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After everything, the murder mystery party with a real murder, the crazy explosion, the even crazier media circus that follows, Peg needs a new job. It’s simple enough, on paper. Peg has got to get a new job.
“You’ve been saying that for like ten years,” says Jeanie.
As Peg’s sister and therefore the only person other than Birdie that she speaks to on a regular basis, Jeanie has unfortunately been as locked into the rollercoaster of I’m-going-to-quit-I-can’t-she-needs-me as Peg has. Extra-unfortunately for Peg, this means she’s willing to bring it up. Bluntness is something of a family trait, always exacerbated by irritation which, for Jeanie, doesn’t even get a little bit mitigated by whatever the bits and pieces of love Peg has managed to scrape together from Birdie.
“I know ,” says Peg.
“So actually fucking quit,” says Jeanie.
“It’s not actually that fucking simple,” says Peg.
“It literally is,” says Jeanie. Peg can hear her typing in the background, they’re a family of serial multitaskers. “You don’t even have to talk to her. You can just call her and say you quit. You can send her an email. You could even send her a fucking two word text, I quit , bam, done.”
Peg puts her forehead down on the counter so that she doesn’t have to see the stupid ap where she keeps track of her’s and Birdie’s bills. Birdie’s in trouble, so she’s in trouble. They’re both right on the crest of a wave right now where everything is about to come due. An ex at Forbes , if a collection of random hook-ups can be considered an ex, sent her a warning on the down-low that the sweatshop story is forty-eight hours from breaking. Miles’ lawyers have been working to keep any leverage from getting out and that’s his big one on Birdie, but he’s not actually that good at anything , as it turns out. She tied herself to someone who tied herself to an idiot.
There’s a pause in the typing sound on the other end of the line. “Peg?”
Peg turns her head so she can speak into the phone. “I’m here. Unfortunately.”
“Do you need me to come over?”
“You live in fucking New England,” says Peg.
“I mean, planes exist. Dumbass,” adds Jeanie, before Peg can get too sentimental about the offer.
Peg snorts. “No, that’s- I don’t think you could really do much. It’s just like, sitting through depositions and waiting. I’m fine.”
There’s a pause before the typing resumes. “Okay, but… offer’s there. I have PTO accrued.” Jeanie pauses. “You know, because I have an actual normal job.”
“Boring,” says Peg.
“Sure,” says Jeanie, “but I get to have a life outside it.”
“ Jeanie ,” says Peg, too exhausted to have the same argument for the hundredth time but pulling on her gloves for it anyway.
“I’m not starting,” says Jeanie. Peg can picture her expression, nose wrinkled and one hand raised up while the other keeps typing - still life of annoyed older sister, oil on canvas, 2020. “Just… y’know. Mom worries.”
“I’ll call her,” says Peg.
Jeanie snorts. “I wouldn’t.”
Peg huffs a laugh, pushing herself up again. She leans back against the counter. Her little sink is crowded with empty takeout containers. Her little window faces the fire escape of the next building. She hadn’t really considered the view as important when she'd signed the lease - she was always at Birdie’s apartment anyway.
It's off-limits to her now. Lawyer's advice. It looks better for them to be separate people.
“I’ll tell her I talked to you, that’ll give you at least another couple weeks,” says Jenaie. “You don’t need to deal with her bullshit on top of everything else.”
“Thanks,” says Peg.
“Whatever, it’s your turn to be in charge of picking her Christmas gift this year so- Sharing the burden, or whatever,” says Jeanie. There’s a muffled sound in the background, a door opening. “Yeah, no- Hey, Peg, I have to go to this bullshit meeting, but-”
“I’m fine,” says Peg. “Go to your bullshit.”
Jeanie laughs. “Same to you, and- Hey. I’m serious this time."
“You’re always serious about it,” says Peg.
“But this time I’m-” Jeanie lets out a breath. The typing is replaced with shuffling paper. “If you were ever going to get out, before the explosion is better than after.”
“I’ll- I’m thinking about it,” says Peg. “I swear I’m thinking about it.”
“Okay, but really think about it this time,” says Jeanie. “And then actually fucking do it.”
“Bye Jeanie,” says Peg.
Jeanie huffs a laugh. “Bye.”
Peg lets out a long breath, closing her eyes and looking up at the ceiling. Her right shoulder hurts, the consequences of always carrying around a huge fucking totebag. When she’d mentioned it to Birdie, Birdie had says they could go to her masseuse when they got back from the Miles trip. It was like that sometimes, stretches of thinking I just can’t do this any more and then a tiny glimmer of the good person Birdie could be underneath and she’d think well maybe just another couple weeks .
Her phone vibrates in her hand and she looks down. (1) missed call: Birdie J . (4) unread messages: Birdie J
Peg very carefully swipes down so she can read the message previews without actually opening the message.
Birdie J: hey gurl :p so weird not seeing u 4 so long!!! miss u!!!!
Birdie J: the lawyer guy says no contact boooo
Birdie J: but I won’t tell if u call me ;)
Birdie J: peg?????
Peg takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, and then turns her phone off. It's the only way she can be sure that she won't call Birdie back.
Not that she does anything actually productive, just walking around her apartment, picking things up and putting them back down. It feels so weird to be in a holding pattern, to not have any figurative (or literal) fires that she’s allowed to put out. Her life is in the hands of like eight different law firms right now. Birdie might be getting actual jail time, at least for a very performative couple weeks. Lionel and Claire probably won’t, even if Peg gets the vibe that they feel like they already are. Miles is definitely getting actual jail time. Birdie’s upset about that, or she was the last time they spoke. She’s not really built for grey areas.
The various legal teams have been trying to keep them sequestered from one another until they can get everything’s transcripts sorted. A lot of waiting around in her apartment, waiting around in various lawyer’s offices, waiting around in emergency stairwells so she can get fucking five minutes to herself away from lawyers.
She turns her phone back on - twenty seven minutes without it, not her personal best time but up there in the top ten. (5) new emails - spam, reporter fishing for a quote, legal team checking the time for a meeting, legal team confirming the time for a meeting, twenty percent off at sephora. She marks them all as read and opens the one confirming the meeting time. Tomorrow at two. It's promising to be the last one before her life can go back to normal, whatever that is. She can go wherever and see whoever, at least until things start going to trial.
She hasn’t really seen much of any of the others because of that. She has a definite feeling that they’ve seen each other, Lionel and Claire an obvious team-up and they’d be idiots not to check to make sure Birdie was on the same page as them, but they’ve forgotten her. As usual. They forget everyone outside of their little group so easily.
The only one of them she’d really spoken to has been Whiskey. She'd cornered Peg in the emergency stairwell of one of the lawyer’s offices - Peg’s brain was so fried by the end of week two post-island-explosion that she could not have told you which lawyer’s office it was - on the pretext of needing a lighter.
“You don’t smoke,” says Peg.
“Yes I do,” says Whiskey, waving her hand. Her mask, the loops of it around her wrist like a bracelet, waves in the air.
“No,” says Peg, fighting down her irritation, “You vape .”
