"Wisconsin's not even a real state," I mumble, brooding slightly.

After hanging up with Brett, I made a real effort to lose myself in work. I did all the right things. I put on my most expensive noise-cancelling headphones. I got the strongest caffeinated drink I could find without causing major organ failure. I set my status to Do Not Disturb.

But the caffeine made my stomach roil, and I found myself on the toilet wondering where in Wisconsin he was even headed.

In all the months we've worked together, we've never discussed what town he's from.

Shamefully, I Google it. Even more shamefully, I find myself scrolling through the flights for later today from LAX to Milwaukee. There's no nonstops - they all stop in Vegas and  spill into six hours of travel time.

I wouldn't want to make that flight, I think. Good thing I don't have to.

But don't I?

He had spent all that time with me, literally holding me together as I fell apart in his arms just a few days ago. Now it's his turn, his collapse, and I need to pick between supporting him the way he did for me or keeping things distant.

Unfortunately, this issue is much bigger than Brett. I have a verbal agreement standing with Mister Senator Bells, one that he didn't hold up his end of. I feel like a mafia boss planning the downfall of someone indebted to me.

And for what it's worth, if I ever see any of the Bells men, I'm going straight for their kneecaps.

My father also sent me a curt email requesting my presence in his office first thing tomorrow morning. That was the entire message. He didn't even include his signature; it ended with -Jeff.

A thought weasels its way into my mind. A wildly unprofessional, ridiculous thought that I could avoid all of these issues with one poorly calculated decision. And that's all it takes to convince me - in the midst of my caffeine turmoil - to purchase my plane ticket.

* * *

I'm feeling colossally moronic by the time I arrive in Sheboygan, Winsconsin - otherwise known as the actual end of the world - first thing the next morning. It took a red-eye flight plus a not insignificant drive in a rental car to get there. I had to make several stops for food, coffee, and a hoodie, since no one told me Wisconsin is still cold in the summertime.

I roll up to a bagel shop wearing a University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee sweatshirt and an absolutely sour attitude. I'd practiced what to say to Brett over one thousand times in the car, but the words just weren't right. They swelled in my mouth, too large or too small, forced or blasé, overbearing or inconsiderate. I'd never done something this drastic before.

And yet here I am, doing my stupid grand gesture.

It's in the middle of an aggressive takedown of a lox bagel in the rental car that Brett actually calls me.

"Hello?" I ask, desperate to sound casual, but instead I sound like an idiot with my mouth full of cream cheese. I wipe the back of my palm against the side of my mouth and try to discreetly set the bagel down without crinkling the paper too loudly.

"Mia?" Brett's voice is clear as rain, as comforting as a summer storm. "Where are you?"

My heart skips. Does he track me or something?

He answers my question before I can ask it. "Your friend Elizabeth reached out and said you haven't shown up for work this morning." 

I furrow my eyebrows and check my watch. "My shift started like, thirty minutes ago in California time."

"Have you ever been late?" This does not come out as a question; he knows my answer already.

I sigh. "Not on a day when I'm expected in the office."

"So where are you?"

I cringe and chew on my thumbnail. "Wisconsin?"

He doesn't believe it the first time, not until I've sent him a photo of the bagel shop I'm parked outside.

He's silent for an extremely long period of time, in which I manage to go through all five stages of grief and settle at acceptance that he wants me to fly back home. Then he says, "I'll text you my address. You're not far." And, that simply, I'm headed his way.

I call Elizabeth on my drive.

I give her the brief rundown of the events of the last few hours, to which she says, "Are you insane or do you just want to be fired?"

I groan. "Liz, please."

"No," Elizabeth asserts. "Jeff is seething, girl. I'd imagine he's expecting your proposal for the remediation plan on this one. Everyone is talking about it."

"I'll email him the remediation plan," I exhale. "Frankly, he can seethe."

She's quiet for a beat. "I kind of like this Mia."

"Don't get used to her," I laugh. "I don't have enough balls to keep up this act."

"Oh, Mia. You are made of balls."

"Gross, bitch."

I pull up to the address that Brett had texted to me. He's standing in the driveway, tall and handsome, like he'd just rolled out of bed. A humble house stands behind him, painted an offensive salmon color with rotting wooden steps and a small election-like sign driven into the grass that reads Mama Archer's Cakes N Things. I hastily end my call with Elizabeth and kill the engine.

"I cannot believe you're here," Brett says as he walks up. He's in all black - his signature - with matching bags beneath his eyes. I stiffen at how awful he looks. Even with his smile, with the genuine joy of reuniting with me, he looks sleep deprived and hollow.

I step into his outstretched arms and inhale the heady smell of him. "I figured I owed you one after last week."

We stand there for a long moment in the crisp morning air, refusing to be the first to release the other. The house is surrounded by greenery, a landscape so oversaturated it's almost hard to look at. Birds sing their songs, wind whispers through the trees, and - distantly - a windchime dings shyly.

"Can I introduce you to my mother and aunt?" Brett asks into my hair.

"Of course."

He insists on carrying my luggage in from the car, then insists on holding the door open for me.

I'm met with a cluttered, mismatched living room and the scent of cinnamon floating high in the air. There's a fat, orange tabby cat on the couch to my right, and he hisses at me just from looking at him. Behind him, a box TV is absolutely blaring the news, and my head starts to spin from the overstimulation as I step over piles of shoes and junk scattered across the carpet.

