Chapter Twenty-Five
The vibe at the office is… weird.
When I first landed the Final Revelations article, there was some tension with a few of the senior staff writers that I’d been the one to get it.
Once the shock wore off, they warmed up.
But today feels like before. I pour myself a cup of coffee in the break room, adding more sugar than I should, and I can feel eyes on me.
Only, when I look up, everyone is engrossed in whatever they’re doing. Unnaturally so.
I try to shake it off, to focus on the excitement of Dax coming home with me for Thanksgiving.
I called my dad on the way in to let him know I was bringing a friend, and after an overlong silence while he processed, he pretended to not be completely surprised that I was blindsiding him by bringing someone home for the first time.
He loves a plan as much as I do, and I know he’s already recalculating his grocery list and menu for Thursday.
I’m thinking about that—and not the way people’s eyes seem to stick to me as I make my way to the conference room for the Monday pitch meeting—when I knock on John’s open office door.
“Morning,” I call.
“Sloane,” he says distractedly, typing away. “Can I steal fifteen minutes on your calendar after the meeting?”
Hope buoys in my chest. It’s finally happening. He’s going to make the offer, bring me on full-time. “I was going to ask you the same.”
“Great,” he says sans his usual enthusiasm, clicking on his computer.
My buoy of hope bobs as a storm of paranoia rolls in.
Before I can ask, he plows on. “Say hi to the new guy when you head into the meeting—Trent. Today’s his first day.
He’s… Well, his dad was way before your time, but he was a fantastic writer, so here’s hoping he’s the second coming of Christopher. ”
My hope sinks to the bottom of the ocean as I nod numbly, turning on my heel and walking to the conference room on autopilot.
What fucking new guy?
I do not greet the new guy. I barely hear a single thing the entire meeting. Every time I blink, I see red. I’ve done everything right and they hire a fucking Trent whose unoriginal pitch gets approved and mine doesn’t, for the third week in a row. I’m gutted.
When I trudge into John’s office afterward, I plop gracelessly into the farty leather chair while I wait for him to finish chatting with Trent in the conference room. Taking my meeting time after taking the job I’ve been busting my ass for is just adding insult to injury.
It’s an effort to stifle my youngest-child petulance, but honestly, my upset is justified. What was the point of me working so fucking hard, for so fucking long, for the job to go to some nepotism hire?
“Sorry, sorry,” John says by way of greeting as he strolls in.
“Okay.” He stares at me for a long moment, as if trying to remember why we’re meeting.
Which, to be fair, I have no idea why I’m bothering anymore.
There’s no way Robb’s departure created enough of a budget to afford two new staff writers.
“Right. I know we already ran your piece through the fact-checkers, but given recent events, I gave it another pass—”
“Wait…” I interrupt, blinking in what feels like slow motion. “What?”
John purses his lips, studying me from across his desk. “The internet?” When I continue to look confused, he sighs heavily. “Oh boy. She doesn’t know,” he tells his ever-present invisible audience. “Okay, let’s backtrack, yeah?”
I nod like, You think? I’d like to backtrack all the way to when and why he decided to hire Trent and not me, but one thing at a time.
“The video you did with Final Revelations… We didn’t catch it before we posted or we would have chosen another take, but, ah, the fans caught that Dax’s arm is around you—” My eyes flutter shut as I’m instantly portaled back to that day, his hand on my back until that final take, where it dipped lower—and into the frame, apparently.
I already know where this is going, and I yank my laptop from my bag. I nearly snap it in half trying to open it, navigating to the video as fast as my fingers can type. John doesn’t say anything more, letting me discover the damage for myself.
pdubz86: i’d give my first interview in eight years, too, if the reporter looked like that
? svpernova: call me crazy but i swear his arm is around her
? jessicuhhh: no it totally is, you can see his hand by her hip
? mrs.revelations: tell her to get away from my man
? sceneXqueen: who tf is she, she has like one (1) other article online, how did some n00b get this
? baddiec0re: ok i did some digging, i think she used to date someone from post humorous? she’s all over their page; check the Punkapalooza 2007 MySpace blog posts
? final_rachelations: check the final revelations YouTube tour vlog from that summer, too, im 100% she’s in the background at the 4:08 mark, next to Dax
? xX__taylorrr: omfg it’s definitely her!!
