Not great, Chuck.
“Ah, interesting,” Helena said as the next question came on the screen, but her lip curl told Rhiannon the woman found the question to be the opposite of interesting. Once Rhiannon read it, she liked Helena more. “The question is, ‘Rumor has it Crush’s staff is 80 percent female. Isn’t it discriminatory to hire only women?’”
Rhiannon scanned the room, though the stage lights made it impossible for her to track down who in the audience had asked such an asinine question.
She said nothing for a beat. When she’d been embroiled in a messy employment relationship with Swype, the man in charge wearing her down, she’d dreamed of this power. The power to be silent while a man—though it could be a woman, patriarchy had no gender—waited for her answer, to force them to conform to her timetable.
It was petty and silly, but again . . . one could indulge in such things when one was in charge.
Finally, she spoke, directing her answer to the audience, not Helena.
“It’s not a rumor, though the number’s a little off.” She didn’t have to look offstage to know Lakshmi was probably plotting to strangle whoever had green-lit that question. “I am proud of how representative Crush is. An inclusive staff means an inclusive app, one that can be safe and welcoming and serve as many people as possible. Currently, approximately 72 percent of our workforce are women, both cis- and transgender, 18 percent are men, both cis- and transgender, and 10 percent are non-binary individuals. Let’s look at the other companies of Crush’s size. What’s the makeup of their staff?” She didn’t look at Samson, because she wasn’t talking about Matchmaker. Matchmaker wasn’t the enemy, and since she wanted to buy it, she wasn’t about to rip it apart.
But she hoped everyone was thinking about Swype real hard. Her pettiness knew no bounds there.
Helena shifted. “I would imagine it’s a majority of cis men,” she murmured.
“I would say that too. So why do I constantly get asked this question? Why isn’t every single one of these male CEOs asked why they’re discriminating against anyone who’s not a straight white cis man?”
A murmur of agreement went through the crowd. Someone started clapping.
Rhiannon placed her hands on the arms of her chair and leaned forward. “I see talent. Maybe you need to wonder why other companies aren’t seeing the skills that I see in the people I hire. What’s holding them back from being the best that they can be?” She was getting too passionate, too loud, so she leaned back and pasted a smile on her face. “I hope that answers your question.”
Samson cleared his throat and raised his hand. Helena regarded him with amusement. “You can jump in, Samson. No need to raise your hand.”
He shrugged. “I just want to say Rhiannon answered that really stupid question with grace and more eloquence than I ever would.”
Rhiannon nearly smiled with the audience, but controlled it. Damn it.
But it was a nice thing for the bastard to say, especially when she couldn’t come out and call that question stupid. Not without looking too angry or emotional.
“Okay, one more question.” Helena tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Oh, this is more of a personal question. I love it, I’ve always wanted to be an advice columnist. Are there any circumstances under which you’d give someone who ghosted you a second chance?”
“No,” Rhiannon said flatly.
“Yes,” Samson said, almost at the same time.
“Oooh, polar opposites.”
No fucking surprise there.
Helena nearly rubbed her hands together. “Explain, Rhiannon first.”
What a no-brainer. “My stance is, if a man ghosts you, he’s literally ghosted you. Like, he’s probably dead.” The audience and Helena chuckled, but Samson only leaned back in his seat. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t wish them dead. I assume they died. I’m kind enough to give them noble deaths, too, in my head.” She rolled her wrist. “Saving a puffin from a fire, et cetera.”
“Is there a word for people who come back into your life after a ghost?” Helena mused.
If there was one thing Rhi did know, it was the lingo. “The behavior is called submarining, but I prefer calling them zombies,” she said dryly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not looking to let any kind of zombie back into my life.”
“What about you, Samson? You said you would give someone a second chance.”
Samson shifted. “I think, generally, you’re right, Rhiannon. Too often people treat others as disposable. It’s not right. But I think there are cases where you should, at the very least, hear someone out. What if someone doesn’t intend to ghost the other person?” Samson asked, so quietly Rhiannon had to lean forward to hear him.
This time she did sneer. “Intend? Your intent is irrelevant, you either do it or you don’t. If you—I mean, someone—makes a conscious decision to not call or stands you up, they’ve ghosted.”
“What if the ghoster has a family emergency? Don’t extenuating circumstances matter?”
Was he saying he’d had a family emergency that night? A flare of hope fluttered under her hurt and anger, but then she realized what it was and swiftly squelched it down.
Hope was the enemy of productivity, in her case, at least. “A family emergency of a sufficient degree may warrant a talk,” she said, proud that there wasn’t a single shake in her voice. “But trust in relationships is like fragile glass. How can you build on a cracked foundation? How can you be sure you’re getting the truth? You have to protect your own heart. No one else will do it for you.”
Samson’s short lashes lowered, hiding his eyes. Helena jumped in, probably sensing their light interview was getting a little too deep. They wrapped up the Q&A and Rhi waited for the curtain to come down before she wrestled with her mic, yanking it off with more force than was necessary. The adrenaline that had fueled her through the interview was going to seep out of her soon, and she needed to get away before it did.
Shouldn’t have brought up ghosting.
“That was fantastic,” Helena enthused, as an assistant removed her mic and handed her a fresh bottle of water. “I’d love for both of you to be guests at some point on my show. Together, separately, anything.”
God no, not together.
“Matchmaker would be all for that,” Samson rumbled. She wondered if he was as drained as she was.
Don’t wonder anything about him.
“That would be amazing.” Rhiannon stood, Samson and Helena following her lead. “Why don’t you have your people contact mine?”
“Will do.” She and Helena exchanged air kisses and then it was time for Rhiannon to say goodbye to Samson. She held her hand out.
He took it, and that stupid little electrical shock ran up her arm. Why was it still there? It should be eradicated, that zing when he touched her. She snatched her hand back, and then felt mildly foolish.
Samson took a step toward her, but before he could open his mouth, Helena put her hand on his arm. “Samson, this is super unprofessional, but would you mind if I video called my dad? He’s such a fan.”
“That would be great.” His words and smile looked forced to Rhiannon.