Chapter 9
Casey
I stared at my phone and waited for DirtyLife to reply. It was a good five minutes before I realized he wasn’t going to. My body flashed hot, his rejection stinging more than I should have allowed.
I thought I was flirting. I thought it was going well. I put myself out there and asked if he wanted to meet. It wasn’t a blatant rejection, just a brush-off followed by an attempt to reschedule. I thought it was going well.
But he just stopped replying.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat and stood.
I shook my entire body, needing the movement and to let go.
We weren’t dating, or married, or anything beyond text friends.
It was on me if I was making more of whatever was going on than he felt.
Sure, we were on a dating app, but that didn’t mean he wanted to date me.
Heat flooded me again at the thought. I felt like such a fool.
I turned my phone off to stop myself from looking at the app a million more times before I went to sleep, then focused on the rest of my night.
I had an hour or two of data entry to do before I could go to sleep.
Mikayla was already in bed, and quiet thankfully.
She came home over the moon excited to share she’d been chosen for a solo in her chorus concert after the musical.
The solo was a good boost for her confidence, and a good sign her teacher would give her a part in the musical.
I didn’t think she was going to be able to sleep, so the silence was a good thing.
I powered up my computer and found the data sent to me for the day. I accessed the system and got to work on everything, letting the steady work pull my entire focus and attention.
When I keyed in the last entry, I drew a breath and stretched.
I verified that every cell was filled and everything was complete, then saved the work one more time and submitted it.
I never knew what kind of data I’d be working on, but it didn’t matter to me.
I was surprised companies still used outside sources for data entry, but I wouldn’t complain about a job that paid well enough to help support me.
I did a quick check of the apartment and made sure everything was picked up for the night. Mikayla’s lunchbox was packed and in the fridge for the morning, next to mine. A breakfast casserole was ready to be cooked when I got up to make my coffee. I was ready for the next day.
On my way to my room, I glared at my phone. I picked it up and decided to charge it in the kitchen instead of my bedroom. I plugged it in and walked away before it powered on and alerted me to the missed messages.
Or the ones that never came in.
My mind replayed my conversation with DirtyLife as I got ready for bed.
I couldn’t figure out where I went wrong, but I wasn’t going to be the same person I was during my marriage.
I couldn’t chase after someone who didn’t want me.
Not again. Not ever again. I knew what that did to a relationship, and to me.
Maybe I’d hear from DirtyLife again, and maybe I wouldn’t, but either way, I was not going to let it ruin my life. I’d survived worse than a rejection.
My alarm broke through the haze of the early morning.
I reached for it on my nightstand and silenced it before the noise gave me a headache.
I sat up in bed and stretched, knowing I needed to get up or I’d curl back into bed and never emerge.
I was usually up early, but if I slept long enough to have the alarm wake me up, it was never good.
I stumbled to the kitchen to start the coffee and breakfast casserole, then headed for the shower. In less than twenty minutes, I was back in the kitchen with my first mug of coffee and debating looking at my phone.
I caved and flipped it over.
A text from Natalie was the first thing I saw.
Natalie
I guess you weren’t happy with the draft you showed us. I wish we’d known you saw us this way. It’s too late to make any changes, but I’m not sure this is a good idea going forward.
Um, what?
It took a minute for my caffeine-neglected brain to put things together and understand.
Gretchen changed my story.
I pulled up the newspaper site and tapped to read the article. My article. The one my name was on, but not the one I wrote.
“Dammit,” I breathed.
Mikayla stumbled her way into the kitchen. “Why are you mad?”
I looked up at her, then locked my phone and set it down. I would deal with the article and Gretchen after Mikayla went to school.
“I had an article published, and my editor changed it without telling me.”
“Oh. Is breakfast ready?”
I smothered my grin and checked the oven. The cheese on top was bubbly and slightly brown. It was perfect. “We need to let it cool for a minute. Do you want to pack your backpack first?”
“Sure.” She slid off her chair and dragged her feet to the fridge. I handed her the lunchbox she’d packed the night before, adding two ice packs to make sure everything stayed cold enough, then she let her arm fall as though carrying it was the hardest thing she’d ever done.
