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Lyla

A fter the reprieve I got yesterday—with the heavenly massage, Drake’s help with the press release (nemesis conquered!), and even a bubble bath when I got home, it’s only fitting that today is terrible.

Cathy’s in rare form—which is saying something, considering she once conducted an entire staff meeting while wearing a foam finger and calling it her “management wand.”

We’re gathered around the conference table-slash-breakroom-slash-storage overflow zone so we can meet with the national director of Play It Forward, Milo, via Zoom. At the edge of the conference table, a laptop is perched on a stack of magazines to give Milo a better angle.

It doesn’t help. He’s still somehow lit like a horror movie villain and wearing a windbreaker even though he’s definitely somewhere warm, judging by the palm tree behind him.

“Play It Forward Day is going to be huge this year,” Cathy says with her usual gusto. “And we’ve got a big name coming in—Dan Marino.” She beams, clearly expecting Milo to fall at her feet through the screen.

Milo claps. “That’s amazing, Cathy! You’re a miracle worker.”

Cathy waves a hand like she’s trying to be humble but mostly wants to bask in it. “Well, you know, I’ve got my ways.”

My jaw twitches. Her ways involved using me and taking all the credit, but sure. Let’s go with that.

Milo turns his attention to me, gray eyes darting like he’s playing a mental game of Connect the Dots. “Lyla, I’ve been thinking. You’re creative, right?”

That’s never a good lead-in. I offer a hesitant smile. “Sometimes?”

“Great!” he booms. “Because I had an idea on my red-eye flight this morning while eating a questionable breakfast burrito: what if we made personalized locker nameplates for every kid attending Play It Forward Day? Like real pro ones, with their names and jersey numbers and team logos and—oh! What if they lit up?”

“Lit up,” I echo, already internally panicking. Images flash through my mind: hot glue burns, glitter in my eyelashes, me crying into a pile of LED bulbs.

“Yes! Like a Vegas sign but tasteful. You could handcraft each one and line the entry tunnel with them like it’s the Super Bowl meets a Broadway show.” He’s grinning like this is the most brilliant idea since sliced bagels. “You’ve got time, right?”

Cathy nods at me. “Lyla can handle it.”

I stare between them, stunned into silence. I should say no. This is a no moment. A firm boundary. A clear line in the sand.

But then I see Milo’s face, just so hopeful, like a golden retriever who’s learned how to use Zoom.

“Sure,” I say, wondering how fast regret can set in. (Spoiler: it’s immediate.) Somewhere in the universe, a glitter cannon just went off in celebration of my poor life choices. “I’ll . . . figure something out.”

Milo pumps his fist in victory. “Play It Forward, baby! We’re changing lives, one custom nameplate at a time!”

It takes everything in me to not flop my head in my hands and groan.

It’s going to be a long night.