Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“What’s in the box?” Shay squealed on FaceTime the next morning.
Brinton’s phone was propped against a coffee mug on the guest house kitchen’s gray marble counter. Next to it, there was an expensive-looking lavender package, crowned with a huge iridescent bow.
Earlier, Brinton had discovered it on the doorstep. It was almost too gorgeous to open.
“What’s in the box?” Shay repeated, louder now and dragging out her vowels for effect.
In her own office at the clinic, she bounced in a furry fuchsia swing chair.
The tiny but joyful space was decorated completely in “pussy-pleasing” shades of pink, from the pinstripe wallpaper behind her to the custom Lucite desk, where she gleefully rested her elbows.
“Did you watch Seven again last night?” Brinton laughed at the inevitable. Nobody should be simultaneously so well-adjusted and unhinged, but that was Shay to a T.
“You know grisly crime thrillers make me sleep like a baby,” Shay cooed. She looked like a living, breathing Warhol painting in her peony denim jumpsuit and signature strawberry lipstick.
“Now, answer the damn question.”
“It ain’t Gwyneth Paltrow’s head.”
Shay cast a wicked smile. “Of course, that would be horrible.” She paused. “Is it Agatha’s? I’ll pretend to act shocked.”
Agatha was a more senior music writer at Landmark, despite only being there for a year.
In fact, Brinton had helped onboard her.
Back then, before the knives came out, they were cordial.
They even ate lunch together a few times in the break room.
That was, until Agatha picked up a nasty habit of saddling Brinton with tedious research and fact-checking that she couldn’t be bothered to do herself.
Agatha also claimed it as her own whenever Rich asked.
Brinton rolled her eyes, desperate to shuck off the Agatha-shaped albatross slung around her shoulders. “Look, there’s a card.”
Carefully, Brinton slid open the thick lavender envelope with a butterknife.
“‘Bee, thank you for seeing me for more than the headlines. Hope we can put some miles on this one together. Yours, Jamie.’”
Yours.
The word melted into her subconscious. After the whirlwind of last night, her first in Iris, “yours” had taken on new meaning. His secret was certainly hers now, as unsettling as it was.
Shay shrieked, ripping Brinton from her Escherian mental maze. “Bee? He gave you a nickname? Okay, Lake Bae.”
Brinton had filled Shay in on her eventful evening but purposely left out the endearing—and jeez, sexy—nickname. She was hoping to avoid this exact conversation.
“He was being nice. It’s not that serious,” Brinton said, failing to snuff out her smile. Wasn’t it serious though? The man put in a hell of a lot of effort. Effort that overwhelmed her with gratitude as much as it made her head spin.
Brinton gently peeled the wrapping paper from its matching box. Inside, there was a brand-new, high-end voice recorder with twenty different buttons, cloud-based storage, and Bluetooth features.
She gasped. “I have to give this back. It’s way too much.” Her last recorder was a budget find that met her requirements: it had an on button, off button, and complimentary next-day shipping.
Shay’s eyes widened in disbelief. It was the same look their mother had when someone said they didn’t like Tyler Perry’s movies.
“You will not. You will march your cute little ass to his house and thank him. And while you’re at it, tell him that yes, you’ll avenge his daddy’s misdeeds.”
“I told you, I’m not doing it,” Brinton answered.
“You told me that you’d think about it,” Shay volleyed back.
“Well, I thought about it. I’ll pick a new angle…Influences on his new album or something.”
“Wow, that’s so…uncharacteristically mid-tier. That’s not a world-class exclusive, and you know it.”
Brinton tugged her black mock-neck top’s snug collar. She hated the idea too. Unfortunately, in five minutes, she was due to give a status update during her daily editorial meeting with the team in New York. She was as excited for it as an unmedicated root canal.
“I mean, it’s fine.”
Her frown betrayed how fine she was.
Shay crossed her arms, wading through the ruse.
“Oh, really? You don’t seem fine. You seem kinda sad.
In fact, you seem like you’re throwing away your chance to dunk on those schmucks.
Temu-Hunter-S.-Thompson-looking-asses. And, wouldn’t it be nice to legitimately help Jamie?
He’s shown nothing but trustworthiness.”
She rolled her eyes and held up a preemptive hand. “Well, except for the lying about his entire career thing, but you know what I mean.”
This was true. Jamie had made good on his promise and emailed contacts for the people she’d spoken to at the party whose interviews were lost in the lake. Brinton had already arranged new phone interviews with everyone that afternoon.
“So, what are you going to do?”
Brinton sighed. Jamie’s mea culpa had gotten him off her shit list, but what he wanted from her demanded too heavy a toll. She could lose everything she had ever worked for.
“I gotta jump for a call.”
“Let me know how it goes.” Shay’s frown lifted. “I also want a play-by-play if, along with that recorder, Jamie lets you put some miles on his—”
“Shay,” Brinton hissed through a defiant smile.
Once they exchanged good-byes, Brinton lumbered to the long wooden dining table. She slumped into a chair with exactly enough time to fluff her braids and pick egg-and-spinach frittata from her teeth in her laptop’s camera.
Landmark was an institution of excellence with an illustrious fifty-six-year history.
It was also a hypercompetitive shitshow that made Fight Club look like Sesame Street.
The staff writers who sold their ideas—and themselves—best in the daily editorial meeting were published in the prestigious monthly print issue.
