Chapter 3 Lucy
Lucy
The sliver of sun peeking through my drapes hits me directly in my left eye, waking me up. On my bedside table are two unused vibrators, and I groan remembering my deadline. I reach for my phone under my pillow and check my missed messages.
There’s one from my mom.
Good morning! What are you doing later this month? We just booked a cruise to Hawaii. Come!
A missed text from Chris.
2:56 a.m.
How’s it going
Then I remember Dylan, my date from the other night, also messaged me.
9:07 p.m.
Hey! I had a great time the other night. I’d love to see you again this weekend if you’re free.
I stare at the screen not sure what to tackle first. Going back to my mom’s message, I press on her name and bring my phone to my ear. It takes only two rings before I hear her voice on the other end.
“Good morning!” she sings. It’s not even nine a.m. and she has the energy of a four-year-old.
“Another cruise?” I yawn.
My entire life, my parents never went anywhere for vacation.
The most we ever did was a drive up to Sacramento or Vegas to visit family.
They’ve also been, in the most respectful way possible, cheap as fuck.
Never have they splurged on anything. They’ve lived in the same house for the past thirty-five years, and their couch was older than me until I convinced them to buy a new one in college.
They’ve also never gone on date nights anywhere other than Olive Garden, even though the LA culinary scene is less than an hour away.
But since they retired four years ago, all that has completely changed.
When my mom emigrated from the Philippines, she got a government job at the California Department of Public Health.
That’s where she met my dad, and the two of them worked there for forty years.
Turns out, their pensions combined were the equivalent of winning the Powerball.
“There was a good deal!” she says defensively. “It’s a Hawaiian cruise, twelve days!”
“Twelve days?!” I laugh. “What makes you think I can take off work for twelve days? Or that I can afford a cruise.”
“You’re making good money,” she says like I’ve ever disclosed how much I make. “You’re a big-shot writer now.”
“Not sure where you’re getting your information from. I haven’t gotten a raise in the almost four years I’ve worked at The Rue.”
“Then get another job,” she suggests.
“Great, I’ll just go ahead and do that.”
“You have a good résumé!”
“Okay, anyway.” I change the subject because we’ve had this conversation way too many times. She doesn’t quite grasp how rare it is to be fully staffed at a publication, especially a place as established as The Rue. “When are you leaving?” I ask.
“At the end of the month,” she says. “Come, Luce, we’re going to celebrate our anniversary.”
A familiar tightness is triggered in my chest.
“Oh,” I say passively. “Well, that’ll be fun.”
“Your dad booked a spa day for the both of us too,” my mom says, her excitement undeniable.
There’s something about my parents’ relationship that makes me feel…sad. When I look at the two of them, I can’t help but see a facade, something broken that’s been patched up with irrevocable cracks.
It was one thing for us to pretend like we’re one big happy family when I was a teenager.
It’s almost more depressing that years after I’ve moved out, they continue to put on this display of affection.
I want to tell them to end the charade, that they’re only fooling themselves, but it’s been too long to resurface old wounds.
“That’s great,” I manage. “Work’s pretty busy, I don’t think I have time to drive up there and see you beforehand.”
“That’s okay, we’ll see you when we get back,” my mom says. “I love you. Have a good weekend.”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to be happy for them. “You too.”
I push past the residual feelings I usually have after talking to my mom and try to not grow more and more despondent.
The next couple of hours I focus and send Eman my article with a pretty solid vibrator ranking—I would even put money on it.
My next story is the one about my new relationship.
As frustrated as I am, I try to see this as an opportunity.
If I’m able to show Eman, and her boss, and her boss’s boss that I’m capable of writing for a broader audience, all the while bringing in new clicks and engagement to the column, it’s the perfect case study.
If I can pull this off before the quarter is over, I have no doubt my job will be safe from layoffs.
In fact, there should be absolutely no reason why I wouldn’t be able to get a promotion. A promotion I deserve.
The only missing piece is if I’m going to write about my own personal relationship, as Eman blatantly made clear…
I kind of need to be in one. I could easily conjure up some bullshit stories, but that’s not the kind of writer I am.
Making up advice for my committed readers goes against my journalistic integrities.
Yes, I still have those…at least I try to, given the circumstances.
Fired up, I scroll through my preferred dating app and spend ten minutes aggressively swiping on what I think are good contenders to date for the next month.
Already tired at the effort it would take to meet someone new, I look at all the people I’ve previously matched with.
Maybe it would be easier to rekindle something with someone I’ve already gotten to know.
Josh was a private gym trainer who only wanted to work out together and talk about fitness goals.
Cam worked in finance and revealed thirty minutes into our date his polarizing political views.
Ezra gave literally the worst oral I’ve ever experienced in my entire life.
It sounded like a thirsty dog lapping a bowl of water on a hot day.
Dylan from the other night was super sweet but there was no spark. There’s never a spark.
By Sunday I’m defeated, and teetering toward desperate at my lack of options. It’s not that I’m picky, but if I’m going to be spending my days and nights with the same person for the next while, I want it to be someone I’m actually excited to spend time with.
Giving my brain a tiny break, I open The Rue’s internal assignment board.
I not only get to see story ideas up for grabs, I also get to see bylines and profiles for The Journal and all its sub-publications.
