yes. I did. I've called you over a dozen times."

"Right. Sorry." There was no use in arguing with her. "What's up?"

"Dating in the Country. It's greenlit. I'm sending a crew out tomorrow. You can shoot for three weeks in Firefly Isla?—"

"I'm sorry…what? I didn't pitch Dating in the Cou?—"

"I know. I did. You're welcome for doing your job for you ."

I inhaled slowly through my nose and counted back from ten, so I didn't quit my job. It was a habit I'd acquired during my first year working under Alexandra. She could test the patience of St. Monica, the patron saint of patience. A tidbit I only knew because Davina, who worked in the make-up and hair department, was a devout Catholic and prayed to St. Monica whenever she had an interaction with Alexandra.

"I'm flying back to L.A. today," I stated calmly; yet firmly. "I'm not staying in Firefly Island?—"

"Yes. You are. Phil, Davina, and Lydia will be there tomorrow."

This conversation felt like a runaway train, and I was strapped to the front of the locomotive like a character in a cartoon. Whatever wheels had been put in motion, I needed to stop it. There was no way I could spend another day, much less weeks in Firefly Island. Not after I'd let my freak flag fly last night and gotten down and dirty in Harlan Mitchell's barn.

I'd stripped in front of the man.

I'd told him that I wanted him to fuck me.

I'd let him fuck me.

The second time, from behind.

But even worse, I'd told him about my mom and dad. About moving around so much. About my undying love for The Great British Bakeoff.

Trying to grab at straws I feared were not in my reach, I did my best to switch tracks and derail this trainwreck. "Did you get my email? I sent you three pitches. I was thinking?—"

"I didn't need to look at them, not after what I saw."

"What you saw ? What did you see?"

"You and Harlan Mitchell."

How in the hell did she know about Harlan? Panic burst through me. Was there some sort of hidden camera in his barn?

"What? Where did you see me and Harlan?"

"I saw you dancing with him."

Dancing with him?

"On Insta. I started following the town's socials after What is Love? " She clicked her tongue, which was her sign that she was bored with this conversation. "See you next month. Make good TV."

Almost as annoying as Alexandra considering missed calls as ‘leaving a message' was her tagline, ‘make good TV." It was as if that wasn't always the goal. As if I would ever set out to make shit TV.

I sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what my options were. As I saw it, there were only two. One, stay in Firefly for the next two weeks, date five random guys, and keep my job. Or two, book another flight back to Los Angeles, where I wouldn't have a job waiting for me.

Right. So really only one option.