This left everyone else to jockey for daily bylines, considered secondary, on the website.
Brinton clicked into the video call, her smile stretched to The Joker–esque proportions. It matched her disillusion.
“Hey, everyone, happy Tuesday.”
The whole team, about twelve reporters in all, stared back at her blankly from the long conference table. Waiting for her to stop taking up space.
Their constant jokes about her Grammys fiasco made going to work an infinite loop of abuse and alienation. She felt unmoored, forever questioning if it was her fault that she seemed at once so easy to pass over and ridicule when she made a mistake.
Before every editorial meeting, each of Brinton’s muscles seized and stayed that way until she left Landmark’s offices.
She felt the same pang now, even a thousand miles away.
“Brinton, I decided to take reviewing Megan Thee Stallion’s new album off your hands this week, since you’re already on assignment,” Agatha said, casually smoothing her platinum bob. She offered a doll-like smile.
“But since Megan is, you know…a Black woman—is that still the PC term?” She paused, then rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I don’t want to be—well, I know how sensitive you are about these…things.”
Brinton winced as Agatha pursed her lips.
She had resorted to these subtle digs ever since Brinton had complained to Rich about her dumping her grunt work and calling it “collaboration.” At the time, Rich reasoned that Brinton should pat herself on the back.
A senior staffer had requested her input, because Brinton was so “dialed into the culture.”
“Yeah, I think Megan Thee Stallion would prefer to be called a Black woman,” Brinton said slowly. She was trying to discern if this conversation was real or a Tennessee humidity–induced fever dream.
“Great! I’d also love to leverage your expertise as a sensitivity reader.”
What Agatha meant was that Brinton, without byline credit, would do all the nuanced “cultural reporting” for her.
Because, once again, Brinton was the Black-spert.
Agatha had already started clacking on her laptop. “So, can you review by EOD?”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Rich beamed. “Brinton, you’re the best at finding problems no one else notices.”
Brinton picked at her cuticles, the fresh sting ringing as loudly as her incredulity. She felt backed into a corner when she needed to project confidence. She just wanted to move on to her pitch and get the hell off this conference call.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Brinton said.
Triumphant, Agatha’s smile returned. “You’re the best.”
“All right, enough stalling—let’s get into pitch.” Rich yawned. “Brinton, whatcha got on the Crawford piece?”
“I’m thinking of a legacy piece,” she said evenly.
“With the new album coming out, I’ll make connections sonically to his blue-ribbon history.
Obviously his father, but also his godparents—Garth Brooks and Shania Twain?
I’m sure I can sit in on some listening sessions.
Plus, I’ve been in touch with people who grew up with him and know him best, so it’ll be an intimate character piece too. ”
She hoped it was adequate enough to secure the respect she’d coveted—no, that she had earned. Steadily, she had built her self-worth on a job that had produced diminishing returns. Brinton regretted this, but she was desperate to be defined by more than her anxiety.
Unfortunately, the room fell silent, quiet enough that Brinton could hear Agatha’s nails clicking on her phone screen.
Rich pinched the bridge of his nose. “Brinton,” he started, carefully drawing out the sharpest blade from its sheath. “I didn’t send you to Iris for an intimate character piece. I sent you there for something that would sell copies and drive clicks to the website. Juicy, remember?”
“I know, Rich, but this is better than juicy. This is a generational look at a man poised to redefine country music.”
“It’s dry as fuck,” Agatha squawked into her steepled fingers.
Laughter rippled through Brinton’s laptop speakers. Her cheeks grew hot. Nervous stress made her top cling to her lower back.
“I could absolutely turn Crawford out,” Agatha continued, licking her lips. “Journalistically, of course.” She winked into the camera.
Brinton fantasized about rearranging Agatha’s smug face like a Picasso.
“I think he’s all hype,” Agatha added listlessly. “Nothing inside that sun-kissed head of his. No real purpose. That’s the story. A Nepo Baby Prince hand-delivered a kingdom.”
“Can’t say I disagree.” Rich laughed.
Agatha typed on her laptop. A ding rang out. Rich looked down at his screen, smiled, and nodded to her.
Panic, sharp and acidic, flooded Brinton’s stomach, but she couldn’t let Agatha win. “Rich, I got this,” she choked out. “What I’ve shared is only a start. You’re going to love it.”
“Doubtful,” Agatha cooed.
Brinton grimaced.
Rich’s expression shifted between skepticism and boredom. “Yeah, it’s a pass for me. But Agatha, send me over a full pitch. It never hurts to have a backup in case…”
Not only did Brinton need this opportunity, but now she knew, in detail, the magazine wasn’t only out for her blood. Jamie was as much of a target to be exploited. Especially if Agatha sank her Gel-X claws into him.
Initially, Brinton had turned Jamie down because she was afraid to break a story so controversial she’d be exposed to more backlash than with the Grammys. She was also afraid that somehow, she couldn’t execute in the way Jamie needed. He’d resent her for it.
But nobody at Landmark would handle Jamie’s truth with dignity. And Shay was right. So far, Jamie had been nothing but kind to her. Brinton wanted to extend that same kindness. He was an unlikely friend in a sea of sharks.
“I’m working on something else,” Brinton put in, already piecing together a fail-safe plan to get her cover story and help Jamie. “I can update you soon.”
“I know you will,” Rich said, not bothering to mask his sneer. “Or I’m reassigning this story.”