Chapter 13 #2
‘Washington?’ She pulls a face. ‘I hope so, but god knows when my prick of an editor will deign to assign me there.’
I frown. ‘What’s the deal with that, anyway?’
She sighs. ‘Just that I’m kind of at his beck and call, and for now he’s taking an inordinate amount of pleasure keeping me chained to the sports section.’
‘Is the political stuff competitive?’
‘It’s usually reserved for more senior reporters,’ she admits.
But I hear the hesitation in her voice, and then it’s like the banks of a river have broken and she’s blurting out, ‘But it has nothing to do with that, it’s all because of who I am, and the fact he can’t bear to reward me, no matter how hard I work.
I’ve tried applying for other papers, but between Kirk and my dad, there are certain major places I feel like I need to avoid, and it doesn’t leave me a lot of options.
Besides, I like the Standard, I like the team.
I feel more accepted there than I have anywhere else. ’
‘Hold up,’ I say, slowing down as we pass a roadside fruit stand with a line of cars parked alongside it. ‘Why wouldn’t he promote you to the job you want? Who are you?’
‘It’s not me, so much as my dad. He’s Randolf James.’
She says it like I’m supposed to know who that is. ‘A politician?’ I hazard a guess.
‘No.’ She sounds kind of relieved. ‘A journalist; a very good, very famous, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, whose name is so well known in the industry that everyone just assumes whatever I achieve is because of him. When the truth is, I ran hard and fast from journalism all my life to avoid those comparisons, only to have wound up here anyway.’ She huffs out another sound of indignation.
‘Sorry. That was kind of an overshare.’ She laughs awkwardly, like she regrets having told me so much, so I reach out and put my hand over hers.
‘That’s our deal, remember? I made you promise I get to interrogate you too.’
I glance at her and see the pink in her cheeks, think how pretty she is, and quickly look back to the road.
‘So what happened, to bring you into journalism?’
‘I had to do something, after … the ballet thing wasn’t going to be viable.
Dad convinced me to give it a try.’ She wrinkles her nose.
‘When I was a kid, I used to trail him around constantly. He was a foreign correspondent and travelled a lot, usually covering some kind of war or another. It was very dangerous work, very stressful for my mother, and I guess for him. He was away often, but whenever he was home, he was like my idol, and I was his little star.’ Warm nostalgia softens her voice.
‘He would sit and talk to me for hours about what he’d seen—obviously a very sanitised version of it—and he’d get me to help him write it up.
As a kid, it was just me making notes on a notepad, then, when I was older, I’d type at the computer while he talked.
But the more he wanted me to pursue journalism, the more I started to fight against it, until I just couldn’t anymore. ’
She’s very quiet and I don’t speak, because I feel like she’s reliving something, something she might share with me if I don’t frighten her off.
‘I was in a pretty dark place. I did months of rehab, pushed myself to the point of exhaustion to try to get back to ballet, but I couldn’t, and afterward I kind of fell in a heap.
I know they were worried about me. They just wanted me to find something else I could pour my energy into.
I only agreed to study journalism because I thought it would get them off my back.
I thought it would mean I’d be left in peace to keep grieving my ballet dreams. But I got to college and realised pretty quickly how much I loved what I was doing. ’ She pulls a face. ‘They knew best.’
‘Parents have that knack sometimes,’ I say, but wistfully, because I haven’t known the guiding hand of a parent in a long time.
And no matter how I try to frame it, to be sympathetic and understanding, I still find it hard to forgive my old man for making me quit riding.
I get how much he worried, but it wasn’t his decision to make.
My life is my life; no matter how much you love someone, you don’t have a right to tear down their dreams.
Sometimes the best thing you can do when you really care is set a person free. He just couldn’t do it.
‘I thought I’d do college for maybe a year, then drop out, or find something else, or maybe even get back to ballet.
Even when the doctors all told me it was impossible.
But from the first assignment I was given, I started to thrive again.
You know how you described your brother and what Beth did for him?
That’s kind of what journalism did for me. ’
‘You’re good at what you do?’
‘Are you asking or telling me?’
I wish I’d read some of her pieces. ‘Asking,’ I admit, sheepishly. ‘I’ve done the exact opposite of the amount of research you’ve done.’
She pulls a face of mock offence. ‘Are you saying you haven’t devoured everything I’ve ever written?’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘I’m wounded, cowboy, wounded,’ she jokes.
‘Send me something,’ I say, seriously.
‘No way.’
‘I’d like to read it. This whole thing was kind of just dropped in my lap, and since you arrived, I’ve been a little … preoccupied.’
‘Is that a complaint?’
‘Hell, no.’ I reach out and squeeze her thigh. ‘You’re just about the best damn distraction I’ve ever had.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Beau Donovan.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ I flick on the indicator, the repetitive sound forming the backdrop to our conversation as I exit the highway. The road stop has a bright neon sign with the diner’s name in huge letters.
‘Okay.’ I pull into a park and cut the engine, then turn to face her properly. ‘So you’re good at what you do.’
‘You haven’t read anything of mine,’ she reiterates.
‘I can tell.’
‘How?’
‘Because of the way you talk, the way your brain works, the way you don’t leave any stone unturned, and the way you carry that damn notepad everywhere with you,’ I say with a smile, glancing down at her lean, tanned legs and feeling my pulse go weird.
‘So how come your boss would let the fact you have a famous journalist dad get in the way of your promotion?’
‘It’s not just him. It’s everyone. From the minute I handed in my first essay and topped the class, people have presumed it’s because of dad.
That lecturers go easy on me because of who I am, who he is, that my internships are all because he pulled strings.
And maybe some of them were,’ she admits, eyes dropping to the console between us.
I reach out and press my finger beneath her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes.
‘So you think that if you go to DC and write about serious people and serious things, you’ll finally get out from under his shadow?’ She bites her lower lip, not meeting my eyes. ‘You think you’ll prove that you’re as good as him, maybe even better?’
‘It’s what I want to do,’ she says, but defensively. I know there’s probably truth in her words, but I also know this is more about her dad than she’s willing to admit, even to herself. ‘You’re running from him,’ I say gently. ‘But you’re also running toward him. Want some advice?’
She shakes her head a little, then sighs. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re never gonna be happy until you stop living like you’ve got something to prove.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘I’m serious. Who gives a shit what people say about you?
You’re doing what you love. You’ve built something amazing out of the ashes of your first love.
You’ve pivoted, and made it magic. People are always gonna say dumb shit.
First off, that’s usually because they’re jealous.
Second, you’ve just got to tune it out. What difference does it make to your life? ’
Her eyes hold mine for a beat, and then her lips curve in a small smile.
‘That’s pretty deep for a bull rider,’ she teases, and I grin back at her, but I can’t help the wave of frustration that washes over me.
I’m not trying to be deep, so much as real.
To help her. Only Bailey doesn’t want my help, and I’m not going to be in her life long enough to change a damn thing.
‘Let’s go get something to eat,’ I suggest, lightening the mood, stepping out of the truck and inhaling the fresh country air.
I turn to face Bailey right as the sun lands on her hair, making it look like fire and flames.
My gut rolls, and doesn’t stop rolling all the while I watch her walk so casually, so sexily, into the diner.
At the door, she turns, smiles at me and winks. ‘You comin’, cowboy?’
I nod my agreement, with a sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.