Chapter 3 Liam
Liam
Once late November hits, pitch meetings at Spitfire become a competition for who can come up with the most inventive ways to use the company card for their personal gain.
It’s the Monday after Thanksgiving, and all of the mid-level and senior staff writers are seated along a narrow gray conference table with their notebooks splayed in front of them.
I stand with the three other junior writers to the side with our backs to the bay of windows, awkwardly cradling our notes in our arms.
“Jasmine, go ahead and start that piece on styling clothes from high school for the holidays,” Fallon Saito, our editor in chief, directs.
She’s in her late thirties—young by industry standards—but was able to secure her position and the development of Spitfire through consistent viral success.
Her black hair is tied back, out of her face, in a high ponytail.
She commands the room as she writes down approved pieces on index cards before securing them with magnets to a whiteboard.
“We’ll be getting a shipment of pleasure accessories later today.
I expect everyone who is comfortable to pick one up and submit their review by next week so we can finalize the listicle for the start of ‘Horny for the Holidays.’”
A few people let out whoops at this. We continue to go around the table, throwing out gift guide themes and holiday excursions and pop-ups to try out in the city.
We’ll be putting out twice the content as usual, which also means a peak in ad dollars from the digital site with a push for material featuring sponsored items.
When I got my MFA, I didn’t aspire to work at a fashion and pop culture magazine.
There aren’t exactly enough writing jobs out there to be picky about where you land, but I love it here.
Sure, there’s pressure surrounding deadlines or pushing past creative blocks, but it’s an environment that embraces joy.
Spitfire has a primarily female audience, but it’s a space for anyone if they want to be a part of it.
Fallon directs her focus on me. “Liam, what do you have for us? Excellent work on the Thanksgiving list, even if I did have a heated call from Bide’s owner this morning.”
A few annoyed glances shoot my way. The person who writes the review list each year is selected at random so they aren’t recognized by the restaurants and given preferential treatment.
It’s a coveted spot, partly because of the free meals and partly because if you succeed you’re on Fallon’s radar for the upcoming year, which means more freedom with the pieces you take on and the potential for promotions.
Because I’m leaving Spitfire, following in the steps of three generations of Hughes men before me to move home to help run my family’s ski hill in Dulcet Point, Colorado after the New Year, other staff members thought it was a waste to have me write the list.
“Christmas cards with friends or roommates, moving away from the traditional family card and moving toward something more aligned with the modern trajectory of people in their twenties and thirties,” I say.
“Great!” Fallon says. “Touch base with whoever you want to bring along with you and talk to the fashion department about styling. I’m thinking ugly retro, but follow their suggestions.
That’s all I have for you all. Remember, look over the sex toys but do not fight over them.
We do not need a repeat of the Valentines Day incident.
” Grabbing the rest of her note cards, she taps them into a neat stack and puts them into her bag.
The room fills with the swooshes of chair legs on thin pile carpet.
“You better pick me for the holiday card,” Jasmine says, crossing the room to join me.
She and I started around the same time at Spitfire, both of us coming from MFA programs and working our way up from being interns.
She moved up the ranks six months ago, being given her own column focused on sex and psychology, rooted in her personal mission to help people understand they aren’t alone in what they feel or what they think they should feel.
We live together in a cozy rent-controlled apartment in Tribeca that she lucked into when she first moved here.
“Why? Because you look great in tinsel trimmed polyester?” I ask. When we reach the door, I hold it open for her.
“Because if you don’t, I’m revoking your best friend status and will be wildly offended.”
“Sorry, I thought you knew that I was just using you for premium rent.”
“Whatever. I need something I can send my parents. My tits are out in most of the pictures I have and I need ones that won’t send them into cardiac arrest.” Jasmine takes a seat at her desk and spins around in her chair.
I start to head toward mine, but Fallon says my name. “Liam, walk with me for a minute will you?”
“Sure,” I say and fall into step with her as she rolls the white board to the concept wall where the rest of the details for the holiday issue are laid out. “Is this about the list?”
