Smith

 

 

Brynn Bishop.

That name has been haunting me since I saw her at the gym yesterday. She may have thought I didn't notice her looking at me, but I did.

I type her name into every social media platform I can think of on my smartphone. The results on each of her profiles are the same. Everything is set to private. The only hint into her world is one visible picture of her. It's a tightly cropped image of her face in oversized sunglasses. There's no mention of her fiancé. I don't see a single picture of the elaborate wedding in the Hamptons that was planned for last summer. She didn't have a ring on her finger at the gym yesterday, but she could have slipped it back on after her workout.

Frustration pecks at me as I exit the browser and scroll through the emails that arrived in my inbox overnight. Not one of them is urgent enough to warrant my full attention. I close the email app and switch the phone's ringer back on. I silence it every night before I call it a day. I have to. My weekdays end earlier than anyone I know and as phone calls, text messages and emails roll in, I'm already clocked out, asleep in my bed in Brooklyn.

When you have to drag your ass out of bed before the crack of dawn five days a week, your bedtime rivals that of a four-year-old. I should know. Earlier this year, I spent time at my sister's place in Kentucky.

My twin nephews are fed, bathed and dressed in their pajamas before most people in Manhattan have given dinner a thought. If nothing else, the ridiculous lights out before eight p.m. rule prepared me for my new job.

Being the co-host of Rise and Shine comes with a multitude of perks I'll never complain about. One is this chauffeured SUV. Hopping on the subway when I've just roused myself out of bed, is something I did in college, but no more.

I use these moments during the drive to the studio to go over the notes Resa, my executive producer, sends me thirty minutes before I wake up. It's a routine we established straight out of the gate when I took this job.

"Do you need anything, Mr. Booth?" My driver, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a slight English accent, asks as he peers at me in the rear view mirror. "We have time to stop for a coffee. I know how much you hate what they serve at the studio."

He knows that because he heard me complaining over the phone to Resa two mornings ago.

My agent requested the essentials in my contract. That started with an eight figure a year salary and the non-negotiable role of associate producer. I want a say in the stories I'm bringing on air. He also secured a decent sized dressing room and office, one Friday off a month, my suits and shirts custom tailored from Berdine, the premier men's wear store in the city, and a driver who was supposed to keep the small talk to a minimum.

Good coffee wasn't mentioned, but unless Resa replaces the shit they've been serving me, I'll comment live on air about my love for the premium blend at Roasting Point, a family run chain of New York based cafés. I have little doubt that a plug to our daily audience of several million will benefit the owners of the business enough that a free cup of their coffee will never be more than an arm's reach away.

"I could use a decent cup." I reach forward to tap Arthur on the shoulder. "There's a twenty-four-hour Roasting Point a block over on Broadway. Pick up one for yourself too. Bill it to my expense account."

"You have excellent taste, sir." He replies with a curt nod. "Is there anything else you need?"

That list is a mile and a half long. It begins with a redo of the last twelve hours of my life and a miracle. Arthur isn't equipped to deliver either. "Just the coffee."

He pulls the car into a tight spot a half a block from the café. "I'll be but a minute."

"Take your time." I glance at the watch on my wrist. The same watch my younger brother gifted me on the day I graduated from college.

The car door slams shut just as my phone chimes. I look down at a text message from Caprice, the woman I spent a fun and forgettable afternoon with before I hopped on the subway eight hours ago to head home.

She wants more than I have to give her. Yesterday was the second time I went to her place. It was also the last.

A heart emoji at four a.m. does nothing for me.  I delete her message suggesting we hook-up again tonight.

Stroking my chin, I scroll through the hundreds of names in my contact list before I land on Julian Bishop.  We haven't seen each other in years. That changes today. I make a note in my calendar to call him once I'm off the air.

Catching up with an old friend will get me back on track. Hearing about what his beautiful younger sister is up to can't hurt either.