? metalmami: she could just be a friend y’all, chill
? 0phelia: ha no, i worked merch at punka that year, her and dax were def a thing
? mrs.revelations: SAY IT AINT SO
? sadchad: so we finally get new FR content and… it’s written by a fucking groupie?
? plaguez: what a joke
The happy bubble I’ve been living in pops.
I shut my laptop, not needing to see more. And there’s a lot more. The internet terrifies me. I don’t have a single photo of Dax and me from that summer. And somehow, the internet was still able to link it together, thanks to 0phelia.
“I mention that Dax and I dated in my article,” I say hollowly, knowing it’s useless.
I meet John’s gaze, where he’s studying me from behind his interlaced hands. “Right, which was helpful to get out in front of, but we are now behind,” he finishes with a grimace.
I hold back a swear with effort. “The article’s basically a transcript, so surely it’s still okay?” If this gets pulled, if I have to tell the guys it’s getting pulled—I can’t even think about it. My chest aches.
John nods noncommittally. “Right,” he agrees. “Factually, we’re sound.”
I wait for the but I know is coming. He tugs a manila folder from his bifold, flipping it open and sliding it over to me.
It’s the unedited transcripts I submitted to the fact-checkers weeks ago.
The ones I hoped he’d never read. My stomach sinks as I reach up, flipping through them, John’s red pen in the margins circling and underlining all the things I left out.
“The issue with this coming out now is your integrity is being questioned. People are going to say you went easy on them because of your connection to them, and after looking into it… you did.”
I blink, the red ink of John’s pen still overlaid in my vision.
“We go to print in three days, and to make sure we’re not accused of pulling punches—”
I already know which page he’s thumbing to. Reverie Fest, Dax’s backstory about his family, how his parents surprised him by showing up and it sent him into a spiral. The backstory I chose to omit at the last minute. “No,” I say automatically.
John freezes as if I’d slapped him, his brows rising slowly. “No?”
“I’m not adding anything back. They wouldn’t want it in there.”
“It’s on the record, Sloane. If they didn’t want it used, they shouldn’t have said it.”
I shake my head. “The internet can say what they want about me. They’re not owed every detail of Dax’s life—or any of the guys’ lives.
Reverie Fest has been discussed enough. It’s tired.
There’s no integrity in forcing Dax to self-flagellate for the masses.
Including that, catering to the lowest common denominator—” I take a steadying breath, forcing my voice to stay level.
“That would be compromising my integrity. It’s a good article.
You agreed until this morning. So no, I’m not changing it.
And I know you have final say, but if you include that… take my name off it.”
I didn’t mean for it to come out so heated, but fuck it, I am heated. All this work to find my voice again, to get this article right, and I’m being Mike Song-ed. I wish Robb were here.
“I have an offer,” I say abruptly, nothing left to lose at this point. “You said to tell you—if I got one.”
John blinks, drawing the manila folder back to himself and closing it. “Who from?”
“Rolling Stone.” I fish blindly around in my bag for the offer, to lay out the specs of what I’d like AP to match.
I promised Dax I’d talk to John about this, and while the timing couldn’t be worse, I don’t think timing is my biggest problem right now.
My chances were slim before this meeting, but after telling John no…
I don’t allow myself to hope. I just need an answer, a plan, some semblance of security.
John huffs. “I knew Robb would try to poach you.”
Wrenching the top of my bag all the way open, I realize my bag is empty save for my laptop charger and my keys.
I dumped my bag on the counter this morning.
I dumped my offer from Rolling Stone on the counter this morning.
I dumped my offer from Rolling Stone that my boyfriend doesn’t know about, my boyfriend who is incredibly clean and will likely clean up my mess for me and see the offer that would put us on opposite sides of the country once again.
Fuck.
“I need to go,” I blurt.
I barely register John’s comically bewildered face as I bolt out of his office, shoving my laptop into my bag as I speed walk to the parking lot as fast as I can without running.
I circle my block twice looking for parking, cursing when the only available spot is too small because the other cars are parked like assholes. I find a spot a few blocks away, hands shaking as I half walk, half run to my apartment.
By the time I scale the steps to my door, I’m a panicked, sweaty mess under my winter layers. I fling the door open, my hope hanging by a thread that he didn’t clean up my mess, that the chaos on the kitchen counter is still there.