CHAPTER 35 DELILAH
DELILAH
“Hey.” Gianna’s face peeks over the edge of my half-crooked cubicle wall.
Keith has moved me three times this year, and I’m currently squished between the watercooler with a perpetual leak and the air-conditioning unit that doesn’t stop sputtering cold air, even when it’s subzero temperatures outside.
“I have something to tell you, but I need you to not freak out about it.”
“Well, when you put it like that”—I tuck my pen behind my ear—“I am absolutely going to freak out.”
Gianna once shared the gruesome details of a major investigative case by blurting out the murderer’s MO in the middle of a bagel breakfast, then nonchalantly asked someone to pass her the lox. If she’s spooked, then I probably will be too.
“Well,” she says, edging around the flimsy wall and collapsing into the chair I stole from the kitchen. “Don’t.”
I eyeball her jumping knee and the frazzled state of her ponytail. She chews on the corner of her lip and stares at me, eyes a touch too wide.
“How fast can you tell me?” I minimize the programs on my computer and lock the screen. “I have a meeting with Keith in ten minutes.”
“Keith,” she hisses.
“Yes, that guy who signs all our checks.” I swivel in my chair, kicking off the bunny slippers I keep under my desk and trading them for my stilettos instead. “He’s actually been fine since I got back. I think maybe this is the start of a truce.”
Gianna’s lips twist. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t trust him.” She scratches above her eyebrow. “You know I don’t like to share all of my information before I have it.”
“Okay, but—”
“But,” she stresses, “you were right about him trying to sabotage the trip. I did trace that cancellation email back to him. And I also found out that he had the production team tap in early to one of your broadcasts.” She stares at me.
“You know. The one where the whole city heard you making out with weather boy?”
My cheeks heat. “Keith was trying to embarrass me.”
“He’s up to something. I just don’t know what.” Gianna plucks at her bottom lip. “I’m following a couple of leads. I’ll report back to you when I untangle it.”
“Great. Thank you.” I stand and straighten my skirt, only for Gianna to yank me back down to my seat. “Did you have something else to talk to me about?” I ask.
She nods. One sharp, jerky movement.
“Okay.” I give her my full attention, waiting. She avoids my gaze, studying her chipped nail polish instead. “What is it?” I prod.
She sucks in a deep breath through her nose and releases it slowly. “I’m just—give me a second.”
Alarm has me shuffling forward in my half-broken chair. “Gianna,” I whisper. “What’s going on?”
“I’m mustering up the courage,” she whispers back.
I reach for her hands and grip her fingers tight. She doesn’t immediately pull away or try to give me a wet willy, so I know it’s serious.
“Are you sick? Do you need money?” I inch closer. “Is it about your sister? Do you need—”
Gianna shakes her head quickly. She squeezes my hands, and with a completely serious and utterly devastated look on her face, she says:
“I’m dating Mark.” She exhales a ragged sound. “I have feelings for him,” she adds in a rush.
I stare at her. “I’m sorry. Did you just say Mark? Cameraman Mark?”
Gianna nods.
“He dates people?”
She bites her thumbnail. “He’s a bit of a slut, actually.” I blink three times in rapid succession. “All of it happened really fast. You know my moral opposition to dating, right? Because it reenforces—”
“The patriarchal inclinations of our society. Yes, I am aware.”
Gianna nods, eyes bright. “Right. You get it. But lately he’s just been”—her hands wave wildly between us—“everywhere. Doing things for me. Nice things. Did you know he’s nice, Delilah?”
“I’ve never known him to be particularly nice, but—”
“Except sometimes he’s mean. He’s mean and I like it,” she whispers, sounding awed. “He does this thing where he—”
“No,” I interrupt. “Please don’t finish that sentence.”
If I know any of the specifics, I’ll never be able to look at Mark again. Mark, who is apparently a bit of a slut.
“I just need you to know the sex is unbelievable,” Gianna whispers.
“Great.” I press my palm to the middle of my forehead and rub furiously, trying to chase away that mental image before it can take root. “I’m so happy for you, but please never speak of it again.”
Gianna buttons her lips shut, watching me expectantly.
