Chapter 31 Karma Is My Ex-Boyfriend
Karma Is My Ex-Boyfriend
SYDNEY
It’s Monday morning, and the familiar squeaky hiss of the station doors welcomes me back to Dickens like nothing’s changed.
Except everything has. My mind is still half-trapped in LA’s smoggy embrace—the concrete sprawl, the traffic nightmare, the job offer that could change everything.
KSLA. A real sports desk. The big leagues.
I’m supposed to give them my answer today, except I still don’t have one. Actually, I probably do, but I’m in avoidance. I also landed an interview at a great network in Boise. So I have a lot to consider, and it’s a very bad day for Zoe to have off.
But today, I have a sportscast I have to give, so I adjust my blazer and make my way to the newsroom that greets me with its typical chaos—keyboards clacking, phones ringing, the coffee machine gurgling like it’s on life support. Home sweet home.
The first sign something’s wrong comes when Kimberly from Accounting sees me and immediately develops an intense fascination with her shoe. Then Derek, our sound guy who normally high-fives me every morning, suddenly needs to check equipment in the opposite direction. Weird.
“Hey, Priya,” I say to our receptionist, who at least has the professional obligation to acknowledge my existence. “How’s it going?”
Her smile is tighter than Jonah’s skinny jeans from college. “Oh, Sydney! You’re... back.”
“Yes. Glad to be here.” I try to sound casual while mentally inventorying what catastrophe I might have missed. Did I accidentally send everyone a drunk text? Did my car get towed and block the station van? Did someone die?
“How was LA?” Her eyes dart toward Marcus’s office, then back to me with something that looks disturbingly like pity.
So she knows. It clicks in my brain—Donny Dexter and my drunken admission to Zoe.
Oh, fuck.
“It was...” I search for words as my brain short circuits—Batman fighting Superman, smog-hazed palm trees, and a job offer I still don’t know if I want. “Different.”
I make my way to my desk, increasingly aware of the heavy silence that follows me. Conversations stop mid-sentence as I pass. Heads duck behind monitors. It’s like I’ve grown a second head.
This is bad, very bad. Dickhead Donny, what did you do?
My desk looks untouched, exactly as I left it four days ago—organized chaos with sports charts, sports statistics, and my “Keep Calm and Report On” mug that Zoe got me as a gag gift.
I drop my bag and begin checking my emails, trying to ignore the prickling sensation between my shoulder blades—the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
That’s when I spot Donny across the newsroom, leaning against the water cooler, sporting a smug smile. He catches my eye and gives me a little finger wave that makes my stomach drop.
I’m toast.
“Sydney.” Marcus’s voice slices through the room, halting the whispers and stares. Our station manager rarely raises his voice—he doesn’t need to. When Marcus speaks, people listen. “My office. Now.”
The finality in his tone sends a chill down my spine. This definitely isn’t “let’s chat about that great segment you did” Marcus. This is “the network lawyers are on line one” Marcus.
I stand on legs that suddenly feel like cardboard, painfully aware of every eye in the room tracking my journey to the metaphorical gallows. Each step across the newsroom floor feels like walking in cement shoes.
Marcus’s office—the place where he first told me I had potential, where we brainstormed my transition from weather to sports, where he defended me when the old-guard viewers complained about “the blond reading scores she doesn’t understand.
” Now, the same space feels alien, hostile, as he closes the door behind us with a decisive click.
“Take a seat.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk. His voice is flat, scrubbed of its usual warm charm.
I perch on the edge, not trusting myself to lean back. My fingers find each other in my lap, twisting and untwisting like nervous snakes.
“How was Los Angeles?” Marcus skips the small talk.
“Interesting,” I say cautiously. “Different from Dickens.”
“I imagine so.” He shuffles some papers on his desk, not meeting my eyes. “So they offered you a job.”
My heart rate doubles. “How did you—”
“It’s a small industry, Sydney. Word gets around.” Now he looks up, his expression unreadable. “Especially when a weather girl from Dickens suddenly interviewed at KSLA.”
Weather girl. Not weather reporter. Not sportscaster. The deliberate diminishment stings, but I push past it.
“I was going to tell you,” I say, which is mostly true. I would have told him... eventually. Once I figured out what I wanted. “It was all very last minute.”
“I’m sure it was.” Marcus leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m a disappointing weather system. “We’ve changed our minds about the sportscaster position.”
Here it comes. My fingers freeze mid-twist.
“Oh?” I manage, my throat bone-dry.
