Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Oh em gee, the most amazing thing happened!” squeals Ronnie, flinging open the door to our dorm room.
I just groan and roll over under my blankets.
I should get up and show interest in whatever happened to her, but I’m pretty sure I’m sick.
My entire body feels heavy and achy, and my eyes won’t stop watering.
I didn’t go down to breakfast this morning because I don’t want to infect anyone in case it’s contagious. I’m not even hungry anyway.
“Oh no! Honey, what’s wrong?” Ronnie rushes over to my bedside and puts her hand on my forehead. “Are you not feeling okay? Your not-boyfriends brought you home like this?”
“I didn’t go over to their house.” It’s a lot of pressure looking Ronnie in the eye, so I look past her shoulder to the TV, where I’ve found the space show the guys and I have been watching at our movie nights.
Now that I’m actually paying more attention to it, it’s not that bad.
It’s actually kind of comforting to have it on, even though it also hurts to remember that time with them.
“I thought they were picking you up,” says Ronnie, confused. “They were texting you when I left yesterday.”
“They were, but I didn’t go over.” I roll away from her, not wanting to talk about it. Ronnie was so hoping I would make them my real boyfriends, and I don’t want to see her look of disappointment when I tell her we’re done.
Ronnie sits back on her heels, aghast.
“Did they break up with you? I’ll kill them.” She looks around the room as if she’ll find a battleaxe in the corner to run off to bash in the guys’ front door with.
“You can’t dump someone you’re not dating.” Another tear drips down my cheek. I hate that I miss them and I hate being weak in front of my friend. This was the right choice for me. This was a clean break and we’re all going to be better for it in the end.
“Those assholes!” Ronnie stands and starts pacing the little floorspace we have, radiating rage and looking like she wants to hit something.
“They’re not assholes. They’re good guys.” For now, anyway. I don’t want to stick around and watch them change into assholes like they inevitably will, like all men do.
“No, they’re not,” she spits out. “Not if this is the way they’re treating you. They fucked you and left you, that makes them assholes.”
My phone vibrates on the nightstand with an incoming message.
“Is that them?” Ronnie grabs for my phone, but even sick, I’m able to get to it faster than she can.
“I blocked their numbers,” I say in a small voice as I turn over my phone. It’s Mom. My dad apparently didn’t come home last night. I click the phone off and stick it under my pillow, not able to deal with her drama right now.
“Good for you.” Ronnie still looks pissed, but like she’s trying to overcome it when she kneels down at my side again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you last night. You should have called me.”
“I didn’t want to ruin your good time.” And I wanted to be left alone. I need to be okay with being along if I’m going to buckle down and see my goals to fruition.
“I’m not having a good time if you’re at home crying.” She shucks off her shoes and then lifts the covers, forcing me to scoot over as she climbs into my bed.
“No,” I protest, “I’m sick, I might be contagious.”
She looks down at me with a mixture of pity and vague amusement. “Sweetie, you’re not sick, you’re heartbroken. Now, what is this terrible show that we’re watching?”
I’m not heartbroken, because I’m the one who cut things off with them, not the other way around.
Besides, I can’t be heartbroken over the end of something that wasn’t even a relationship.
But I know I won’t be able to convince her of that, and if she wants to risk getting sick, that’s her choice.
I warned her. “It’s about a bunch of people living on a spaceship,” I mumble, curling up next to Ronnie.
I can practice being alone later. Right now, it’s nice to have her snuggled up next to me.
“It sounds dumb. So catch me up. What’s everyone’s name?”
It’s been two weeks, and my brain still feels fuzzy and out of sorts. Could the guys have changed my brain chemistry when they fucked me so I’m no longer my focused, career-driven self? I shouldn’t miss them this much. I barely know them. It’s only been a few weeks.
My journalism professor praised my last speedcubing article, saying it’s the type of human interest-meets-sports story that more newspapers should be running.
I should be glowing from his words, but all I could do was force a smile and thank him. This is not like me. I need to reassert myself into my own life. Even if it’s super hard to actually care about any of it right now, I’m still saving myself from a lifetime of heartache.
Although it doesn’t help that the ICF World Championships are coming up this week, and I can’t stop watching the promo videos. Ronnie slaps my phone out of my hand every time she catches me, and has even threatened to take it away so I don’t have to see “those assholes.”
At least my professor’s praise kicked my ass into gear long enough for me to send his note and the article to Carl.
If my professor thinks more newspapers should be running articles like mine, then I might as well start at the one I’m interning at.
Besides, I need to move my focus from my not-boyfriends back to my career, where it belongs.
It’s weird coming into the newspaper on Sunday afternoons from my dorm instead of from the guys’ house, without my overnight bag. My purse looks lonely and small tucked down under my desk by itself.
As I log in on the computer to check for any emails, I glance across the bullpen to Carl’s office. The door is open, and I can hear his regular bursts of laughter as he sits in there talking to Brad.
No emails. Not surprising.
I cast another glance at Carl’s office. I want to swoop in there as soon as Brad leaves and ask what he thinks of the article I emailed him on Friday. It’s been long enough that he should have had plenty of time to read it.
Resetting the break room takes very little time.
All of these little tasks I can do with very little brainpower, and I keep peeking out the door to check on Carl’s office.
I don’t want to miss an opportunity before he gets sucked into another meeting.
Although from the sound of his laughter, he doesn’t appear to actually be working in there.