“I said it in the meeting, but I do want to reiterate, excellent work. If you were staying with us, I’d put you on more culinary pieces.
But it is the reason I’m going to ask you for a favor,” she says without looking my way.
“Alara was planning to do a write up on Christmas tree farms, but she’s put on bedrest for the remainder of her pregnancy and will be submitting a shorter version of the original article.
It was supposed to be a huge piece for digital.
All other senior staff members have their assignments, so I can’t ask them to come up with another piece.
I believe if you had stayed you’d be up for a promotion next year, so I’m asking you to do a holiday feature. ”
“Oh, wow. Thanks,” I say, nearly tripping over my feet in shock. It’s always a bit of a surprise when I’m praised for my work.
“Is there any specific angle you have in mind?”
Since I left Colorado and went to college, writing has been my passion.
I pursued it despite knowing it would be something I’d have to put on the back burner once I turned twenty-eight.
I feel like I’m putting parts of myself out in the world that I can’t take back, even if they’ve been edited a thousand times.
Fallon continues as she adjusts the white board so it’s flush to the wall.
“I’m open to any pitches you generate but will need to approve the subject of the feature by end of day tomorrow,” she explains.
“I know it’s short notice. You’ll be home for the holidays, and I know you're hesitant, but a profile on an Olympic legacy family could be huge.”
I force my lips to maintain a smile even as my stomach drops.
Three generations of Hughes are winter Olympians, making us essentially royalty in the world of winter sports.
My parents now own and operate Dulcet Point Ski Lodge in Colorado, where many elite winter athletes including my sisters, Penelope and Juniper, train.
The only reason I’m not doing the same is because of an injury when I was sixteen, though that didn’t change expectations.
When I majored in journalism, the unspoken hope was that I would go into sports coverage.
Obviously, I diverted from that plan. I like to keep these two halves of my life separate, letting myself pretend my time in New York isn’t some temporary dream.
My life here is something I’ve claimed wholly for myself, and I do everything I can to separate it from the other parts of my life.
It’s mine, and will continue to be mine even when I’m stuck on the side of the mountain decades from now.
I won’t let the last thing I do here center around my unavoidable future.
“I’ll take it under consideration and update you if I come up with something else.” I give a quick nod. “If there’s nothing else, I need to book the photoshoot for my roommate Christmas card pitch.”
“That’s all. Best of luck Liam, I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
Dismissed, I stride back to my desk directly across from Jasmine’s. Only our computers divide us, so I have a decent view of her avoiding my gaze.
“What did Fallon have to say?” she asks innocently as she picks at the skin around her thumb as if she wasn’t eavesdropping the entire time.
“That she’s giving me a holiday feature.” I slump back in my chair searching my head for any ideas but my mind is blank. It’s been a busy month. Between packing up my life here, working, and dodging calls from my dad who is excited enough for the both of us about my return, I’m worn the hell out.
“Of course she did. If you walked up to her and asked for a mid-level staffer job she’d give it to you in a heartbeat.
Your articles have some of the best metrics, I mean besides mine,” she says, humble as ever.
Though she is one of the best known writers here, often asked to go on podcasts and give workshops on sexual health and empowerment.
“Just stay and tell your dad to shove it. He can hire someone with an MBA and a suit to run everything.”
“You know it’s not that simple.” I sigh as I log on to my computer, pulling up a browser that auto-populates with Spitfire's home page. “My dad and I have a deal.”
“I’m so sick and tired of that deal. Just pay him back for college and stay. I don’t want to find another roommate.”
The arrangement I had with my dad was that he’d fund my college and any further education, as long as I agreed to come back to Dulcet Point, saying that it would be good for me to get out into the world and know how a company works.
If Dulcet Point wasn’t my home, maybe I’d be able to say yes to Jasmine’s request. But even though I retired from skiing at a young age, I can’t just walk away from the place I grew up and my obligations to it.
“Jas, you’ll find a roommate just fine. I need to get to work on this pitch so my final article here isn’t hot garbage,” I tell her and pull on my over the ear headphones before she can protest.
