All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

interaction one could have with their new personal assistant, I would win first place. If I hadn’t seen Rosalyn with my own human eyes, I could be convinced she was actually connected to the artificial intelligence conspiracy Miles loved to prattle on about. The woman had the personality of copier paper. And not the high-gloss variety, either—the one-ply, standard stock.

Over the past two and a half weeks, she’d emailed me twice a day. First to let me know the titles and times of the scheduled posts Val had edited for me weeks ago—as if I couldn’t see them waiting in the queue myself—and second to let me know how each of those posts performed in their first twenty-four hours. Again, as if I didn’t have the log-in information to my own social media platforms. But those were far from her most annoying transgressions, as Rosalyn’s favorite form of communication seemed to be the automated group text message she sent out every morning at exactly 7:00 a.m. A motivational quote. But not one for each day of the week—nope, the same one. Every. Single. Morning. And the more I read it, the more unmotivated I became:

“Working hard is not the same as hard work.”

—Rosalyn Brunswick

What kind of person sent out a daily anti-motivational quote that they wrote themselves via group text message? Not Val. That’s who.

I sat at my computer, wishing I could copy/paste my latest Rosalyn encounter—an unnecessary reminder to please respond to your viewers within an hour of your most recent postings for best visibility and reach—to Val, since she was the only person in my life who could truly understand what I was working with here. But every time I scrolled down to Val’s name, I’d get that same awful prickly feeling in the pit of my stomach. Because I’d be forced to see the last of our text messages to each other. Those brutally polite exchanges recounting her final days and hours as my assistant. Simple logistics absent of personality or emojis.

Who was I to Val now? A former boss? A former friend? Both?

I wasn’t sure of the new rules. What were the boundaries for such a strange arrangement? I didn’t know. Just like I didn’t know how to push the constant swell of grief and regret away whenever I thought of her. Why hadn’t I visited Val in Alaska when I’d had the chance? I knew all about her fears of flying, her obligations to Tucker and her parents, and yet I never actually booked a flight. I should have surprised her, shown up with balloons and a cake for her birthday one year. I should have planned a girls weekend at a spa retreat on a snowy mountaintop as a thank-you for her countless overtime hours and loyal dedication to building my brand. I should have put one of my many work trips aside to do something that actually mattered for someone who actually mattered.

And yet, I’d done none of that.

I forked another bite of chilled wedding cake samples. Perhaps one of the only things I did know how to answer was the call to eat my feelings, and thanks to Clara’s generous donation to the Late Night Emotional Eating Fund for Molly McKenzie, I’d be on a sugar high for at least another hour. Possibly two.

When Clara had asked if I wanted to go with her to Bake Me A Cake two days ago to pick up the samples, I’d figured she just needed a ride since Jake was at a job site across town, but as it turned out, we ended up spending the entire day together. After the tasting, she’d asked my opinion on a going-home outfit to wear after the reception, which had led to several more store visits and then to the purchase of iced coffees and a long stroll around the Riverwalk. It had been an unexpectedly fun day, yet like so often over these last few weeks, I couldn’t help but think of Val. I’d reached for my phone countless times to snap a picture of something I knew she’d find amusing or cute or post-worthy for an upcoming feature. But then I’d remember how things were between us now, and that terrible gut clench would return.

I stuffed the last piece of orangesicle-and-limeade cake into my mouth and swiped to the home screen on my phone. It wasn’t the first time I wanted to start a music playlist entitled Friendship Breakups are the Worst.

An email notification appeared at the top of my device, and I prayed it wasn’t from Rosalyn. I couldn’t be held responsible for a professional reply after 11:00 p.m.

But it wasn’t from my new assistant. It was from Sophia Richards.

I fought to swallow the too-big piece of cake and sat up as if Sophia herself were walking into my living room and not confined to my inbox. I clicked into the body of the message.

Dear Molly,

I apologize that it’s taken a couple weeks for me to respond to your email. We’ve been in Barbados, celebrating the launch of a new product line before my husband gets back to the Hollywood grind.

To address the outcome of the photo shoot, yes, I was disappointed by your decision to leave. However, we all have times when our personal convictions override obligations. In this case, I applaud you for sticking to your convictions and considering how the choices you make on your platform might affect the impressionable following you’ve grown. As a former foster child myself, I’d be interested in hearing more about the organization you mentor through. I was adopted prior to my twelfth birthday, but not without much struggle and hardship.

Due to some recent feedback within the industry, we will be implementing an alternate pattern to the traditional Tubee: a halter tank which will cover more chest and midriff with a less translucent fabric. I’d be honored if you’d consider it for future endorsement.

Stay in touch,

Sophia Richards

I read the email over three times in a