Whiskey pauses. “Do you think I should not vape?”
“I- What?”
“You do PR, right?” says Whiskey, “For Birdie Jay?”
“I-” Peg’s throat feels tight. “Personal assistant.”
“Yeah but it’s all like… I know you did personal brand management for her basically ,” says Whiskey, casually, like she wasn’t the first person to ever fucking acknowledge that. “I mean, you’re basically the reason Birdie’s empire stayed afloat, so like, from a PR point of view, or whatever, do you think I should smoke instead of vaping?”
“I mean, for health reasons I don’t think you should do either,” says Peg.
“But PR-wise though?”
“Vaping’s still fine,” says Peg. There's something weirdly comfortable about sliding back into that mode, running the numbers, sketching out a prediction on the curve of social opinion. “It’s social media neutral, unless you’re a total asshole about it or you’re doing it on a red carpet or something.”
“Cool,” says Whiskey. She taps her phone against her nails. “Do you think it’s going to stay that way? Like, should I quit?”
“I mean, again, yeah, for health reasons,” says Peg, “but image-wise…” She lets out a breath, the blind panic that had a hold of her mind relaxing as she activates the part of her brain that's dedicated to the subject of long-term personal brand damage. “It’s hard to say. It’s probably worth it to try and quit now, because the second they start instituting smoking-level bans you’re going to want to be far away from that. I mean, depending on who your core audience is but even then, it’s like do you really want to be vape girl long term?”
Whiskey nods. This is the first indication for what feels like literal years that someone is fucking listening to her advice and Peg immediately feels like bursting into tears. Instead, she takes a breath in, and leans back against the wall.
“Thinking of doing a brand relaunch?” says Peg.
“I kind of have to,” says Whiskey. Tap tap tap, goes the phone against her nails. “It’s not really what my like, ideal timeline would be, I mean I wanted to get more coverage online, you know, have actual contacts myself instead of just Du-” Her voice falters and she swallows. “Instead of other people’s networks before branching out but…” She shrugs. “If it’s gotta be now, then I’ll make it be now.”
“Yeah,” says Peg. She thinks of her tiny, Birdie-centric resume, wincing internally. “I guess it’s time for a change.”
Peg’s phone vibrates in her hand, bringing her back to the present. Incoming call: Birdie J . Peg stares at it, her finger hovering over the answer call button, until it goes to voicemail. There’s no point checking it, Birdie’s voicemails to her always just say the same thing.
“Peeeeggggg, pick uuuuuuuup-” A breathless laugh, glamorous somehow, like something out of a movie. “Call me back babe! I need you.”
Peg doesn’t delete it but she doesn’t listen to it either. You have to have boundaries somewhere. She saw a therapist for like two sessions and they’d says that to her.
She should see if they’re still practising. She’d always meant to schedule a third session, but something had happened- Milan, she was pretty sure. She’d had to organise their trip to Milan for Birdie’s next fashion show, and Birdie had wanted to go to a hot spring and it had become a whole thing . She’d had to personally vet all of Birdie’s tweets for like six months so they didn’t get blacklisted and then she’d fallen asleep in the hot spring and woken up to Birdie calling her name, very quietly, very gently like she did sometimes, and they’d gone back to their room and-
Peg shakes herself. She looks down at her phone, thumbing over the crack in the corner where she’d dropped it after the lights had gone off on the island. Fucking Miles.
(2) new news alerts: Birdie Jay
(1) new news alert: Alpha Industries+”sweatshop”
“Fuck,” says Peg, opening the alert.
It's basically nothing - someone comparing the work of being a coder at Alpha to a sweatshop, a paparazzi sighting of Birdie leaving a restaurant. Peg frowns at the blurry photo of Birdie - she's with some model that Peg vaguely recognises from one of their London shoots. Neither of them are masked, obviously, both laughing and smiling like the world isn’t about to fall apart.
Fuck, she has to get a new job. She has to do it right now, before she thinks it through enough to forgive Birdie again.
Compose new message: Whiskey (Duke’s gf)
Hey this is Peg, Birdie’s assistant. When we saw each other last week you were talking about doing a personal rebrand - I have time/capacity if you want help with that.
Whiskey responds within ten minutes.
Whiskey (Duke’s gf): That would be great actually! I’m free for the next couple hours, if you have brainstorming time now?
Peg pauses. Claire and Lionel. Birdie and the model.
Fuck it.
Peg: sure, I don’t have anything until 1pm tomorrow
Whiskey (Duke’s gf): Great :) What’s your address?
Whiskey’s arrival is almost as fast as her response text, giving Peg barely enough time to arrange the takeout containers into a neat pile, shove her still-packed suitcases under her bed and put a bra on. Whiskey arrives looking slightly frazzled but still like something out of a niche fashion tiktok, bangles tinkling together as she pushes her hair out of her face.
“I… didn’t expect you to actually come over,” says Peg. “I mean, we could have facetimed.”
“I was already in the neighbourhood,” says Whiskey, waving a hand. “Besides, it’s kind of nice to see someone other than a lawyer. Plus I brought a bribe.” She holds up a plastic bag. “Every personal assistant I’ve ever met always forgets to eat lunch, so I thought I’d bring it.”
It’s kind of embarrassing that Peg recognises the smell - her second favourite thai place from one block over. She really has to start cooking for herself, or at least order from a wider variety of places.
“Thanks,” says Peg.
Whiskey peers over Peg’s shoulder, a frown coming over her face. “Is this really your apartment?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry, it just looks kind of… Did you just move in?” Whiskey waves a hand. “It looks kind of like a hotel room.”
“Well I’m not here much.” Peg pauses. “I wasn’t here much, I mean. I think this is the longest I’ve been here since I started renting it, I mean, most of my stuff is still at- Is somewhere else. Storage.”
“Is that what you call Birdie’s closet?” says Whiskey.
Something twists in the pit of Peg’s stomach. “It’s- Complicated.”
“Yeah,” says Whiskey. “Seems like it.” She pauses. “It’s not- It’s none of my fucking business, okay? We don’t actually have to talk about it.”
“Oh thank god,” says Peg.
“You should probably see like, a therapist about it though,” says Whiskey.
“That’s what my sister has been saying for years,” says Peg. Her hand twitches on the doorhandle. “Uh, you’d better-”
She steps back to let Whiskey in. Whiskey hesitates once she’s inside, the door closed behind her.
“Did anyone see you?” asks Peg.
“I don’t think so,” says Whiskey. “My lawyer dropped me off. I don’t think people are super focussed on us anyway.” She gives Peg a lopsided smile that’s a little too knowing. “We’re small-time compared to the others.”
“Well,” says Peg, “let’s see what we can do to change that.”
It’s not really that dramatic. Peg’s already written out a bunch of ideas, stuff she’s had on Birdie’s list for years that she hasn’t been able to convince her to do, stuff Birdie would never attempt, stuff she absolutely couldn’t suggest to Birdie because any positive press would be instantly cancelled out by the mountain of negative press that would come from it because Birdie would say Something Problematic. She does have contacts for this stuff, not enough to give her a career elsewhere, but enough to be useful for this, to get someone else in the door and maybe stick her foot in after them. She has a basic timeline that she’s sketched out on the back of one of the nonsense non-disclosure agreement Miles had sent over that she's been refusing to aign. Whiskey turns the page over, letting out a laugh.