Mostly, I keep up with these headlines to stay up-to-date on The Journal’s voice and what we deem an important story.
As I go down The Journal’s list, I see headlines like “Airline Fined $50 Million for Treatment of Disabled Passengers,” “What Is Nighttime Depression?,” and “The Dance Trend That Comes with a Warning Label.” There’s a story about advertising technology sitting under In Progress with a name next to it:
Oakley, Marshall (Senior News Reporter)
I stare at the words in front of me as if they’re in a language I don’t understand. Reading them repeatedly. The words Marshall and News Reporter feel like a water balloon being dropped into the pit of my stomach, exploding.
I’m confused. I’m thoroughly confused.
Marsh, the charming, sophisticated, handsome, funny guy I got to know on Friday night doesn’t work at The Journal. I know who works at The Journal. I would’ve at least recognized him.
“What the hell?” I mutter out loud.
I refresh my Google search from the Cleo’s website, and I furiously type Marshall Oakley.
Quite literally pages upon pages of bylines from some of the most respected publications pop up along with a headshot that confirms this is the Marsh I met the other night.
My eyes can’t scan the headlines fast enough.
“Trade War Rattles Investigators,” “AI Is Transforming the Global Economy—and Humans Are Letting It,” “Which Universities Are Choosing to Stay Neutral on These U.S. Issues,” “What We Know About Covid-19 Vaccines,” “Is the Country Ready for a Female President?”
I read one story. Then another, then another, and then another. I’m transfixed by the groundbreaking topics he’s covered, his impeccable writing skills, and what he’s done for news over the course of his career. Marshall Oakley is an unbelievable writer.
Almost two hours have passed, and I’m still seated in the same spot at my kitchen table.
Leg asleep, mouth dry, and fully immersed in Marsh’s body of work.
My mind is reeling because I’m in awe of this man.
Not only do I want to ask him a million questions to get to know him better, I want to learn from him.
What’s his writing approach? How did he get started in the industry?
What advice does he have to give? I feel almost self-conscious about how brazen our conversation was.
Then I think about the Marsh from Gold Line.
I remember his warm complexion, brown hair, and thick tortoiseshell glasses.
How there’s a slight crinkle around his eyes when he smiles and a dimple on his left cheek when he laughs.
His tall frame towered over me, yet he carried himself with confidence and respect for my space.
Marsh isn’t like most men I spend my time with.
For starters, he’s incredibly intelligent and sharp and doesn’t feel the need to remind me that he is.
He’s also refreshingly handsome and seems almost unaware of it; there’s an inkling of self-doubt he has that men who know they’re attractive don’t possess.
His appeal is the same way you’d find a professor attractive.
Or your doctor whom you see once a year and wonder just how someone so good-looking can also be so intelligent.
Marsh is also someone who isn’t all talk. Yes, he said he doesn’t want anything serious, but his actions speak louder than his words. He’s purposely not finding a date for this wedding because he doesn’t want to lead anyone on. I find that admirable.
I grab my phone and go to my recent call history. Jonah’s number is directly below my mom’s, and my thumb taps my screen.
“Hello?” he says.
“Hey!” I let out a breath of relief. “Sorry, I know you’re still in Vegas. Do you have a second?”
“I can talk for a sec,” Jonah says. “But I am naked.”
“Wh—” I stop. “Why?”
“I’m leaving for the venue soon. I’m changing.”
“Okay.” I push past the mental image of Jonah naked. “Have you heard of Marshall Oakley?”
“Is he that country singer that got canceled?”
“He’s apparently a news reporter?” I say. Jonah has, without doubt, all the latest work gossip. “I met him at Gold Line after you left.”
“Ohhh, okay, makes sense.”
“So, you know him?”
“No,” Jonah says. “I haven’t met him, but I heard that Jay’s replacement was going to be at his going-away party on Friday night. I guess that’s him. Why?”
My stomach twists again.
“Long story short, he’s a really good writer. Like really fucking good…and he’s hot. I’m just so confused.”
“Hot writers do exist, Lucy,” Jonah says. “I’m a prime example.”
“It’s just so weird, right?” I home in. “Like we kind of hit it off the other night and now I find out we practically work together? Like what does that mean?”
“It means that you were both at a work event,” Jonah says. “Shit, I’ve gotta go, Luce. I’ll text you, okay?”
“Yes, no rush.” I shake my head. “Thank you so much, good luck!”
I stare at my other open tab where Marsh’s name is displayed and then back to my blank document for my next relationship article. My leg begins to vigorously bob up and down as I decide what to do with this information.
The idea of spending time with Marshall Oakley feels oddly exciting. Like this is a person who gets me and can challenge me. That’s a refreshing feeling.
Then, I remember something that he said on Friday night.
Something I completely dismissed but is now starting to make a lot more sense: You clearly have a strong opinion about it, and if you need to write about relationships then why not write about the real side of it: the messy side. Why you shouldn’t be in a relationship.
I pull up Marsh’s name on my phone again. I type and delete, type and delete. Maybe this is crazy, or stupid, or unprofessional, all those details I can figure out later. The thing about journalism is it happens fast. You have to use your gut instincts and trust your intuition.
Finally, I hit send.
Lucy:
Do you still need a date for that wedding?