“I don’t understand,” I say slowly. “You came over here looking like someone poisoned your cat.”
“I don’t have a cat.”
“You know what I mean. I thought something was wrong,” I clarify. Her knee is still jumping up and down. “Is there something wrong? Has he . . . forced you to do something you’re not—”
“No! God, no. Nothing like that. I’m just—”
I’ve never had a conversation in so many whispered half sentences, the both of us curled together in my cubicle. If anyone walks by and pokes their head over my desk, they’re going to think we’re launching a drug trade.
“You like him,” I realize in a moment of sudden, delightful clarity. Only Gianna would be disturbed about something so . . . wholesome. “Gianna.” I laugh. “It’s okay that you like him.”
“It’s terrible,” she hisses.
“Why?”
“Because I am a strong, independent woman and I don’t need a man to make me feel like I’m falling headfirst off the side of a dock.”
I grin. “Sometimes that can be a good feeling.”
She peeks up at me. “Can it?”
I think of Jackson with his face buried in my neck. The way he curls his arms around me in his sleep, tucking me firmly against him. Sometimes I can’t take a deep enough breath and it’s—it’s perfect, like that.
Headfirst. Over the side of a dock.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “It’s good.”
Gianna’s eyebrows bunch together in confusion.
It’s the start of her research look, and I don’t have the time for fifty additional questions and a data set right now.
Keith is expecting me in his office—I glance at the clock, crap—in three minutes.
I squeeze her hands one more time and stand, grabbing for my notepad at the corner of my desk.
“Okay, I’ve got to run before Keith figures out new and creative means of torturing me. There are protein bars in the bottom drawer for you and—I’m really happy for you, Gianna.”
It makes sense, in a weird way. Gianna’s complete lack of censorship paired with Mark’s reservation. Two opposite ends of a seesaw, balancing each other out.
I’m still mentally sorting through all the information Gianna dropped into my lap when I finally skid into Keith’s office.
“Sorry,” I apologize quickly, slipping into the seat across from his desk.
I have no reason to be, but I’m nervous for this meeting.
It’s been hanging over my head since we got back.
It’s not like Keith to let things go or make them easier, and he’s been decidedly hands-off.
I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I think it might be about to.
Keith doesn’t bother turning away from his computer while I wait patiently. He’s playing solitaire and losing. Badly. I clear my throat. “I got caught up in a meeting with—”
“I don’t particularly care,” he cuts me off, sounding bored. He minimizes his game and turns with a sigh. He flicks his hand at the open door. “Shut that, please.”
Apprehension prickles along the back of my neck, but I do as he says, standing and slowly walking to the door.
On the other side of the newsroom, Gianna is watching me with her arms crossed over her chest. He’s up to something, she said at my cubicle, I just don’t know what.
Her face is the last thing I see before I quietly shut the door, the noise on the other side immediately muffled.
Keith leans back in his chair, his hands folded over his chest. He eyes me critically and it feels like stepping into an oil slick. His attention clings to me, and not in a good way. “How would you say your time in the mountains went?”
I remain standing. “Fine.”
I’m afraid to be too effusive. I don’t want to set myself up for whatever trap he’s laying.
He hums. “You had a little trouble, didn’t you? Following the rules. Listening to my orders.”
Him and his orders. It takes every iota of control in my body to not roll my eyes. “I think constructive discourse in the workplace is healthy,” I say.
You once had me report from a toilet, I add in my head. I think your orders are a bunch of shit. Literally.
“Right, well. The reason I called you in here is because Ava Monroe reached out. She followed along with your weather report, and she had some thoughts.”
He pulls a sheet of paper out from beneath his keyboard, flattening it against his desk. My heart leaps to my throat, and I try not to let myself catastrophize. “Good thoughts?” I ask.
Keith makes a noncommittal sound.
“She was happy with the numbers you pulled in and shared that you have a bright future in feature work.” He finally looks up at me, tapping his thumb against his desk. “I agreed with her.”
I hesitate. “Okay?”
The things he’s saying are objectively good things, but Keith has always had trouble with praise that’s aimed in my direction. No way he listened to ownership wax poetic about me without a reaction.
