Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
NOW
Sunday wasn’t great. As expected, it kind of just passed by in a blur of painkillers and memories of Henry’s hand around my wrist, briefly interrupted when I chugged water or had that greasy breakfast at three PM.
Monday was where the real fun began.
The clacking sounds of fingers hammering against keyboards, the whirring of our no-good printer and a strong scent of coffee hit me first when I got to the office. That I-desperately-wanted-to-sit-at-my-desk-and-write-something-meaningful-again second. I needed to talk to Eddie. Until he either gave me an article or kicked me off of the Hall Beck Post because I’d annoyed him too much. At least then, no one could say I hadn’t tried hard enough.
A few heads emerged behind their screens to greet me with soundless smiles. Riley—who’d thought signing up to the Post might make a good addition to her event management degree—waved from where she was preparing what was likely her fourth coffee of the day.
Alfie, who probably hadn’t expected the desk next to him to be occupied today, gave me a surprised look from the furthest corner of the office, to which we’d both been banished to.
Lacy— I-get-every-article-I-want Lacy—acknowledged me with a nod in my general direction, too focused on her words on the screen.
Despite what had happened last year, a weird sense of belonging rushed through me whenever I was in here. Whether I was writing about the stars’ predictions, going on coffee runs or loudly arguing with the printer until he did what I’d asked of him, I could almost pretend everything was fine. Normal.
The people in this office still thought of me as a respectable journalist, even if I’d messed up one of Eddie’s most important articles—and hadn’t gotten one of those again, in the year since.
Alfie had made about a hundred mistakes in his one semester at the paper himself, and he’d reassured me that Mistakes come with being human . That they’re okay, maybe even encouraged.
I’d probably encourage mistakes, too, if my degree weren’t directly linked to them. More so if I’d still manage to snag an article here and there because my dad owned the damn place.
Unfortunately, mine did not. So, I was stuck with coffee and printers, for the most part. That, and the respect of my fellow journalists-to-be. Whatever that was worth.
“Paula!” Lacy finally turned in her chair to face me, fully coming up from behind the screen she’d been hiding behind. The fact she only greeted me now, probably meant she’d been too busy with the article I had begged Eddie for last week—and the realization settled in my chest, sour and as heavy as a ton of bricks.
That should be me.
The easy smile on her full lips. The way her blonde waves fell perfectly down to her chest, blown out to perfection and telling me she’d had enough time to put in the effort. She was getting most front-page articles from Eddie these days, and she seemed to handle the daily deadlines like they were nothing. Like she probably handed them in early—and still managed an everything-shower and a blowout in the mornings.
Whenever I looked at Lacy for a little too long, noticed a few too many things about her; I couldn’t help but wonder how I ever thought I’d compare. How our editor could ever give me an article again when he had his star writer sitting right there. Just four desks over, in the middle of the room.
A year ago, things might’ve looked different, but they’d changed so fast I could hardly remember a time when I’d been that star writer.
“You don’t know how glad I am to see you here. What are you up to?”
But at least people still loved me here.
“No matter.” Lacy waved me off before I could say a word. The expectant smile on my lips fell. “Would you mind grabbing me a coffee from the machine downstairs? I—” She gestured to her computer screen. “Am swamped with this, and I have to hand it in for editing in an hour.” Lacy winced a laugh, like she knew she’d get away with it regardless.
Maybe I should clarify some things.
My peers’ love and respect went as far as their love for coffee that wasn’t filtered. “Oh! Did you bring another batch of your vegan choc chip cookies, by the way? The sugar really got my brain going the other day.” And baked goods.
I huffed, catching Riley’s eye roll in my periphery. Her head shook in exasperation, and it took everything in me not to break into a smile.
“Sorry, Lacy.” I turned back to the blonde, and I wished I could say her round, piercing blue eyes were only half as mesmerizing after almost four years. “No cookies today.”
She pouted. “How about that coffee, though?”
And those coffee runs had become so common, I didn’t have to ask how she’d like it. Two cream, one sugar. “Sure.”
Lacy exhaled loudly with relief. “You’re an angel,” she said, then disappeared behind her screen again. I wasn’t surprised.
The only thing surprising was finding Eddie in the door when I turned.
“Actually.” He cleared his throat, clearly having followed our brief conversation. “Paula, would you mind?”
He gestured into the hallway, and I honest to God thought Edward Smith was ushering me along for Lacy’s coffee. But instead, he said, “I’d like to talk to you about something. Sorry, Lacy!” He added across his shoulder, not at all apologetic when he gave her a last lingering look. “And get that article done. Fifty-seven minutes. Tick, tock.” He tapped the watch on his wrist and then disappeared through the door, expecting me to follow.
We walked the hall aimlessly. Past the rec room, the media labs, and when we passed his office—its door, as always, slightly ajar—and all he’d said was “So.” I wondered where this was going.
Usually, serious conversations with Edward Smith happened in that office.
After the article last year, he’d taken me exactly there. Where he’d told me I’d misquoted, and my source had filed a complaint to the SPJ’s ethics committee. Which couldn’t be scratched out of my record until that same source withdrew it or the claim had been without-a-doubt disproven. The burden of proof wasn’t on the complainant.
“I’ve been thinking,” Eddie finally said, mercifully dragging me out of my own head and my eyes away from his office just before we started descending the stairs.