“Nothing,” says Whiskey, when Peg gives her a look. “He sent me the same thing. Well, almost the same thing. Mine probably covers a few extras.”
“Uh. Yeah,” says Peg. “Not to… We should probably have some contingencies for that, too.”
They draw up the points of a contract on the back of the napkin from the thai place. The irony isn’t lost on either of them - they both take a photo and upload it to their own personal cloud storages. You can have the hokey origin story without making your entire legacy dependent on tissue paper.
“This doesn’t, like, go against your terms with Birdie?” asks Whiskey.
“We, uh. We’re taking a break,” says Peg. “I can’t really be her personal assistant if we’re supposed to be no-contact.”
“Yeah, but… contractually,” says Whiskey.
“We don’t, uh… We don’t have any no-compete clause, if that’s what you’re asking,” says Peg carefully.
“I’m kind of surprised Birdie didn’t,” says Whiskey, just as carefully. “I mean, you basically run her life.”
“Birdie doesn’t read contracts,” says Peg.
“Well, no offence, but I do,” says Whiskey.
“None taken,” says Peg. She glances at her phone, blinking at the time. “Uh, don’t you have a…”
“Oh, shit, yeah, I do,” says Whiskey, standing up hurriedly. She turns towards Peg, taking Peg’s hands in her’s. “Listen, thanks for this. It’s so good to talk to someone who takes like, forward planning for this stuff seriously.”
Whiskey’s earnestness, whether it’s an act or not, is kind of overwhelming.
“Yeah,” says Peg faintly.
“Hey, you’re at the same office as me tomorrow,” says Whiskey. “Could we circle back to this then?”
Peg frowns. “How do you know I’m at the same office as you?”
“I had my lawyer move my appointment,” says Whiskey.
Someone making time to see her. Her sister was right - she really did need to see more people if that was enough to make her head spin.
“To… see me?” says Peg.
“Well, yeah,” says Whiskey. “I mean, I figured planning out an entire personal brand was going to take more than two hours, so.”
Someone making time to see her who actually has fucking time management skills.
“Uh,” Peg manages. “Uh, that’s- Sure. We can talk more about it then. Sure.”
“Great!” says Whiskey.
The next day Whiskey is late. So much for time management.
“Sorry,” says Whiskey, whirling into the conference room Peg has managed to borrow. Just like the previous day she seems frazzled but still somehow looks way more put-together than Peg feels.
She can see the hazy shape of Whiskey’s lawyer outside through the frosted glass, standing guard.
“We have half an hour in here before they need the room,” says Peg.
“Sorry,” says Whiskey again. “I was late to the other meeting with the lawyers and so I’m late for this one, it’s just been-” Her voice wavera. “It’s just been-”
“Hey,” says Peg, “are you… okay?”
“I’m- No, I’m fine, I just-” Whiskey lets out a breath. “Duke’s mom called this morning. She wants me to come get my stuff. Like, asap.”
“Oh, that’s… annoying?” tries Peg.
“I mean, she also wants Duke’s streaming stuff out of the house as well, so that’s- She says I could have it, she says that’s what he… what he would have wanted.”
Whiskey’s face crumples and she swallows, looking away. Peg shifts in her seat. When Birdie was upset she was a lot louder about it, a lot more obvious if she wanted Peg to hold her or stay away or bring her something. It's made Peg lose her ability to read other people, apparently.
“That sounds really hard,” says Peg.
“Yeah, it’s- Listen, could you come with me?”
“Come- To Duke’s mom’s house?”
“We’re not going to have enough time to really get into strategy here, which, totally my bad but not something I can do anything about right now,” says Whiskey. “Plus there’s like, a lot of equipment and I could kind of use a hand moving it. My lawyer is good at contracts but he’s not up for physical labour.”
Peg pauses. She has four missed called from Birdie and a legal advisement not to contact her under any circumstances. She has one final statement to sign off on the day after tomorrow. Apart from that there isn’t much in her diary besides pacing around her apartment and trying to stay away from namesearching on twitter.
“Fine,” says Peg. “But I drive.”
“Fine with me,” says Whiskey. She pauses. “I also kind of don’t have a car right now.”
They get a rental car, following the directions on Whiskey’s Alpha Maps until she recognises the landscape enough to give directions. True to her word, they do actually discuss strategy on the way. Whiskey even has notes . She’s prepared ideas .
Peg shakes herself. She really does have to get out more. Maybe get on one of the aps.
“We’ll start small,” says Peg. “Just because it is a brand rehabilitation campaign doesn’t mean we want it to feel like one. There’s a couple places that would be a natural fit for an interview.”
“I’m not supposed to give interviews,” says Whiskey.
“Not about the trial,” says Peg. “But like, a puff piece with a photoshoot? That’s allowed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Almost positive,” says Peg, sounding much more confident than she feels. “They won’t expect anything more than that, I mean, most places have their own legal departments that’d veto any actual questions. They don’t want to be on the stand any more than we do.”
“Right,” says Whiskey, fiddling with her rings.
“You… don’t have to,” says Peg.
“No, I want to,” says Whiskey. “It’s- I have to start sometime, might as well be now.” She blinks, leaning forward in her seat. “It’s up here, the second right.”
If Duke had been an enormous over-muscled teddy bear then his mom was the opposite, a tiny woman with the personality of an actual bear. She directs them, her voice very curt, to the back of the house. Duke’s streaming rig is still set up, the camera and lights untouched, the system on standby like he’d just left the room for a moment.
“I’ll leave you ladies to it,” says Duke’s mother.
“Are you sure you don’t want any of it?” says Peg.
“What am I going to do with this crap?” says Duke’s mother. “Just take it, get it out of here. You know what’s mine.”
Whiskey nods. Duke’s mother pats her arm as she leaves, and Whiskey presses her lips together.
“Are you… You’re sure you want this?” asks Peg.
“It’s good equipment,” says Whiskey. She takes a deep breath, letting it out. “Come on.”
It is good equipment, expensive and mostly new. Everything you would need to start a tiny media empire or work out, all in one room. Peg feels like she walks back and forth from the car a hundred times, filling the rental car with box after box, each heavier than the last. Sometimes she comes back and Whiskey is packing silently. Sometimes she comes back and Whiskey is sitting down, her gaze fixed on a photograph or an enormous singlet, left behind. Those don’t get packed, apparently reserved as the property of Mrs Cody.
They work in silence for a while, only interrupted by the occasional chime of Whiskey’s phone. Whiskey pulls it out, looks at it, and then puts it back in her pocket without responding. Peg waits until Whiskey goes to get get a drink of water before she checks her own phone.
(1) new news alert: Birdie Jay
Peg swipea it away without reading it.
“Hey,” says Whiskey, “Duke’s mom asked if we wanted to stay for dinner, is that cool? I already said yes.”