Kids are funny.
I sipped my coffee and checked the time.
I cut into the casserole, steam escaping from the slice I made.
It would have been better to wait another five minutes, but we didn’t have time.
I dished up a piece for Mikayla and told her to blow on it.
I cut one for myself and sat at the table as she touched the tip of her tongue to the edge.
“It’s hot.”
“I know. Food don’t cook cold.”
She snorted. The silly phrase was one we’d been telling her forever. One that always made her laugh.
I cut my casserole into chunks to let the heat out from as much of it as possible, and we finally ate our breakfast without scorching our mouths.
My fingers itched to grab my phone and read the entire article, but I resisted. I wanted to be present for Mikayla. It was important to me that she knew I was there for her. Always.
“Have you been practicing for your audition?” I asked as she emerged from the bathroom with freshly brushed teeth.
“Yeah.”
“Thursday, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Home on the bus today?”
“Yeah.” She grabbed her backpack.
“Bye. Have a good day.” I tugged her in for a forced hug.
“Bye.”
I closed the door behind her as her footsteps echoed down the stairs. I locked the door, then moved toward the window to watch her get on the bus.
Five minutes later, Mikayla was headed to school, and I was reading the article I didn’t write.
And seething.
The article made it seem as though Natalie had been flirting with Landon the entire time.
Omar sounded like he wasn’t interested in anything that had to do with planning the wedding.
They both came across as shallow and mean, coming just short of accusing them of not really wanting to get married and only doing so for publicity.
What the fucking hell?
I wanted to talk to Natalie face-to-face, but first, I needed to understand what in the world happened to the article I submitted. I hurried out of the apartment, hellbent on getting answers from Gretchen and not caring if she had an issue with it.
I stormed into the newsroom, my face hot. Mike saw me coming and grinned before he caught the look on my face. He turned and went the other way.
Gretchen’s door was closed, so I pounded on it before letting myself in without caring if she was busy or not. “Excuse you. I didn’t say you could enter.”
“And I didn’t say you could twist every word I wrote into something it was never intended to be.”
“I told you to bring me something with an angle. You brought me fluff that stank of hero worship.”
“It was a good article.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was a mediocre retelling of two people doing the world’s most boring thing. Who cares about the flowers they chose? No one.” She glared at me like a pest who needed to shoo.
“The people in this town aren’t looking for scandals. They don’t want to trash each other. There’s too much nastiness in the world, and if they can find a feel-good story about people they know and respect, they’re going to enjoy it. You made that article into something it wasn’t.”
Gretchen narrowed her eyes at me. She held my gaze for several minutes, no doubt waiting for me to back down.
I wasn’t going to.
“Fine. Tell me what I printed that wasn’t correct.” She opened the paper to the article on page two. She smoothed the pages back and started reading.
“Natalie Edwards, director of Mountain View Retreat, laughs at the teasing look in the eye of Landon Boyd. Landon, not Natalie’s future husband, knows everything there is to know about flowers.
Landon owns Blossom & Grow, and the associated greenhouse and fields, and he can tell you the difference between a flower that’ll profess your undying love and one that’ll say we’re just friends. ”
Gretchen looked up at me. I gritted my teeth.
“Anything incorrect so far?”
“No,” I seethed.
“Okay, the next paragraph? Where you talked about their interaction. About Natalie wanting things to be simple but not actually being simple. Was that wrong?”
I closed my eyes and sighed. “Technically, no. But—”
“What about Omar wanting her to choose what she wanted? Did he have an opinion that you didn’t mention?”
“It’s not that.”
“Oh, it’s not? So the article was accurate. I thought you came in here with your ass on fire acting like there was some gross error included in print.”
“It was the way you made it all sound. Natalie wasn’t flirting with Landon.”
Gretchen’s brows shot high. “I definitely did not write that she was. Where does it say that?”
“It doesn’t specifically say that, but—”
“But nothing, Casey. You’re grasping at straws here. You wanted to write these articles, and now you’re mad that I made them more compelling. This is a business. This isn’t your little book club.”
My eyes widened. “What does that mean?”