I spend the afternoon searching for an open slot for a department store photoshoot, eventually selecting one for the end of day tomorrow.
Once that’s wrapped up, I scroll through past years’ holiday features.
Exposés on glitzy celebrity New Years parties.
Emotional biographical pieces on how people have transformed over a year by dedicating themselves to a “yes” list. Visits to towns that seem like they’re right out of Hallmark movies.
Due to my lack of non-family celebrity connections, limited timeline, and the fact that outright plagiarism won’t get me anywhere, I might be fucked.
Five o’clock hits, and hoping to find some last minute inspiration, I reach into my bag to retrieve my notebook. When I pull it out, a loose piece of paper comes with it and tumbles onto the pale wood of my desk.
It’s wrinkled, so I smooth it out to read the single line of writing.
A website. A long shot.
Dear Juliet,
I’m not sure if you’d need me to go through a background check first (per your policy), but would you be interested in an interview.
I sigh and hold down the delete button as words vanish.
It’s the next day and I’m starting the fifth version of the email that I couldn’t get right yesterday, trying to sound professional instead of saying, Hey, remember me?
The guy who didn’t stalk you the other day?
We shared a cab and I called you pretty because you made me nervous and I didn’t know how to shut the hell up?
Yeah, that’s me. Would you let me pay for your lunch, and forget all of that ever happened?
Fuck.
“Why would someone need you to do a background check for an interview?” Jasmine says, looking over my shoulder. At this rate, I need one of those privacy screens.
She’s dressed in a Christmas sweater that is covered in silver tinsel, bows, and hand-stitched trees. Every time she moves it crinkles. Mine isn’t much better. I have about three dozen miniature bells attached to me that chime each time I move.
We’re waiting on the sidelines as Rowan and Ava, the two fashion assistants joining us for the shoot, move into a series of purposefully awkward couples poses as the camera flashes.
“It’s a smart move for her job,” I say, turning off my phone and shoving it in my back pocket. “Have you ever heard of someone being a professional plus-one for holidays and weddings?”
“Shit. I have, actually. My cousin tried to book one but she was booked through spring. Classic men, planning at the last minute.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re like ten percent better. You know the difference between a zucchini and a cucumber when I send you to the grocery store.”
“I’m glad that common sense is enough to be in your good graces. But I might have ruined my chances with this girl.” I groan, remembering how she came at me like a storm.
Short blonde hair that flicked out at the ends. Intelligent rich brown eyes that mercilessly cut right through me, yet held a barely restrained humor. The powerful confidence that emanated off her in waves and made my heart go off rhythm.
By some miracle I was composed—okay, not stammering through every word—the second time we spoke. Probably thanks to the three glasses of wine I’d had that day hitting my system.
“Why’s that?”
“We didn’t exactly have the best first encounter on Thanksgiving. She thought I was stalking her. But I think this is the right story to help me get the promotion.”
“Give me your phone.” Jasmine reaches out her hand, palm up.
“Why?”
“You don’t want to sound like a creep, right?”
Resigned, I unlock my phone and hand it over. She types for a moment then rereads her work.
She shows me the screen, revealing an email far better than mine was.
Finger hovering over the send button, she says, “You get this on one condition: we get drinks tonight. You still haven’t celebrated killing the Thanksgiving piece even though it was fucking flawless.
After your birthday, you have to let me have this. ”
How was I supposed to know that the last minute interview I was asked to take over was at the same time as the top secret surprise birthday party Jasmine had planned for me?
And it’s not like I’m the best people person.
Making the best of my time in New York has mostly focused on writing, which in turn has exposed me to more of the city than I could have dreamed of.
“Seriously? You’re holding my email hostage?”
“Ready for you two whenever!” the photographer chimes, calling us over for the final set of photos next to the lopsided waist-high trees that had absolutely seen better days.
Jasmine cocks a brow as her finger shifts to the delete icon. “You’ve driven me to extreme measures. You can be a quirky shut-in when you’re old and ugly.”
“Fine,” I acquiesce, accepting my fate.