And it occurred to me right there. Halfway down the staircase leading to the exit.
He was walking me out.
Literally walking me out of the building , about to send me on my way with a Good luck! followed by a Let me know if you ever make it out there! I doubt it. Just to make sure I wouldn’t come back. Maybe the way I’d thrown myself in front of him last week really had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Jesus Christ, I was about to get fired. From a job that didn’t even pay me.
My breath hitched in my throat. “Me, too. Actually.” The words just shot out—to avoid or at the very least delay that outcome. “About the Post . And me.” Reaching the massive doors leading outside, I dared a glance at the man beside me when he held one open for me.
His blond hair. The small, crooked mouth. Brown eyes, perfectly curved nose. Round cheeks. At just twenty-six—a year into his English PhD—Edward Smith did not look like a man who was about to crush my dreams.
Those small lips were tilted up. Just slightly, right in the corners. Hard to spot, but valid. Right?
Then again, the rest of his body looked tense. Like he wasn’t quite sure what to do, either.
I began rambling. “I’m sorry for last week. And last year. I think if you gave me another shot—”
Eddie shook his head quickly. That weird tilt of his lips finally developed into a smile.
Maybe he was more sadistic than I thought, and he was actually enjoying this. “Why don’t I start,” he suggested. “I know what you want to say. Trust me, it’ll be unnecessary by the time I’m done.”
Something inside of me shattered. The hope I’d still had left or my heart or whatever plan of the future I’d envisioned over the past years. Everything I’d worked toward, maybe.
All those faked exam results I’d sent my parents. All that lying and deceiving had led me here. Dios , I should’ve stuck with my business degree.
Eddie nodded toward the other end of the park bench he’d sat on, not looking at me. I obliged his request to sit with a racing pulse.
“I’m wondering, Paula.” He began. I think I winced even before he said the next words. “You into sports?”
Huh?
My head shot in his direction, taut expression replaced entirely with confusion.
Was this really the best time to discuss favorite sport teams?
But I decided to go with it for the sake of my maybe-future, regardless. So far, he hadn’t said the words yet.
“Watching? Sure,” I said carefully. “I’m not really the exercising type, though.” Which was when it dawned on me, and oh my God—“Please don’t suggest I join some sports club instead of the Post .”
Apparently, this was where the pleading began. Where else could this conversation be going, if not—
“ What? ”
Or maybe… not?
“I’m not—Why would you—? What?” Eddie asked again, seemingly more confused than I was. “What do you think this is? If I wanted to kick you out, I would’ve done it when you messed up!”
His head shook, like he couldn’t believe the thought would even cross mine. “Your degree is tied to the Post now, Paula. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I couldn’t get rid of you for something that happened last year.” His eyes narrowed, like he’d thought that was obvious, too. “Jesus, is this what you’ve been so worried about?”
The feeling of something untangling at the words—dread falling off my shoulders, relief spreading into every part of me—was so all-consuming, I could only nod.
“Jesus.” Eddie repeated his curse. “No intention of letting you go,” he clarified. “I just… have a project for you.”
Slumping over at the confirmation, I buried my face in my hands. “Fuck!” I groaned, and I did not care that I’d just cursed in front of my superior. “I think I almost had a heart attack, Ed. Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“Do what , exactly?”
I could feel my pulse slow as it returned to its natural rhythm, the cloud of anxiety in my head clearing as I processed his words. “Ominously taking me away from the group. Not telling me where we’re going or what we’re doing. Walking me out of the building. Only—” I interrupted myself with a pained laugh. “Only for you to say—”
No intention of letting you go. I just… have a project for you.
It clicked, then. And I straightened so fast, I think I pulled a muscle on my way up.
“A project?” I knew I wasn’t playing this one cool. I did not even attempt it. “ The project?”
One I could hand in for that extra-curricular grade? The only thing missing for my degree to be safe?
“Yes,” he said.
“The kind that needs research and writing and gets printed eventually?”
Eddie huffed, nodding solemnly. Clearly, he was not excited about the prospect.
Me, on the other hand? I was through the roof without even knowing what he was putting me on. Progress. That was all that mattered.
“Yes,” Eddie repeated. Sighed again. “But I don’t know how much you’ll like it once I tell you—”
“Nonsense!” There was literally nothing in the world I wouldn’t write.
If he wanted me to, I’d write a killer article about this year’s grass growth on campus. And I’d make it interesting. Front-page worthy. I’d talk to landscapers, and the gardening team. Make sure to get accurate quotes. “Of course I’ll be careful with sources. I’ll double check—triple check! The whole shebang. I’ve got it covered.”
“Yeah…” He trailed off. “Listen, Paula. That’s not what I’m concerned about. Sources won’t be a problem with this one. If you think about it, there’ll only be one, really.”
The smile on my face dimmed. Slightly.
“One source?” I asked. “What kind of article only needs one source?”
“Well.” Edward Smith took a deep breath, like he was preparing for something unpleasant. His eyes diverted. “Maybe a couple more, but not many. It’s more of a profile than an article, you know?”
My brow furrowed as I watched him fidget with the zipper of his jacket. “Sounds like a sweet gig to me.” Which was why I couldn’t explain the miserable expression on his face. “Don’t worry. I can do a profile. On who?”
“Henry Pressley.”