“Uh, sure?” says Peg. “Come on, let’s get this stuff in the car,”
Dinner with Duke’s mother is a combination of good food and awkward conversation. Peg has never been happier to skip dessert, pulling out of the driveway a little faster than necessary.
Whiskey lets out a deep breath as they round the corner.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” says Peg.
Whiskey laughs. “It’s- It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” She glances at Peg before she looks back at the road. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“Hey, no problem,” says Peg, because it actually wasn’t.
It’s late by the time they get back to the city, too late to return the rental car and also too late for Peg to feel comfortable leaving thousands of dollars worth of equipment in the rental car.
“So we’ll put it in my apartment,” says Whiskey. “I’m only like twenty minutes away.”
Twenty minutes away and, apparently, in a third-floor walk-up.
“Urgh,” says Peg.
Whiskey laughs. "Come on. Think of it like a free workout!”
“No,” says Peg.
Whiskey laughs again, pushing at Peg’s shoulder.
Whiskey’s apartment is as small as Peg’s, probably, but with more rugs and tastefully indie-artist-looking lamps and less takeout containers. It also has the look of Birdie’s apartment post-vacation, the contents of Whiskey’s suitcases thrown everywhere. Peg picks through it, collecting things into neat-ish piles on the couch. She makes a face as Whiskey brings up the last box.
“Sorry,” says Peg. “Force of habit.”
Whiskey shrugs. “I get it. It’s always way easier to clean up someone else’s mess than your own.”
Peg huffs laugh, flopping down on the couch next to her with a groan. Her lower back hurts. Her shoulder hurts. God she wishes she had access to Birdie’s masseuse right now.
“Sometimes you sound just like a fortune cookie,” says Peg.
Whiskey laughs, flopping down onto the couch. She tips her head back, closing her eyes. Peg watches the line of her throat as she swallows.
“I should go,” says Peg. “It’s pretty late.”
“Stay here,” says Whiskey.
“What?” says Peg.
“Stay here,” says Whiskey again. “Your place has like no parking, you’ll have to park like four blocks away to get a spot. You can use my spare toothbrush.”
“You have a spare toothbrush?”
“Duke had a quip deal last quarter,” says Whiskey.
“Right,” says Peg. “I- sure. All I have to do tomorrow is return the car and organise your interview.”
Whiskey looks towards her, her head still resting on the back of the couch, betraying her exhaustion. “You think you can do it that fast?”
“Well, yeah,” says Peg.
Whiskey smiles - it’s a small one, a half smile at most, but it lights up her eyes. Peg finds herself smiling back, half-surprised at her own reaction.
Her phone vibrates. She ignores it.
In the morning, Whiskey makes almost-burnt toast, arranged on a plate with pieces of clumsily cut up apple. Peg looks from Whiskey, to the plate, and then back to Whiskey.
“I’m better at smoothies,” says Whiskey.
“As long as there’s coffee,” says Peg.
“There’s definitely coffee,” says Whiskey.
Peg drops the car back off at the rental place and walks back to her apartment, taking the backstreets. It’s unlikely anyone’s going to be following her, either for a lawyer or for an article, but it never hurts to be careful. She’s never been more thankful for the anonymity of masks.
Her phone vibrates again. (1) new message: Whiskey (Duke’s gf)
Peg wrinkles her nose, editing the contact page before she reads the message.
Whiskey: thanks for the help yesterday, I know it’s not really your job to be a mover lol. Let me know if you need anything from me to organise the interview
Right. Shit. She has to actually organise that. For the first time in over a month, she actually has a job to do.
As soon as Maxie, her contact at Bazaar, realises she’s not trying to get an interview for Birdie it becomes shockingly easy. They’re more than willing to get Whiskey into a photoshoot for the online equivalent of a page ten photoshoot - not a cover feature but notable. Maxie even suggests a secondary thing - her sister works at CBS and they can always use content for the literal hours of morning show they have to fill. Her sister also has a potential lead on a guest spot on some sitcom that’s had an actor drop out due to “health concerns” (aka they tested positive for COVID) and they’re looking to recast rather than delay the shoot.
“Worth getting out of bed for,” says Peg.
“Uh huh,” says Whiskey, twisting her rings.
Oh, realises Peg. She’s nervous . Peg tries to remember how to talk to someone who’s nervous. Another thing she’s out of practice with. Birdie never gets nervous. She doesn’t think about the consequences of anything long enough to feel nervous.
“Hey,” says Peg. She reaches out and takes Whiskey’s hand. “We can cancel.”
“No,” says Whiskey. “No, I want this. I want to move forward.”
“We have the morning show thing tomorrow,” says Peg. "That's forward enough."
“I know,” says Whiskey, her voice sharp. "But I can do both, okay?"
“Okay,” says Peg.
Whiskey lets out breath. “Sorry, it’s just- I’m ready, I’ll be ready.”
Peg hovers just off camera, a twisting feeling in the pit of her stomach like she’s waiting for the rollercoaster drop. Whiskey warms up as they go, still more nervous than she ever seemed on one of Duke’s streams. She keeps it vague, like they’d talked about, no specifics about Miles, no specifics about Duke, no specifics about the island. It’s all very light, enough to get clicks, but not enough that anyone could get sued over it.
The only stumbling point she has is when they ask about Duke’s funeral. Whiskey's smile gets shaky at the edges and she looks away. Peg makes a mental note of it. It plays okay in an interview, where sections can be cut out and body language recontextualised, but on video it might come across as odd, closed off.
She cries during the morning show.
It might just be from tiredness - Birdie always cries more easily if she’s tired, and they did have a very early flight to be on location and they have another early flight again tomorrow - but Whiskey had seemed fine up until then. The camera operator looks at Peg and Peg makes an expression that she hopes conveys I don’t know what the fuck to do this is your show .
Whiskey’s not sobbing , thank god, Peg would have no idea how to deal with that, but enough that they cut early to commercial to give her a break. The hosts clearly have more experience with it than she does, a wave of a hand bringing tissues, a makeup person, water. Peg trails after them, not really sure what to do after she puts a hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. Whiskey puts her hand over Peg’s, holding on tightly.
The host raises her eyebrows. Peg quickly pulls her hand back, clasping them behind her back and then putting them in her pockets and then taking them out again to tidy up Whiskey’s used tissues before they come back from the break. She keeps it together better in the second half, fielding very gentle questions from viewers as Peg and some intern frantically vet them. Whiskey’s smiling by the end, warm and professional as the hosts throw to the next segment, someone hocking vacuums or massage chairs or some kind of new mop.
Peg leans against the wall and waits for Whiskey to finish getting her tv-makeup replaced by her regular-makeup and scrolls through her various feeds. Whiskey’s appearance hasn’t exactly made waves - the show’s out of her target demo - but the response is mostly positive. The crying probably helped.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” snaps Whiskey, when they’re in the taxi on the way to the hotel.
“I’m not saying that,” says Peg. “Just-”
“I don’t cry on fucking cue!” says Whiskey. “Those were my actual fucking feelings! I thought you’d fucking get that.”