We round the corner into a dated kitchen, with a tiny, round woman pulling cinnamon rolls from the over just as we do so. Her eyebrows raise at the sight of me, but she doesn't seem too surprised to have a stranger in her kitchen.

She sets the pan down on the stovetop and turns to give me her full attention. "What can I do for you today?" she asks, her voice rough and deep

I stammer briefly before Brett appears behind me and puts his hand on the small of my back. "Mama, this is Mia," he says. "My publicist."

I catch something flash across her face, a micro expression or a look the two of them exchange, but it's gone before I can interpret it. Before I know it, I'm wrapped into a warm, sugary hug. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulders, but something about her still feels protective and maternal.

"Oh my word!" she exclaims, pulling back with her hands resting on my upper arms. She looks like a carbon copy of Brett - or, rather, he looks like a carbon copy of her. She's got his sharp edges, his dark features, but she makes them look feminine and homey rather than handsome and mysterious. "My apologies! I wasn't expecting you; I would've made something a little heartier than just cinnamon rolls."

I give a small laugh, my eyes tracking Brett as he slips behind her with my suitcase. "It's my fault, Mrs. Archer. I didn't tell Brett I was coming." Her face shifts again, almost imperceptibly, and I feel myself growing self-conscious. 

"I'll be out of your hair, though," I add, suddenly nervous. "There's a hotel in town that has openings for tonight."

"Nonsense," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You'll take Brett's room. He can have the couch. And call me Debby."

I want to protest, but I swallow the words before I do. I have a feeling her midwestern hospitality wouldn't take kindly to any objections.

Brett slips into a room somewhere beyond the kitchen while Brett's mom starts tittering - "Where's Charlotte? Oh, she's probably outside with that damned garden. Can't grow a carrot to save her life, that woman. I wouldn't want one anyway, what with B-Boy's pee all over the darned soil."

"Bastard Boy," Brett calls from the other room. "That's the cat. We call him bastard from short. Lowercase B - it's an insult."

I nod to myself, starting to retreat into my mind. As a kid, I'd read about bustling, chaotic homes like these, but could never imagine them fully. My homes were so sterile growing up; I never had the type of parent to bake homemade cinnamon rolls on a weekday, we were a grab-and-go frozen breakfast household. No pets, no clutter, no noise.

A woman appears from the sliding door at the back of the room, the knees of her jeans caked in mud. She, too, doesn't seem interested in my random appearance in their house and instead reaches past me to grab a roll. She's a taller version of Debby, with untamed hair and a large mole on her chin. I'm stunned by the similarities between the three of them. 

"Char," Debby says from the sink, where she's washing up dishes. "This is Mia. She's Brett's publicist - the one he's told us about."

I try not to react to this and instead shake the woman's hand, which is firm and absolutely massive.

Brett slinks out from whatever room he deposited my suitcase into and guides me towards the sliding doors. "We're going to walk and talk," he calls behind him, but the two women are deep in conversation about the amount of sugar in the rolls and whether or not the farm-fresh eggs Debby used are worth eight dollars a dozen.

The air is crisp outside, pure and cool. It feels different than LA air - cleaner, bluer, thinner. I drink it in in big gulps as Brett leads me down a barely paved path towards the woods.

Brett slips his hand into mine just before we step into the tree line, then says, "I don't want this to sound like I'm not happy to see you, because I am, but what are you doing here?"

We've become fully covered by the dense foliage, and I'm blown away by how beautiful and green it all is. There's not many trees between his house and the back neighbors, but we're concealed where we are, and it's positively gorgeous.

I sigh and kick some rocks underfoot. "I don't really know, Brett. I knew you were hurting and I wanted to help."

He smiles, but it doesn't reach up to his eyes. "I'm assuming this means we need to talk work?"

I nod once. "It'll be brief."

"Fine," he acquiesces. "Rip the Band-Aid off now."

My spirit lifts a little - cluttered homes I don't know, but PR I most definitely do. "Okay," I start with a clap. "I've gotten Avalon's video removed based on the legal workings we're in the thralls of. Unfortunately, we don't have control over what Bells says, but Tony wants him to get wrapped into this lawsuit as well. I'm trying to evaluate the optics here, but I have one card left in my pocket. The senator owes me a conversation, which I'm trying to arrange with his assistant as soon as possible. It's tough, though, because it's election season. He is a busy man right now." 

Brett groans. "Can't I just tell the truth? That Bells put his hands on his girl?"

"Optics, Brett. Politicians will play dirty. I'm not getting between that man and his son, and especially not his election."

He lets out an unsteady breath. "Fine," he says reluctantly. "What do I do?"

I try to soften my face and offer a smile. "Nothing," I answer, but it sounds uncertain. "We'll have you tell your truth, just not yet."

"This sucks."

"I know."

He turns to look at the trees behind him, his posture lethargic and slow. When he turns back, I try not to cringe at how his eyes look so sunken into his head, how chapped his lips are. "Can I show you something?"

I squeeze his hand. "Of course."

"It's about a mile away," he says, his voice lilting upwards like I'll object to this.

"Lead the way, Brett."