“We’re giving it to Donny.”
I knew it was coming, but the words still hit me like a physical blow. Dickhead Donny. The same guy who squealed on me. The guy who once referred to a touchdown as a “home run” during a football highlight reel. The guy who’s been trying to sabotage me since day one.
“But—” I start, then stop, realizing I need to boost myself up, not put Donny down. “I’ve been working toward this for years. My segments have higher ratings. By your own review, I’ve done an outstanding job.”
“You did, that’s true.” Marcus raises an eyebrow. “But much of that was because of your co-sportscaster. Your fiancé.” He nods toward my naked left ring finger.
My stomach twists so hard it physically hurts.
“Speaking of that.” Marcus pushes play on his phone, and it’s a recording of me telling Zoe about Brooks and I fake dating. “Care to explain?”
My blood turns to ice.
“Faking a relationship for career advancement? That’s not the integrity we expect from our team,” Marcus says, his disappointment palpitating.
“It wasn’t like that.” The words tumble out too fast, too desperate. “It didn’t start as... I mean, yes, it began as a favor, but it became—”
“A lie,” Marcus finishes for me. “A lie you perpetuated on this station, on our viewers, on me.” He shakes his head slowly. “You used this fake relationship to position yourself for the sportscaster role, to gain exclusive access and interviews that landed you the job to begin with.”
“That’s not why—”
“And then,” Marcus continues, “you leveraged that manufactured relationship to secure an interview at KSLA, the place you’ve been aiming for all along, apparently.”
Wow, so Donny recorded everything.
“Marcus, please,” I lean forward. “Yes, the relationship with Brooks started under unusual circumstances, but what developed between us was real. Is real.” Even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true.
If it was ever true. “And the interview at KSLA only made me realize how much I love it here. In my hometown. And also, I applied based on my own merits, my own work.”
“Your own work,” Marcus repeats flatly. “The reels you did with Kingston? The exclusive interviews with him and his injury because of your ‘relationship’?”
Each example lands like a slap. The truth of it burns in my chest. Yes, dating Brooks—fake or not—opened doors, but I walked through them on my own, did the work, earned the respect. Right?
“I’m sorry, Sydney,” Marcus says, his voice softening, which somehow makes it worse. “But we can’t trust you anymore. Your position here... it’s no longer tenable.”
The realization washes over me in a cold wave. I’m not just losing the sportscaster role. I’m losing my job as a weather forecaster too. Or any other job here.
“You’re firing me?” The words come out small, disbelieving.
“We prefer ‘parting ways,’” Marcus says with the removed professionalism of someone who’s had this conversation too many times. “But yes. Effective immediately.”
Years of dedication, of early mornings and late nights, of weather maps and sports statistics and building a reputation in this town—all crumbling in an instant.
“You can clean out your desk.” Marcus is all business now. “HR will process your final paycheck. We’ll need your station pass before you leave.”
I sit frozen, unable to comprehend how quickly my life has derailed. Last week, I was headed to an interview for my dream job. But I’ve realized that was far from my dream. I was so happy to come home, to return to KBVR, the job I love, and now I’m being fired from it.
I swallow hard, steeling myself when I say, “Thank you for this opportunity.”
Marcus looks genuinely regretful for the first time. “You’re talented, Sydney. No one’s disputing that. But trust and integrity matter in this business. You’ll land on your feet.” He pauses, then adds, “KSLA is an amazing opportunity. Maybe a fresh start is what you need.”
A fresh start. As if my entire life in Dickens is something to be scrubbed away. As if Maisie, Zoe, my family, and everything I’ve built here is just a steppingstone to something better.
“Can I at least say goodbye to everyone?” I hate how small my voice sounds.
“Of course.”
I make my way back to my desk, and with trembling hands, I begin to pack my things.
Each item is a memory, a piece of the life I’ve built here.
I say my goodbyes, then, with my box of belongings clutched to my chest like a shield, I push through the station doors one last time.
The crisp Dickens air hits my face, carrying the scent of impending snow and small-town gossip that will undoubtedly be spreading about me by dinnertime.
My phone buzzes, but I’m in no place to talk to anyone right now. I make it halfway to my car before the tears start, hot and angry, blurring my vision. I set the box on the hood and just stand there, letting three years of hard work and ambition pour out of me in messy, undignified sobs.
But I remind myself of something Maisie said to me when I was going through my awful breakup with Jake last year.
Endings and beginnings look an awful lot alike.