“Sorry,” says Peg, sounding about as sorry as she feels.
Whiskey wrinkles her nose and turns towards the window. Her phone dings and she switches on the screen and then switches it off again, tapping the phone against her nails. Peg presses her lips together and tries to pretend she doesn’t find it annoying.
It doesn’t help that they’re sharing a hotel room. Peg booked it out of habit. She and Birdie always shared a room, first to keep expenses low, and then because it was easier to keep an eye on her and then because sometimes Birdie needed her, needed to be held and praised and touched. It was addictive, being needed like that.
Whiskey does not have that same need. “I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“None of your business. Out,” says Whiskey.
“You can’t just-”
“I’m a fucking adult Peg,” says Whiskey. “I’ll be back, I know we have a flight tomorrow, I have my phone, I just- I need a break.”
“Right,” says Peg. She looks down at her phone, pretending to be absorbed in the scroll of it. “Sure. Whatever.”
Whiskey leaves. She doesn’t slam the door.
Peg’s phone vibrates in her hand. Incoming call: Birdie Jay . Her finger goes to the answer button on autopilot.
“Peg, hi!” says Birdie. Her voice is warm, the lilt to it enough that Peg can picture her expression, the exact angle of her smile, the exact crinkles at the edge of her eyes.
“Birdie?” says Peg. “Why are you-”
“I know, I know, we’re supposed to be no contact until all of this is over but! I missed you too much. Did you miss me?”
There’s an edge of laughter to Birdie’s voice, like it’s a joke, like they saw each other a few hours ago instead of a few months. Peg hates it, especially because it’s fucking true . She does miss Birdie. Even after everything, the whole ten year disaster of it, she misses her.
“Of course you did,” says Birdie, without waiting for her verbal answer. “Anyway, I’m calling because I wanted to tell you that I haven’t tweeted in two whole weeks.”
“From your main account,” says Peg.
“Side accounts don’t count,” says Birdie. “I only use those for subtweeting, not actual tweeting.”
“Is that seriously why you were calling me?” asks Peg.
“No,” says Birdie. Peg can hear the pout. “I called because I miss you.”
Her words go straight to Peg’s chest. They shouldn’t, because she’s a grown woman who’s been in this exact position with this specific person before, but god help her it does. She sits down on the bed, scuffing her shoe on the hotel carpet.
“I miss you too,” says Peg.
“Well of course you do,” says Birdie.
Peg huffs a laugh. She opens her mouth to shoot something back, interrupted by the faint beep by her ear of a notification. She lifts the phone away from her ear to see it, cranking up the call volume so she can still hear Birdie.
“So I was thinking,” says Birdie, “with everything happening with Miles that’s probably good for us, right?”
(41) new news alerts: Birdie Jay+”sweatshop”
(32) new news alerts: Alpha Industries+”sweatshop”
(57) new news alerts: SweetiePants+”sweatshop”
“You have to be fucking kidding me,” says Peg.
“What?” says Birdie. “Babe, what are you talking about?”
Oh, Peg can picture the expression that goes along with that tone too, the look in Birdie’s eyes when she’s been caught out, the charm being cranked up to cover it.
“Are you seriously just calling me because the sweatshop news broke?” says Peg, because why not just lay it out there, at this point?
“I did try to call you before but you never picked up,” says Birdie. “I guess you were too busy with your new-”
“ No ,” says Peg, “No, you don’t get to do this, not to me, not when you- You said you had a plan, and that plan was to look after you .”
“What plan?” says Birdie. “Peg, babe, you know I don’t plan -”
“On the island,” says Peg. It’s hard for her to get the words out, they’ve been sitting in her chest for so long. “On the island, when I was trying to tell you not to post that stupid statement, you says you were going to do it because Miles agreed to pay you out, because that would keep you safe, that would protect you -”
“Protecting me is protecting you!” says Birdie. “Peg, we’re- I mean it’s you and me, hasn’t it always been you and me against the world? You and me, together forever?”
“It has,” says Peg, “but not anymore.” She swallows, her stomach churning. “Birdie, don’t- Don’t call me anymore, okay?”
“ Peg -”
“No, Birdie, I-” Peg steels herself. “Birdie, I quit.”
Birdie laughs. A surge of anger replaces the sick feeling.
“Birdie,” says Peg. “Listen to me. I am being so serious right now.”
“Okay, but what you’re saying is kind of-”
“Birdie!” snaps Peg. “I. Quit. Do not call me. Do not email me. Do not send mail to my house. I quit.”
“But Peg , I-” A delicate gasp, a quiver coming into her voice. “I need you Peg. You can’t leave me like this.”
“I can,” says Peg. “I fucking quit.”
She hangs up, her hands shaking so much it takes her two tries to swipe across the phone properly. The phone vibrates in her hand. Incoming call: Birdie Jay .
Peg drops the phone and races for the bathroom. She hasn’t eaten much today but that doesn’t make throwing up any more pleasant.
“Fuck,” says Peg. Her voice echoes weirdly off the tiles.
Her whole career is over. She has to send a formal email to HR. She has to tell her lawyer, probably. She has to text Jeanie definitely . She has to update her linkedin. She has to-
She has to throw up again.
Once things have calmed down, stomach-wise, she reaches for her phone again. (8) missed calls from: Birdie Jay, (5) missed calls from: Unknown . She deletes both notifications.
Peg: hey
Peg: guess who just quit
Jeanie: NO FUCKING WAY!!!
Peg: I am very seriously unemployed
Jeanie: I have never been prouder of you than I am right now
Peg laughs, and scrubs a hand over her face.
Jeanie: should I be calling you right now?
Peg: nah I feel surprisingly okay
Jeanie: well any regrets call me and not Her, got it?
Peg: got it lol
It takes about five minutes for the regrets to set in, helped along by another five calls from Birdie, all of which Peg lets go to voicemail. She walks around the hotel room, picking things up and putting them down again. She reorganises her suitcase. She opens the minibar and then closes it and then opens it again. It’s a bad idea. If she gets drunk she’s definitely going to answer a call from Birdie and be convinced to unquit. It wouldn't be the first time.
Instead she puts her phone on flight mode to construct her ‘I am quitting, effective immediately’ email to HR. When she switches her phone back to normal to send it she has another four missed calls. She deletes the notifications, and updates her linkedin.
twitter: (3) new direct messages:
THEbirdieJ: hey babe I think something’s wrong with ur phone it just goes to voicemail when I call???
THEbirdieJ: peg I cant believe ur doing this 2 me I cant do this without u
THEbirdieJ: and ppl say IM childish when U R ignoring me!!! silent treatment bullshit!!!!!
Peg drops the phone on the bed beside her and puts her head in her hands. This is going to be worse that the fucking court case. Birdie is going to keep calling and messaging and finding ways to contact her forever. She’s vindictive too, or she can be, so there’s no way Peg can use her as a reference. It’s either work for Birdie or have the last ten years of her professional life erased.
There’s a knock at the door.
