Her softened, measured tenor surprised me as she explained, “Mr. Fitzpatrick called this morning. He asked that you be removed from his team. Furthermore, he requested that the relationship we’ve doctored for the media end immediately.”

“He…he did what?” Now my brain and my heart hurt.

“Obviously, I told him that he is making a mistake. You are the best in this business, I told him. Your ideal image sketch has become a reality much faster than we could have foreseen, largely due to your timing strategy, the social media campaign, and your involvement as his faux love interest. Public perception is just as you’ve designed. I further explained that we couldn’t just end things between the two of you. We’ll have to phase you out of the public eye and phase someone else in who is equally relatable and likable. Otherwise, we risk making him look flighty and unfeeling. Side note here, I’d like your input as to appropriate candidates.”

“Phase me out?” I choked. “Candidates?”

“He eventually ceded that point. You’re off the account, Annie. But you’re still on girlfriend duty for the next four to six weeks—but don’t worry, it’s just a few public appearances. Becky has been sketching out the schedule since I got off the phone with Mr. Fitzpatrick. She’ll send you the draft this evening.”

“The schedule?”

“Of obligatory public appearances.”

I was mostly quiet for several long moments, but I abruptly became aware that I was breathing heavily and clutching my forehead with stiff fingers.

Ronan wanted me gone.

He wanted me gone.

He didn’t want me.

He didn’t even want to see me.

I’d left last night, and I’d ruined everything; and I had no idea how to make things right. Maybe there was no way to make things right. Maybe I’d left one too many times.

“Annie? Are you…are you all right?”

“No,” I blurted, shaking my head and obviously feeling more afraid than sane, because I blurted, “I’m not all right. I’m all wrong. I’ve ruined everything. I’m in love with him, and I didn’t tell him. Instead, I ran away when I found out something that I didn’t know. I didn’t know that he knew who I was. And when I found out that he knew, that he knew about who I was all along but loved me anyway, wanted me anyway, forgave me anyway, I panicked and left because his love felt like a manipulation. But it isn’t, and his emails were the only way he had of telling me how he felt without me freaking out like a ‘Freakout Francine!’ And instead of admitting the truth and owning my part and accepting his feelings and trusting him, I turned and fled like a spineless asshole.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes. ‘Oh, dear’ is right. I’m totally fucked, aren’t I?”

“Uh….”

“It’s okay, you can say it. You can say, ‘Annie, you are fucked.’ I mean, what kind of person falls in love with Ronan Fitzpatrick but is too much of a hypocrite and coward to own up to those feelings, especially when I know—I know for a fact—that they’re reciprocated! I know it, Joan! But not anymore because he wants me off the account!”

I might have been slightly hysterical at this point. I wasn’t crying, but I was screaming at my boss.

“Annie, calm down.”

“I can’t! I can’t calm down, Joan. I can no longer keep my shit together. You are the closest thing I have to a real-life friend, and you intimidate the crap out of me. I have no one. I had someone, but I threw him away, twice. Two times. I thought I didn’t need anyone. I was wrong. I’m so very wrong…I’m a spineless asshole.”

I was pacing the apartment, making contingency plans, because I was pretty sure I was about to be fired. My blog could support me, pay all my bills…assuming I wasn’t about to be outed as The Socialmedialite by the dunghead who’d stolen my laptop. Then I would become a true hermit. A shut-in, finding photos for my blog from other sources. Maybe I would get a ferret. A cat just felt too benign. My kind of crazy deserved an ambiguously cute rodent with a penchant for biting.

Really, I had more money than I needed. Years of spending funds only on takeout, tea, and pastries had yielded a significant savings. Being miserly with my finances and feelings was about to pay off in the most tragic way possible.

“Listen to me—”

“I’m fired, aren’t I? It’s okay if I am; just tell me now. If I’m going to lose my shit, I might as well lose all of it at once and have a shit storm of shittiness.”

“Annie, shut up and listen.”

I snapped my mouth shut and sat down heavily on my couch, released a resigned exhalation, and bit my bottom lip to keep from saying anything else.

“Now….” Joan cleared her throat, and I heard some movement in the background. I thought I heard her snapping her fingers. She often snapped her fingers at people when she wanted their attention.

I prepared myself for what would undoubtedly come next, and tangentially I decided that I should have invested in a therapist years ago. Then I could have called her or him rather than committing professional suicide. Therapists always struck me as a hire-a-friend service. Therapists are to mental and emotional purging what prostitutes are to physical urges.

Amidst my meanderings about prostitutes and therapists and ferrets, Joan surprised the cuss out of me.

Of note, she didn’t fire me.