Chapter Text
Reading a lot of books throughout my life gave me a relative understanding of the logic behind such phrases as ‘everything was a blur’ and ‘it felt like the world stood still’. The thing about those phrases, and phrases like them, was the fact that I had always read about people experiencing those moments, usually fictional, though I hadn't really experienced a moment like that myself.
Every day in Miranda’s orbit might have been like a blur to someone else. She walked like she was on a mission, spoke in riddles sometimes, saying things like ‘that Givenchy wrap, the one I like, from three weeks ago, get it’ or ‘that piece of paper I had in my hand three days ago, get me that’, and I would be able to draw upon my recall and get it for her. Days with Miranda were not a blur for me. I remembered pretty much everything.
Time didn’t stand still with Miranda either.
If time stood still then nothing was happening and if nothing was happening then something wasn’t going to plan, something was wrong, so minutes ticked by with the regimented consistency of marching soldiers. Like me. I was a marching soldier too. Always moving, always anticipating, I didn’t have much time to really think.
That’s how work felt now, like I was in command of what I needed to do in order to make everything smooth and palatable and I didn’t have to even think about it anymore. I just did it. I was good at my job.
Too good at my job, I think some might say.
I haven’t spoken to my family or Nate since Paris at this point. That was five months ago. Paris was… An experience. It marked my first epic mistake. I know that I’m still on probation for that but I think I’m making headway because I’ve given up everything. All of my aspirations, my dreams, my unimportant wants, don’t play a part in my decision making process anymore. I’ve learned my lesson; I don’t matter.
Like a child who humiliated themself in front of their crush, I ran away from her. Well, not run, exactly - I walked away. The soft gurgling fountain across the street was where my cell phone met its untimely demise and I just kept on walking, feeling remarkably proud of myself for making the choice to cut and run before everything became so much harder and much more personally complicated. I wasn’t going to be another Miranda Priestly. I wasn’t going to sacrifice my morals and my values in order to get ahead. I was going to be better than that. I wasn’t going to hurt my friends or the people that I cared about and profit from their misery.
It took no more than twenty eight minutes for me to feel the compounding dread. My holier than thou attitude wore off as quickly as the charm of leaving Runway had filled me after tossing my phone away. From one end of a spectrum to the other, from being proud of my conviction to knowing I had made one of the biggest, if not the biggest, mistakes in my adult life, my reaction to my reaction gave me the kind of panic attack that almost floored me. I had a job to do. It was the most important thing I could do. And I blew it.
Before the event was even over I was back at Miranda’s side after fighting my way into the venue. Nigel was looking at me like I’d gone certifiably insane and, to his credit, I actually think for a moment that he was right.
Miranda was furious.
I’d seen her angry before. Not like that though.
She didn’t say a word until we were back at the hotel and then she stepped into my room behind me. I’d never heard her yell before but she did. She dressed me down hard, she called me out, called me petulant, told me that I’d be lucky if she didn’t fire me (she didn’t fire me by the way, obviously), but of all the things that she said that day while I sat there on the end of the bed, watching her pace back and forth in front of me - the amazing, terrifying, articulate, and scathing force that she was -, the one thing that really made me realize who - what - I was to her was when she told me that I don’t really matter.
What I do matters, granted.
But who I am doesn’t matter.
When she was finished flaying me alive where I sat, exacting her pound of flesh from me, she left me to sit there and think about my actions in the quiet of my hotel room. I would like to say that I had taken my lashings with dignity and fully embraced the consequences of my actions but, the truth is, the second she slammed the door shut behind her and left my hotel suite, I fell apart in a big way. I cried, or sobbed, for hours. While she was in the room, I managed. Even though the things she was saying in her anger were probably some of the most cruel and hurtful things she had ever said to me. I took it like a champ under her baleful glare, although the second her back was turned it was a completely different story.
By seven in the evening I had a new phone delivered. What I knew was that the disappointment of so many things was a bigger issue. The divorce, the twins, what Irv had attempted to do, and then what I had almost done, made it so much worse than it had to be if I’d just stayed. Nigel came by later that night and we talked at great length. We got so drunk together that he ended up sleeping on the floor at the foot of my bed because he passed out. I told him everything, he told me everything, and he made me promise never to do something so stupid again and I did; I promised. He had faith in Miranda. Even after everything, he still had faith in her. So I had to have faith in his faith and eventually found some faith in her myself. Especially after she didn’t fire me and blacklist me. No one but the three of us really knew what I almost did, it didn’t become a rumor, it just became a memory.
Again, no blur about it. No time stood still. I can remember everything right down to the way my room smelled like her perfume after she left, the way her hair looked like she’d been running her fingers through it (something I would learn later was a product of anxiety and stress), the way her eye twitched, the way every word sounded like a growl of a wounded animal, everything. It’s been living in my head for months. I’d like to think that I’ve marginally made up for it with my actions. I’d like to believe that because she’s been less tyrannical and she doesn’t belittle me as much anymore. I think that I’ve proven to her that, when push comes to shove, that I am willing to give up everything for her so that she could be the best that she could be.
Miranda matters.
She matters to me - more than I know that she knows.
Nigel knows. He kind of made me tell him once. I was very drunk. He’s very good at making negronis. And I think he’s my best friend now. Really, I think he’s my only friend now.
So, this day, when that girl came out of seemingly nowhere with that gun in her hand, and when Nigel froze, and Miranda froze, even though they were both so much stronger than I am, I was the only one to react on instinct and now I don’t really remember anything. Everything around us ground to a halt. It was just another Tuesday. The weather was nice. Roy had just dropped us off in front of Elias-Clark after a viewing. We were right smack dab in the middle of our journey from car to front doors and all I saw was this hand; this gun; the threat.
Whatever I did made it better, I think. I’m positive that Miranda is just fine. It’s going to be a pain in the ass for her, I know, now that she’s going to have to find a replacement for me but I’m pretty sure that Emily will be able to do that. And once it feels like I’m not choking to death on my words and on this… Gunky stuff. Blood? I think? I know she’ll be just fine.
She matters. Unlike some of us, she does matter. And she’s going to be fine, she kind of has to be.
So I’m going to keep looking up into her eyes because they are so blue and gorgeous because I can’t think anymore. They’re even more blue than the sky that halos her beautiful and mesmerizing hair. She’s saying things but it’s a blur. Finally I know what they were always talking about. Then I’ll go to sleep. That’s pretty much it. Right?
I’ve done the most important thing that I can do; my job.