“I don’t need room service,” says Peg, on autopilot.
“I’m not room service,” says Whiskey. “I’m just trying to be polite .”
Shit, Peg forgot they were fighting too. Fuck. “Sorry, I- You can come in.”
“I hope so, it’s my fucking room too,” says Whiskey. She frowns at Peg, letting the door fall shut behind her. “What’s wrong?”
Peg’s phone starts to vibrate again. Incoming call: Birdie Jay.
“Nothing,” says Peg. Her voice cracks.
Whiskey steps forward, sitting down next to Peg and putting her arm around Peg. She leans her head on Peg’s shoulder. For the first time, she doesn’t remind Peg of Birdie. Whiskey reminds Peg of Whiskey herself, any time they’ve been together and drunk during one of the Miles vacations, their feet dangling in the absurd pool on a yacht while the others laughed about old times inside.
“Birdie called,” says Peg.
Whiskey looks up, her cheek still pressed against Peg’s shoulder. “She probably has a lot of work for you.”
“I’ll bet she does,” says Peg. She lets out a huff of breath. “But I don’t have time to do two jobs, and…”
“And?”
“And I think I kind of like this one more,” says Peg. She swallows, bracing herself. “I quit.”
Whiskey blinks, her eyebrows going up. “Seriously?”
“Cross my heart,” says Peg.
“Sounds serious,” says Whiskey.
“It was a very serious decision,” says Peg.
Whiskey shifts a little, more of a real hug instead of just a one-armed thing. Peg lets herself lean into it, resting her forehead on Whiskey’s shoulder. She can see the phone vibrate next to her. She doesn’t need to look at it to know who’s calling.
“You should probably block her number,” says Whiskey.
Peg sighs. “Probably, yeah.”
Whiskey pauses. “What can I do that will, like, actually help?” She pauses again, leaning back to look at Peg. “We could talk about work?”
“I would love to talk about work,” says Peg.
Whiskey laughs. “Okay. Tomorrow’s itinerary?”
It’s set to be a rushed day - from the plane to the sitcom set and then catching the last flight out because Whiskey’s in talks to do a commercial for a kombucha brand she actually likes. The start of the day turns out to be a little slower than expected, they arrive at the airport early to find out their plane has been delayed. Peg spends the time scowling, asking the airline desk if they’re sure there’s no earlier flight, and trying to remove Birdie’s information from her various aps.
“It’s just half an hour,” says Whiskey. “They’re not even going to be awake yet. We were going to get there before anyone was even on set.”
“I know,” says Peg, already composing an email to the director to apologise.
“This wouldn’t happen if we had a private plane,” says Whiskey.
Peg huffs a breath, raising her eyebrows - she always exaggerates her expression when she’s wearing a mask. “Not going to happen.”
“I know,” says Whiskey. “I’m just saying, they’re are advantages outside of the privacy.”
“But no chance of positive virality,” says Peg. “I’d rather you go viral because someone is excited to sit next to the Whiskey rather than because someone started an account to track your private jet.”
“You like it because it’s cheaper,” says Whiskey.
“That too,” says Peg. She scans through the email to the director, hitting send. She’ll send another one when they have an actual eta. “Look, maybe someday you’re going to have secret private jet money, but right now we have to be sensible about this.”
Whiskey holds up a hand, raising her eyebrows. “I get it, I was just- I was just joking . I don’t actually care. Before I met Duke I’d never even been on a plane, so.”
“Wait seriously?”
Whiskey shrugs. “I’d done road trips and stuff, but I was working in a bar, I wasn’t exactly making plane trip money.”
“At the Glass Onion?”
Whiskey shakes her head. “No, it was the bar they went to after that closed, or maybe like the next one after that? I was kind of trying to make it happen on mixology instagram but it wasn’t super happening and then- Duke.” Whiskey’s eyes crinkle at the corners, the light in them going slightly distant. She swallows, taking a moment before she continues. “We’d hooked up and he was doing this stream, one of his super early ones about like, game of thrones masculinity or something, and as I was leaving I was like bye babe and he was like see you later babe , and that clip went lowkey viral.” Whiskey shrugs. “He started asking me to be in the background after that. People liked it, y’know, like I told him, people need to see some personality , you’ve gotta amp it up a little .”
“I did not have that problem with Birdie,” says Peg. “Getting her to tone it down is like fifty percent of my job. Was fifty percent of my job, I mean.”
“I can imagine,” says Whiskey.
Peg’s phone begins to vibrate.
Whiskey sighs. “You have got to block her number.”
“There’s no way she’s- Oh, it’s not her- Jeanie, what’s up?”
Someone from the airline desk chooses this moment to wave to her.
Whiskey gestures towards them. “You want me to…?”
“I have all the flight information,” says Peg.
“What?” says Jeanie.
“Here,” says Whiskey. “I’ll talk to whoever this is, you talk to the airline.”
“It’s my sister,” says Peg, and then turns her attention to the airline. She knows there’s an earlier flight somewhere and she wants in.
She doesn’t get it, but she does get a partial refund. Whiskey hands her back the phone, the call to Jeanie still ongoing.
“Hey, sorry about that,” says Peg.
“No worries,” says Jeanie. She pauses. “So, sounds like you have a new client.”
“Temporarily,” says Peg.
“Didn’t sound like it to me.” Jeanie pauses. “She sounds… not awful.”
“Huge vote of approval from you,” says Peg.
“Well, I mean she’s already kind of ahead by default,” says Jeanie. “Considering the last person to hold the position. Speaking of-”
Peg glances at Whiskey. Whiskey is doing a fantastic job at pretending that she’s not listening, the magazine that she bought at the overpriced airport bookstore open to a random centre page. If she’s half as good at sitcom acting then this day is going to go just fine.
“I haven’t talked to her since I told her I quit,” says Peg, turning away slightly.
“She’s giving you the silent treatment?” asks Jeanie.
“The opposite,” says Peg.
Jeanie whistles. “I am so proud of you.”
“You don’t think I should talk it out with her?”
“I think you should let her squirm,” says Jeanie, as unrepentant as ever.
Whiskey snorts. Peg feels glad that the mask covers her expression.
“I gotta go, I’m at work, but- I’m glad you’re doing okay,” says Jeanie.
“Me too,” says Peg.
Jeanie laughs, and hangs up.
Whiskey gives a moment before she speaks. “Your sister seems nice.”
“No one in our family seems nice ,” says Peg.
“Okay, she seems like kind of a bitch,” says Whiskey, “but like… a bitch I’d want to be friends with.”
Peg laughs. “ That’s more like it.”
“You guys are close?”
Peg shrugs. “Close-ish. She moved to New England after high school, I moved to New York, we see each other in person like once a year.” She pauses. “She never liked Birdie, which kind of made things… complicated.”
Whiskey nods. “I get that. My friends weren’t exactly big Duke fans since he started focussing in on men’s rights stuff on his channel.”
“And now?”
Whiskey pauses. “Don’t speak ill of the dead is kind of a thing, I guess.”
“Yeah,” says Peg.
