Public Relations by Katie Heaney

Author:Katie Heaney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / Coming Of Age, Fiction / Contemporary Women, Fiction / Romance / Contemporary, Fiction / Romance / Romantic Comedy
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2017-05-08T16:00:00+00:00

12.

THE DAMN BEAR WOULDN’T STOP staring at me.

After a full day of squeezing my legs into the minuscule space the monstrosity had left under my desk, I decided to bite the bullet and lug the thing home. In retrospect, this may not have been the best decision. Turned out a child-size stuffed animal isn’t exactly a welcome addition to a tightly packed Q train at rush hour. I learned this quickly as the object of almost every other rider’s scornful glare. I spent the ride alternating between avoiding eye contact, and, when this wasn’t possible, offering my most apologetic, if futile, smile.

The bear hardly felt like less of an intrusion in my own home. (Honestly, what sort of high-ceilinged, sprawling apartment did Neil think I lived in?) Maybe it was the fact that I’d been cooped up in my room since I’d gotten home four hours ago, but I could swear the bear, perched on my dresser/desk/vanity/in-desperate-times-table, was following my every movement with its beady little eyes. Not that there was much movement. I was spending my Friday night working from home, propped up in bed and surrounded by my laptop, notebook, phone, magazines, empty food wrappers, and, tonight, a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio. I took a long swig.

“What?” I said aloud to no one; to myself; to, I guess, the bear.

Beady, judgmental little eyes.

I stared at the ceiling and rolled out my shoulders. I needed to focus. Between the unresolved semi-fight with Harper, the tense presentation, and the apology from Neil—an apology I was refusing to acknowledge—the day had really shaken me. I’d spent most of it finalizing the details for the Philadelphia brunch. It was a deceptively simple task—Raya rejecting my first suggestion because the restaurant wouldn’t disclose where they got their chickens; Archie rejecting the second because it didn’t have outdoor seating—but we ultimately settled on an 11:00 a.m. meal at Tammy’s, a Washington Square organic spot self-described as “high-end farmhouse.” The manager, as to be expected, was thrilled.

Now, though, I was somewhat stalled. I had eleven tabs open on the laptop in front of me—Raya’s Tumblr, Raya’s Instagram, seven Raya fan Tumblrs, and two Twitter time lines I couldn’t even remember landing on—but found little mention of Archie among them. It had started as an evening of Web meandering, and somewhere along the way I’d fallen into a deep hole of Raya stalking. True, there weren’t many photos of her readily available, but plenty of evidence existed should a person want to convince herself that Raya was cool, the absolute coolest, untouchably cool, even. For starters: Raya’s hazy Instagram shot of in-demand producer Luis Rollick sitting at a mixing board, suggesting a collaboration (Which I should probably know about?); the raspberry oatmeal recipe she’d shared on her Tumblr (so simple, but so delicious); and, of course, all the many teens who called her “Mom.” It was maddening.

Teens could like me, too, I thought, my face scrunching in smug indignation. They just don’t know me. After

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