Chapter 1 Lucy #3
To say I’m caught off guard is an understatement.
I don’t write about relationships because I’m not in one.
Plain and simple. I’m not in a relationship because I don’t want to be in one.
There’s a perception that having a partner means you’ve achieved a certain level of success.
But you shouldn’t place all your self-worth and happiness in the hands of someone else.
“What about the other twenty-two percent?” I ask.
“What about them?”
“Well, if seventy-eight percent of readers are in relationships, then what about the twenty-two percent who are still single?” I say. “Aren’t you worried they’re going to feel alienated?”
“Lucy, I’m with you. I’m a part of that twenty-two percent,” Eman says. “But unfortunately, we’re not in the majority.”
“Okay…” I say slowly. In the early days of my career, I would use my friends’ experiences as a jumping-off point for my stories.
I would watch them vow to renounce men for sixty days after a breakup while they took up some kind of hobby and focused on themselves.
With permission, I would write about other people’s heartbreaks.
I would watch my closest friends get hurt repeatedly until it eventually felt like I could embody that feeling…
even though I never felt it for myself. “Then I’ll start writing about relationships,” I offer.
“I have a ton of friends who are married, there are plenty of people I can interview—”
“Well, that’s a little different.” Eman winces. “These stories need to be from your point of view, not someone else’s. It’s your column.”
“So, my own relationship?”
“Yeah,” she says apologetically. “But I know that’s a lot to ask. So, if we need to go in another direction—”
“What do you mean another direction?” I cut her off.
She shifts, instantly regretting her words. “That’s not what I mean…”
“Then what do you mean?” I ask, not entirely hiding my panic.
Eman takes a breath, then looks down. “If the numbers continue this way, we just might have to find someone else to write the column—but I would find something else for you to write, Lucy. You’re one of the best writers I know. I would fight to keep you.”
My face immediately feels warm and my shoulders tense. Tiny beads of sweat begin to dribble down the small of my back.
Is she telling me that my entire job is at risk?
That the column I’ve worked on for almost four years and built an entire audience for might be handed off to someone else?
All because our generation is prioritizing finding their soulmates rather than learning how to be completely content and happy on their own?
I’m sick of feeling shamed for casually sleeping with someone.
Of feeling like I’ve failed at feminism by having sex.
My sexual desires don’t make me any less of a lady than Princess Diana.
Because I’m helping women to take control of their bodies, explore their sexuality, and own their kinks, I’m being punished?
“Lucy…” Eman says in response to my silence. “I hope you understand. The team still loves your work; we just weren’t sure if you were the right person to write this new narrative—”
Fuck that. Absolutely not. I am not losing my job.
“I’m in a relationship,” I say, practically stumbling on my own words.
“What?” Eman frowns.
“I’m in a relationship,” I say slowly, trying to make it come out as naturally as possible.
“Oh my god, Lucy!” Eman’s eyes widen. “Congratulations, since when?”
“It’s new,” I say, wondering if I’m sounding at all convincing. “I was actually going to start writing about it soon, but I just wanted to make sure he was…the one.” I plaster a forced, lovesick smile on my face.
“Well, that’s incredible timing,” Eman laughs, and I laugh along with her, albeit mine sounds like a borderline cry for help. “I’m so happy for you!”
I smile. “Me too. So, if there’s anyone else worried about this column, you can just let them know that I am ready to share my experience.”
“If you could, that would be incredible, Lucy.” Eman lets out a relieved sigh, shutting her laptop. “Was there anything else you wanted to go over for today?”
There’s nothing on my to-do list that quite compares to this turn of events. “I think I’m good. Thanks, Eman.”
“Of course.” She stands up, laptop and water bottle in hand. “I’m glad it all worked out. I can’t wait to read the first story!”
As I watch Eman leave and head down the hall, I begin to chew the skin on the inside of my mouth.
All I need to do is write a few measly stories about “being in love” even though I’ve never been in love myself…
nor is it something I’m looking for. When you write about enough breakups and people falling out of love, when you’ve seen how it can hurt the people you care about… You no longer want it for yourself.
Taking an exhausted exhale, I stand up and head back to my desk.
If writing about the delusion of relationships is what the world wants, then I can give them that.
I am not going to let this detail put my job in jeopardy.
After all, I am a professional. How challenging can pretending to be in love be?