Whiskey’s hand shakes a little where it’s holding the magazine. Before she can think too much about it Peg reaches out, covering Whiskey’s hand with her’s. Whiskey swallows, letting out a slow breath through her nose. Peg can hear it through the mask.
They spend the rest of the travel time to the set (and some of the time on set) running through Whiskey’s lines. She only has a handful, the one-note flirty waitress that the obnoxious sitcom husband is fixated on through a family dinner.
“I didn’t think they still did these kinds of plots,” says Peg.
“I think they’re trying to mix it up,” says Whiskey. “One of the writers was on set earlier and he says they originally wanted the end joke to be that my character has a girlfriend but I guess they couldn’t make it work for, like, run-time or whatever. At least she gets to be kind of friends with the wife at the end.”
“Yeah, because they want the husband to feel like this random grown woman is like his daughter ,” says Peg. “Gross.”
“Some guys are into that,” says Whiskey.
“ Gross ,” says Peg, wrinkling her nose.
Whiskey laughs. “Yeah. But at least they might know who I am afterwards. Brand recognition, you know?”
Peg sighs. “But at what cost?”
She means it as a joke, but Whiskey goes still.
“Shit,” says Peg. “I didn’t mean-”
“It’s fine,” says Whiskey. “I mean, I know what people said. I used to moderate Duke’s streams.”
Peg winces.
“Yeah,” says Whiskey. “But he kind of didn’t trust anyone else to do it.”
That Peg does get, from both sides. Birdie only trusted her to do a lot of things, and so Peg felt like only she could do them. And Whiskey… it feels easy to trust Whiskey. She can give Whiskey free reign of a phone and know that she’s not going to tweet anything they’ll need to spend the next five years apologising for.
“If you want to do streams,” says Peg. “We’re getting someone else to moderate them.”
The corners of Whiskey’s eyes crinkle over the top of her mask. “I’ll keep it in mind if I come up with a streaming idea.”
“You should,” says Peg. “Brainstorm if you have time today.”
“While I’m literally filming a tv show?” says Whiskey.
“I said if you had time,” says Peg.
Whiskey laughs. “Sure, okay.”
She’s less nervous on set. It helps that only a handful of people seem to know who either of then are, and out of the on-set actors only the girl playing the pre-teen daughter knows Whiskey by name. They exchange signatures, laughing together between takes. Pegs checks in in-between phone calls. The commercial stuff is seeming more solid by the minute if they can get back on time. Peg even goes so far as to pay for the in-flight wifi so she can keep working on it, to Whiskey’s great amusement.
“There’s a charity thing too,” says Peg. Her stomach twists with nervous energy that she can’t quite place the source of. The cab jolts as it hits a pothole. “LGBTQA+ advocacy.”
“Sure,” says Whiskey. She sounds tired, but it’s been a long day. Peg’s tired too. “What kind of stuff do they want?”
“Short form video,” says Peg. “I’m still working out the details, but probably youtube talking head it gets better style thing, a couple tiktoks, maybe a spot on a charity twitch stream later on this year?”
Whiskey nods. “Cool, okay.” She pauses. “Paid?”
“That’s the part I’m still working out,” says Peg grimly.
It’s good for branding but it’s better if Whiskey’s paid for it, because then Peg can also be paid for it. She scowls at her phone. She gets that it’s a charity thing, she does, and it’s so important, if she’d had those resources when she was a baby gay, etc etc etc. But she can’t pay her bills off charity.
Whiskey huffs a laugh, bumping their shoulders together. The nerves in the pit of Peg’s stomach are replaced by a burst of warmth. “Go easy on them.”
“No,” says Peg.
Whiskey laughs, the sound muffled through the mask but no less bright.
When Peg gets back to her little apartment there’s a package waiting for her. There’s no actual sender, just a company. She googles it and they make custom glassware, which doesn’t exactly make things any clearer to her. She doesn’t think Birdie would send her anything actually explosive, but…
She takes it into her bathroom and after a moment, she puts it in the too-small bath. She puts on the apron that her mother gave her two Christmas’ ago that she never uses, the thick rubber gloves she keeps under her sink and, after thinking about it, she digs around in her closet until she finds her face shield. Carefully, inch by inch, she cuts the box open.
It’s… a glass with her name engraved on it. It’s tall, with a lid and three different reusable straws. The kind you would use for smoothies.
Peg frowns, and pulls off her gloves so she can use her phone.
“Was this you?” asks Peg.
Whiskey pauses for a moment. She might actually have been asleep. She was practically falling asleep on Peg in the cab from the airport.
“Was what me?”
“The glass thing,” says Peg.
“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Well, yeah.”
“Okay,” says Peg slowly. “Why?”
“No reason,” says Whiskey. “I thought your apartment could use a little more you in it, that’s all.”
“I guess,” says Peg.
“I thought that could be a stream idea,” says Whiskey, sounds half-sleep. “I redecorate my friend’s apartment.”
“Maybe,” says Peg. There’s a warmth in her chest, spreading out slowly. She puts a hand over her face to hide her expression even though no one can see her. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, after the commercial shoot.”
“‘Kay,” says Whiskey. “Night.”
“Goodnight,” says Peg.
It takes her a long time to go to sleep. She feels prickly about it the next morning, hovering next to the craft services table and refilling her disposable cup with coffee an inadvisable amount of times. Whiskey seems unaffected by the series of long days, leaning against the prop bar to talk to one of the lighting techs. Whiskey laughs, touching the lighting tech’s arm and Peg quickly looks away.
It surprises her. She doesn’t know why. People can be gay, obviously, she’s gay, but Whiskey is very- Well. All her videos with Duke had a definite vibe to them that was not that. Peg steps outside to get some air, and to call her contact about the charity stream again. It does not help get her mind off things, but at least it gives her nervous energy somewhere to go.
Birdie calls again while she’s on the phone. Peg stares at the (3) missed calls: Birdie Jay for a long, long time before she deletes the notification. Eventually she’s going to have to decide what to do with all the voicemails from Birdie that she hasn’t listened to. Right now, she has work to do.
They get Whiskey in for filming later that week. Whiskey’s nervous again, twisting her rings while they explain the kinds of things they want to talk about in the video. It’s all very generic, but Whiskey still looks pale under the lights.
“Hey,” says Peg quietly as she brings Whiskey one of the tiny bottled waters from craft services. “You okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” says Whiskey. Her voice shakes.
“We can call it off,” says Peg.
“I’m already here,” says Whiskey.
“Who cares?” says Peg. “If you don’t want to be here, we walk.”
Whiskey swallows, reaching out to take Peg’s hand. Peg squeezes it, hoping whatever emotion showing over the top of her mask is a comforting one.
“I want to stay, I want to do this.” Whiskey takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. “Might as well come out in style.”
“Right,” says Peg. She blinks. “Wait-”
The director calls for places.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Whiskey quickly. “If you can not pick up Birdie’s calls, I can do this.”
Peg laughs. “That’s-”
“ Places ,” says the director pointedly. “Quiet on set!”
“Talk later,” says Whiskey.