But he’s the boss, so he can do whatever he wants, I guess.
Since no one is around and I’m waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, I pull out my phone and check to see if ICF has put out any new promos.
There’s a new video featuring Sebastian. It’s not even a choice. My finger clicks on it automatically. It’s not even a choice.
“The best advice I could give to someone who wants to solve a cube is simply to decide what they want all of the colors to be on each side, and then break it down step by step to get there,” he says.
“You just have to follow those easy steps, or layers, then you’ll have solved the cube. It’s not hard.”
A sound escapes me that’s half laugh, half sob.
Of course he sees it so simply. Just decide you want to do it, and then do it.
All there is to it. But the thing is, he’s not wrong.
I mean, he’s wrong about just anyone being able to solve a cube so easily; your brain has to be wired a certain way for that, I think.
But in a broad sense, he’s right. If I want something in life, like a successful career in journalism, I just need to decide what steps it takes and then follow them. No deviation.
Ignoring the brewing coffee, I march up to Carl’s office. I can’t keep waiting around for my boss to notice me. I need to take things into my own hands.
Before I have a chance to knock, I freeze.
“And then she says, speedcubing is about found family and that’s one of the most important things in life,” says Carl, choking out the words through fits of laughter.
“It’s like she has no idea what’s really going on in the world,” agrees Brad, shaking his head and matching Carl laugh for laugh. “Has she ever read a newspaper?”
“She thinks it’s a fucking sport!” Carl laughs even louder. They can probably hear him on the other side of the bullpen.
They’re obviously talking about me. About my article. Did he share it with Brad? He couldn’t be bothered to reply to me about it, but he can forward it to that asshole for a laugh?
The door swings open in front of me, and it takes me a moment to realize I’ve pushed it open. I didn’t even realize my hand had reached out.
“Fuck, Rebecca, get in here,” says Carl, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. “I didn’t think you had a joke like this in you.”
Flames of rage lick at my skin. “It’s not a joke,” I grit out.
“Come on, you can’t be serious. This is a real newspaper. You can’t expect us to run a fluff piece like that.” Carl waves his hand toward the computer screen, where my article is pulled up.
“I’m completely serious,” I tell him, my nails digging into my palms. I can’t believe I’m standing here having this conversation.
I knew it was a long shot that he’d actually run the article, as much as he dislikes me, but I hoped he’d at least give me some real feedback.
I never once thought he would take it as a joke.
Or make fun of me to my face in front of a coworker. Especially one as awful as Brad.
“And to think she slept with them to get that story,” Brad sneers, looking at me as if I’m as big a joke as he apparently thinks the article is.
“Oh, now, wait a minute,” says Carl, sitting up straighter in his chair and getting serious. “Did you sleep with these speedcubers to get this story, young lady?”
I freeze, my brain refusing to provide me with the words to deny it. “I. Uh. I didn’t—” The guys did help with the story, and I was fooling around with them, but the two things have nothing to do with one another. But how do I explain that to my boss? Why should I have to explain that to him?
All traces of amusement have disappeared from Carl’s face. “That is a violation of ethics, Rebecca. You say you want to be a reporter? Well, reporters don’t trade sex for information. You’re fired. Clean out your desk and leave. Now.”
“Not much of a loss there,” says Brad, crossing one ankle over his knee and leaning back to look at me. “She’s a shit writer anyway. Way too many emotions. And she never fills the creamer basket enough.”
Too many emotions? A shit writer? I want to punch Brad in the face. But I have approximately half a second before my tears spill over, so I do the cowardly thing and run away.
I yank my purse out from under my desk and weave blindly through the bullpen to the stairs.
No way am I going to stand there and wait for the elevator.
Everyone overheard what just happened, and if they somehow missed it, it won’t be long before they know.
Carl wasn’t trying to be quiet about the fact that he was making fun of me before, and he’s not going to be quiet about the fact that I’ve been fired and why.
I’m sure Brad, his lecherous little yes-man, will help him spread the word all over the paper.
At least I have confirmation that Brad definitely saw me kissing the guys goodbye in the parking lot the first time they dropped me off. Yet another way men can ruin my life. I’ll just add it to the list.
Now I have to embarrass myself even more, sitting here waiting for the next bus, trying not to cry in front of strangers on the street.
Even worse, though, is that being fired means no more internship, and likely no work-study credit.
Even if it doesn’t end up as a failing grade, I’ve planned out the credit hours I need each semester to graduate, and if I don’t get these hours I’ll have to cram them in somewhere else down the road.
I’d sent Carl that article because my professor thought it was good, that it was worth it, and it just cost me my future.
Now I’ll have a ruined GPA, have to find another internship and maybe take an extra semester to do it, and that recommendation letter I was hoping to have from a Pulitzer Prize winner is clearly out the window.
How am I going to land another internship?
Even if this doesn’t get shared around the newspaper community right away, any paper I apply to will want to call Carl for a reference, and pretty soon every editor in Boston will think I slept with my sources to get an inside scoop.
By the time I make it back to my dorm, I feel even more mentally drained than I have in the past two weeks since blocking the guys’ numbers. I just want to crash out on my bed and pretend I never took the risk.
As soon as I open the door though, I scream and my hand flies up to cover my eyes. I was not prepared to walk in to the sight of my roommate splayed out naked on her bed with a toy between her thighs.