13. Chapter Thirteen
Maya slumped in her chair, the click-clack of keyboards around her fading into a bothersome buzz as she stared at the blinking cursor on her screen. The blank document was begging her for words that Maya couldn”t summon. How does one even begin to describe a night in the forest that tangled professional lines with personal ones?
”Come on, Maya,” she muttered under her breath, ”It”s just an article, not a tell-all memoir.”
She chewed on the end of her pen, the taste of plastic bitter on her tongue. The forest adventure with Jackson had been more than just a story; it was her life. The beginning of her life with Jackson in it again.
”Okay,” she whispered, hands hovering over the keyboard, ”do I spill the beans or keep mum?”
Her fingers pecked at the keys, erasing sentences as fast as she wrote them. Revealing her relationship with Jackson felt like exposing a raw nerve to the world.
”Transparency versus privacy,” she sighed, the eternal tug-of-war of the journalistic soul.
”Girl, you look like you”re trying to solve one of those ”if a train leaves the station” math problems,” her work colleague, Helen observed, popping her head over the cubicle wall.
”More like ”if two ex-lovers wander into a forest”,” Maya quipped back, finally cracking a smile.
”Ooh, spicy! Tell me more.” Helen winked, but Maya shook her head, pressing a finger to her lips.
”Sorry, exclusive content for the Stoney Ridge Herald readership.”
”Fine, be all mysterious. But remember, the heart of small-town news is it’s connections,” Helen advised before ducking back to her work.
Maya mulled it over. Connections. It wasn”t just about her and Jackson; it was about the cause, the women”s shelter, the community. She could write the article with heart without revealing her own.
Maya started to type. ”Jackson Hart, our local hero back from tours of duty, proved his mettle wasn”t just in service to his country, but also to his community. With each step through the forest, he carried not just his backpack, but also the hopes of the women”s shelter.”
The Stoney Ridge Herald”s fluorescent lights flickered above as Maya”s article took shape. ”Who knew,” she quipped in her closing paragraph, ”that the path to supporting our town”s most vulnerable could be paved with muddy boots and lost backpacks?”
Satisfied, Maya read through her article one last time. It was light, airy, injected with enough playfulness to keep it interesting, but grounded with the gravity of the cause it supported.
”Here goes nothing,” she said, and clicked. The article zipped through the digital ethers, destined for breakfast tables discussions.
”Alright, Maya,” she said, standing up and grabbing her bag with a flourish. ”Jackson Hart,” she whispered to herself with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, ”get ready for an encore. I’ll be coming for you soon.”