They don’t really get a chance to. They film a couple of tiktoks with some of the teens they have in. It goes minorly viral for half a day, bringing with it all the good and bad that happens with something like that. Peg only reads her the good comments, the ones complimenting her hair or her ability to hit the correct dance move, or the ones that are so over-the-top homophobic that they’re definitely getting blocked and reported by the rest of the comments section. She skips some of the other comments. Whiskey was on Duke’s channel for years in the background and on stream, she doesn’t need to see more of this shit. Peg can make herself go numb to it after the first twenty minutes of blocking people.
They celebrate their intensive week at a bar near Peg’s apartment. She likes it because it’s small, and mostly for locals, and it has a tiny rooftop section where she can go to smoke. She sneaks away while Whiskey’s dancing, nodding to the bartender as she heads for the stairs.
There’s a couple of people up there - a couple making out behind the one potted plant, a guy drinking alone. Peg nods to him and he nods back, turning his attention back out to the street. Peg sits on the opposite side of the roof to him, giving her a view of the alleyway, a wall, and the tiniest sliver of the street beyond. She lights a cigarette, watching a cab collect a group, all of them yelling to each other. She’s too far away to know if it’s an argument, or if they’re just excited. Maybe it’s both. She’s had nights like that. She had a whole ten years of nights like that.
She pulls her phone out of her pocket, scrolling to the little AlphaMail voicemail ap. She could listen to them all back to back, like the world’s most niche and depressing podcast. She could call Birdie back. She could delete them.
“I thought you didn’t like smoking,” says Whiskey.
Peg flinches, dropping her phone. “ Jesus christ.”
“Sorry,” says Whiskey, an edge of laughter to her voice.
“I thought you were dancing,” says Peg, bending to pick up her phone, the movement hiding her expression.
“I was,” says Whiskey. “I wanted to see where you’d snuck off to. I didn’t expect you to be up here.” She pauses, sitting down next to Peg. “And smoking too. You wouldn’t even let me vape.”
“I never said you couldn’t do it, I said it wasn’t good PR. I don’t need to worry about my PR,” says Peg. “I’m just the background.”
“You’re more than background you’re…” Whiskey turns towards her. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“Yes you could have,” says Peg.
“Well, yeah, maybe,” says Whiskey. “But you made it way easier.”
She reaches out and takes Peg’s hand, squeezing it gently and then just… holding it. Peg lets out a breath, tilting her head away slightly so she won’t blow smoke into Whiskey’s face. She wishes she was still wearing a mask, not sure how much her expression gives away.
“Hey,” says Whiskey quietly.
“I can’t do this, I can’t be someone secret sometimes thing again,” says Peg quietly. “I’m too old for that shit.”
Whiskey blinks. “Who says anything about secret?”
“As your personal assistant and marketing manager-”
“I’m not asking you as that,” says Whiskey, “I’m asking you as Peg.”
Peg swallows. “I… don’t have a lot of experience answering as Peg. Wouldn’t you rather have the assistant?”
“No,” says Whiskey, “I like Peg. And you know I always go after the things that I like, no matter how long it might take me.”
“It might take you a while,” says Peg.
“That’s okay,” says Whiskey. “I have this great assistant who’s helping me with long-term strategy.”
She leans forward, pulling down her mask to kiss Peg. It's light, barely more than the press of her lips before Whiskey leans back.
“Okay?” says Whiskey. There's a slight waver in her voice, the only hint at any kind of nerves.
“Very okay,” says Peg, and leans towards her.
----
Another long day in a series of long days. Peg lets out a sigh, leaning against her kitchen bench because her little sink is crowded with dishes, because Whiskey is attempting to learn to cook something for some stream she wants to do, with no view of the stairwell of the next building because of the curtains Whiskey has put up to “get some fucking colour in here, Jesus Peg”.
“Dinner’s done!” says Whiskey.
She holds out a plate. Peg tries not to wrinkle her nose at the smell, taking a tentative bite. Whiskey tajes a bite of her own, making a choking sound.
“Yeah,” says Peg. “This is pretty terrible.”
Whiskey laughs. “Guess I won’t make much of a housewife.”
Peg hums. “It’s not really your core audience anymore.”
Whiskey smiles. “Yeah I guess not.”
Peg takes another bite. “This is really bad.”
Whiskey laughs. “I’ll call for chinese. Or pizza?”
“Thai,” says Peg. She swallows, with great effort. “This is like, sour , how did you even do that to eggs?”
Whiskey laughs. “I told you, I’m better at smoothies!”
“Yeah, you would have to be,” says Peg.
A coda;
“-And then we get home, and the sourdough starter had just exploded ,” says Whiskey, “Like, literally, all over the counter.”
“A complete disaster,” says Peg fondly.
The british man Whiskey has been discussing baking with for the past half an hour laughs. “I had a similar incident myself.”
“Oh?” says Whiskey.
“Yes, but my husband tells it much better than I do- Blanc!”
Whiskey goes very still, her eyes wide as she looks as Peg. Peg imagines that her expression is similarly shocked and she takes a long drink of her beer. Whiskey huffs a laugh, nudging Peg with her elbow.
“Miss Whiskey,” says a familiar southern drawl, “How unexpectedly wonderful to see you.”
Whiskey gives a shy little wave.
The british man who is apparently Blanc’s husband gives a little huff of laughter. “He always does this- We go to a party and he already knows all the guests!”
“The price of fame,” says Peg.
Blanc gives her an odd look. She feels Whiskey perk up next to her, the way Whiskey always does when she’s about to introduce Peg with too much flair.
“If you remember me you must remember Peg,” says Whiskey, her eyes bright.
“Of course,” says Blanc, recovering quickly.
“Detective,” says Peg.
“I did read something about your ignorminious separation from Miss Birdie Jay after the incident on the island of Mr Broun but nothing since then,” says Blanc. “I admit I am glad you escape relatively unscathed.”
“Eventually,” says Peg.
Whiskey reaches out and squeezes Peg’s hand, quickly diving into a conversation with Philip about various flour types. Peg takes another sip of her beer.
Blanc leans towards her slightly. “You seem a great deal happier than the last time I saw you.”
“The last time you saw me I was covered in chemical ash,” says Peg.
“Even so,” says Blanc. His eyes flick to Whiskey.
She pauses, looking towards Whiskey, her eyes alight as she talks about the online cooking class she's dragging Peg through. She's doing these vlogs about it - small viewers numbers but a loyal base, they're working on a schedule for a patreon. They’re still in the arguing-about-every-detail stage - Peg wants to use this instagram artist that she knows will get people at least clicking through to the page, but Whiskey wants to commission some street artist that did the mural across from her apartment which won’t fit the tone at all . They haven’t even talked about sustainable business models or potential collaboration or reward tiers or any of the eight hundred things Peg wants to sort out before they go live with it. There is, as always, a million things on their shared to-do list.
Whiskey’s eyes go to her, and her smile brightens just the tiniest fraction, the warmth of it making it inside Peg’s chest.
“But yeah,” says Peg. “Yeah, I kind of am.”