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JESSIE:

Hey. You up?

ME:

It’s not a booty call if it comes with NDAs.

Ten seconds later, she’s calling me. Which is either brave or stupid, considering she now works for the human equivalent of a gym selfie.

“Hey, bestie,” Jessie says brightly, like she’s not currently in bed with the algorithm’s boyfriend.

I deadpan into the receiver. “Oh, we’re leading with bestie ? Not complicit in feminist treason ?”

She groans. “Okay. I deserve that. But before you get my girlboss license revoked—can I just remind you that I am now your direct line to enemy gossip?”

“You want me to treat you like a mole?”

“I prefer ‘embedded intelligence asset,’” she says. “Think of me as a whistleblower. With better contour.”

I roll onto my side and stare at the ceiling. “Right. Because nothing screams feminist resistance like selling out to Zeta Media for a dental plan.”

“Call it strategic infiltration, ” she says. “And FYI, I still don’t have dental. I’m a contractor. Very anti-capitalist in vibe if not in payroll.”

“So. You and Adrian,” I say, sweet as cyanide. “You seemed... comfortable. ”

“Please,” Jessie scoffs. “It’s just a job. He needed someone who can spell ‘narcissism’ without projecting it.”

I snort. “And yet, somehow, you keep using phrases like ‘emotional calibration’ in casual conversation. That one didn’t come from me.”

There’s a long pause. Then, faintly: “Okay, that one might have slipped in during a team sync.”

“A team sync , Jessie. You used the word sync . You’ve been radicalized.”

She makes a strangled noise. “Oh my god, I am not in a cult. I’m in a Slack channel.”

“Which is just a cult with worse fonts.”

“Look,” she says, already sounding defensive, “I wasn’t expecting to like anything about working there. But he was actually... I don’t know. Respectful. At the shoot. Like, with me and the other women. No weird comments. No casual condescension. Nothing.”

I raise an eyebrow at my ceiling fan. “And now we’re giving out medals for basic social decency?”

She sighs. “I’m just saying—it surprised me.”

“Well maybe you’re just starstruck,” I shoot back. “Not your fault. A lot of women confuse high-def lighting with moral growth.”

“Or,” she says, voice sharpening, “maybe I’m just tired of being broke and watching you fight every man on the internet like it’s your job.”

“It is my job.”

“Yeah,” she says, quieter now. “And it’s exhausting just watching.”

The silence between us hardens like cooling lava .

“You don’t have to agree with me all the time,” I say finally. “But you’re supposed to be my person. Not his.”

“I am your person.” Her voice cracks slightly. “But if you want me to keep being that, I need to make rent.”

Beat. Static. The sound of two women realizing their friendship might be on a slow boil.

“Right,” I say, sitting up. “Of course. You can work wherever you want. I just... didn’t think it would be him. ”

Jessie is quiet. Then: “Neither did I. But he’s not who I expected.”

I nod like she can see it. “Yeah. That’s what scares me.”

There’s nothing left to say, so I wrap it in a tight bow of emotional repression.

“Anyway,” I say brightly. “Good luck with your... brand synergy.”

“I’ll let you know if he starts quoting Brené Brown.”

“Please do. I’ll add it to the war crimes spreadsheet.”

We hang up.

I toss my phone onto the nightstand, then flop back on my pillow, staring at the ceiling like it owes me an explanation.

She’s allowed to like people. I’m allowed to be paranoid.

Those two things can coexist... right?

My ceiling fan spins silently, refusing to answer.