He nods. “It’s under that feedback and recommendation that, effective today, I’ll be moving you to community outreach.”
If there were crickets in this office, they’d be chirping.
“Community outreach,” I repeat slowly. “What does that mean?”
“After today’s broadcast, you’ll formally report to Mindy in the features department.”
That sentence hits me like a physical blow, one word at a time.
Formally.
Move.
Under.
Features.
Department.
I have to swallow three times before I’m able to pull together a response. “The features team only does their reporting on the Sunday news hour.”
Keith leans back in his chair. His mouth twists in a smug grin. “That’s right.”
I think about my grandpa in his favorite chair, watching his favorite news program. I think about how I won’t be on his screen anymore. The one thing I had to hold on to him, and Keith is taking that away.
“But—” My throat tightens, and I order myself not to cry. Not here. Not where Keith can see. “But I’m a meteorologist.”
“And both Ava and I believe you’ll be better suited reporting on something else.” He lifts his hands, his face twisted in mock apology. “Why waste such talent on something as boring as the weather?”
“The weather isn’t boring,” I say, my voice faint.
Not only is it a demotion and a decrease in airtime, it’s a sharp reminder that Keith can do whatever he wants with my career. It never mattered how well I did on this snowstorm coverage. Keith was always going to find a way to use it against me—good or bad.
“And if I don’t want to work with the features team? If I want to stay where I am?”
Keith’s head tips to the side. “Did you really think there wouldn’t be consequences for you, Delilah?
You were caught in a compromising position with a coworker.
You made a fool of yourself and this station.
You’re lucky you still have a job at all.
” He glances at the clock. “A job you’ll be late for if you don’t hustle over to the set.
You’re due for your noon report.” He turns back to his computer screen, clearly dismissing me.
“I suggest you enjoy it. One last hurrah for the weather girl.”
I want to rage. I want to scream. I want to take the remnants of his Coolatta and hurl it against a wall. If I were braver, maybe I’d have the right words to fight back with. But I’m just a hollow shell, all the things I hold most precious scooped out and dumped on the floor.
“Why?” The loudest I can manage is a whisper. “You’ve always hated me. Why?”
His eyes harden into flint. “Because,” he says, “everyone else loves you.”
I float out of his office without another word, trying desperately not to cry. But it claws up the back of my throat. It burns behind my eyes.
The buzz of the set breaks through some of my fog, making me stumble over a cord stretched across the floor.
Production assistants rush past one another, updating notes and typing furiously into the teleprompter.
Someone shouts my name, but I barely register it.
Everything is muffled and muted. Like cotton over my ears or a bandana over my eyes.
I move through it silently, weightless and brimming with a violent, trembling frustration.
The very tips of my fingers are cold. My breathing is loud. Choppy.
I’m handed an earpiece and my remote for the green screen. I find my mark and I wait patiently for the handover, staring into the camera. Somewhere out there, my grandfather is watching, and it’s enough to force another crack in my already bruised heart.
Smile, Delilah.
Just for a second.
Smile, Delilah.
But I can’t. I can’t.
“Now over to Delilah for the forecast,” Simone says. She smiles at me from her desk. “Delilah, how’s it looking out there?”
The light on the camera in front of me flickers on. I can see my reflection in the curved glass. I am strokes of purple and chestnut brown. Pale and trembling, my hand still curled around my remote.
Will Keith even let me on the set anymore? Or will I be sanctioned off to my corner of the newsroom, never to be heard from again?
I swallow. “There’s a—there’s a chance of, um, showers on Monday.” Tears blur my vision. Somewhere behind the camera, Gianna appears. She whispers something urgent to Mark and he leans away from his camera, looking down at her. I can’t be bothered. I’m still underwater. “And, uh, on Tuesday—”
My voice drifts. The studio is completely silent. Gianna tries to gesture me off camera, but I know what I need to do.
Things aren’t ever going to change for me here, and I was foolish to think otherwise.
“Breaking news, actually.” I pull my earpiece out and let it dangle against my chest. “I quit.”