Chapter Twenty Six
Twenty Six
Jamie couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked into the newsroom with a smile she wasn’t faking for the cameras.
Tuesday morning, she dropped her bag by her desk, humming under her breath, and caught herself before the second verse slipped out.
It didn’t matter. Harper, sitting a row over, had already noticed.
“Well, somebody’s in a good mood.” She arched an eyebrow, lips curving into a grin. “What’s his name?”
Jamie froze for half a beat, then turned just enough to smirk at her. “Her. And I’m not telling.”
That earned her a full laugh. Harper leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “Ohhh, even better. So what’s she like? Tall, short, brains, biceps? Give me something here.”
Jamie shook her head quickly, heat rising to her cheeks. “I’m not giving you anything. I barely know her myself.”
“Mhm.” Harper tapped her pen against her notepad, eyes twinkling. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve already got it written all over your face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush this hard, Garrison.”
Jamie tried to bury her face in her screen, but her cheeks betrayed her. Every time she thought of Erin’s wry smile across the coffee shop table, her chest did that ridiculous flip.
She shook it off and buried herself in prep work. Live hits didn’t wait for daydreamers. By the time she was on set, standing beside the anchors, she had her professional mask firmly in place. At least until the words tangled on her tongue.
“And later in the show, we’ll have an update on the city’s transit barn—board.” Jamie stumbled, her face heating as the wrong word slipped out. Dennis didn’t miss a beat.
“Careful, folks, you don’t want livestock on the Red Line,” he joked, drawing a laugh from Alison and smoothing right over the moment.
Jamie forced her smile wider, but she felt the heat crawl up her neck. She counted the seconds until the camera cut away, already replaying the mistake in her head.
Back at her desk, she winced again. She prided herself on control. She didn’t trip over words. But today, her focus kept scattering to places it shouldn’t, like the way Erin had leaned closer over her coffee, voice lowering as if the whole shop might overhear them.
Tilly slid into the chair across from her, laptop open. Normally they would offer a wry comment about Dennis’s joke or tease her into laughing it off. Today, they just nodded and said, “Good save.” Their tone was polite, neutral. Nothing more.
Jamie blinked at them. “Thanks,” she said carefully. But Tilly was already typing, eyes fixed on the screen. The distance sat heavy between them, sharper than any joke could have been.
By the end of her shift, Jamie’s nerves were raw. She ducked into the hallway, phone in hand, and thumbed out a message before she could second-guess it.
Survived the day. Barely. Hope yours was better.
She slipped the phone into her pocket, heart thudding like she’d just broken some unspoken rule. Ten minutes later, as she packed up her things, her phone buzzed.
Better now. You did great today.
Jamie read it twice, then a third time, letting the warmth of it settle low in her chest. Erin’s words were brief, restrained, just like the woman herself, but they cut through the static of her day. Jamie bit her lip, grinning to herself as she slung her bag over her shoulder.
For the first time in weeks, she didn’t dread coming back tomorrow.
* * *
Friday nights were for grilled cheese. No matter what city, no matter what job, it had always been her ritual.
Jamie tied her hair up, pulled the loaf of bread from the counter, and buttered the slices in an easy rhythm. Her phone buzzed against the counter.
What’s on the menu tonight?
She smiled instantly, thumbs flying.
Grilled cheese Friday. Nonnegotiable.
Another buzz.
That’s a tradition I can respect. Do you take it seriously, or are we talking lazy bread-and-slice-cheese style?
Jamie laughed under her breath as she flipped the pan on to heat. She tried to type with one hand while juggling the spatula in the other.
Excuse me, I’m a professional. Real butter. Golden brown. Gooey center. Gourmet stuff.
The bread started smoking while she was still correcting a typo. She cursed, fumbling with the stove and her phone at the same time, and managed to flip the sandwich just before it burned. Her heart pounded with the ridiculous fluster of trying to text and cook like she was fifteen again.
On impulse, she swiped to call before she could talk herself out of it. The line rang once, then—
“Garrison?” Erin’s voice, warm, low, already making her smile.
Jamie leaned against the counter, grinning. “Yeah. I figured this was easier than setting my kitchen on fire trying to answer you.”
Erin laughed softly, and it tugged at something deep in Jamie’s chest. “Fair enough. So walk me through this so-called gourmet grilled cheese.”
Jamie plated the sandwich and sat at the table, phone pressed to her ear. “Butter-to-bread ratio is everything. Golden on both sides, gooey Kraft single in the middle. Gourmet stuff.”
“Gourmet?” Erin repeated, amused. “Do you garnish it with parsley too? Maybe a light aioli?”
Jamie scoffed. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.”
“I’m being honest. I’m trying to picture the seriousness you’re saying this with.”
“Well stop picturing it,” Jamie muttered, cheeks burning.
“Too late.” Erin’s voice dipped. “It’s cute.”
Jamie grinned, then hesitated. The words came quieter this time.
“Honestly, it’s kind of a comfort thing.
After the divorce, Friday nights were the worst. Everyone else was out, and I couldn’t even make myself try.
Grilled cheese was easy. Ten minutes of something warm that didn’t feel like giving up. So I just kept doing it.”
There was a pause on the other end, quiet but not heavy. Erin’s voice softened. “Then it’s not just a sandwich. It’s survival food.”
Jamie’s throat tightened, but she managed a small laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Somewhere between soup pairings and stories about disastrous meals, the conversation slipped deeper. Jamie told her about college nights cooking cheap pasta with her ex. Erin told her about precinct takeout shifts that felt more like family dinners than work. The hours blurred.
At one point, Jamie glanced at the clock and blinked. “It’s past midnight.”
“Still awake?” Erin asked.
“Mmhm,” Jamie said. “Barely. But I can rally if you’re going to make fun of my cheese standards again.”
Erin hummed. “Oh, I’ve got a lot of material, believe me.”
“Bring it.”
“Okay. First of all, the Kraft thing? Criminal.”
Jamie laughed into the pillow. “Then arrest me.”
A beat.
“Don’t tempt me.”
Jamie shifted under the covers, phone still tucked close to her ear. “I don’t really want to hang up yet.”
“Then don’t,” Erin said simply.
So she didn’t. The two of them stayed on the line, voices quiet, words winding into softer shapes as the night stretched on.
Erin told her about Leo’s obsession with tennis balls, and Jamie admitted she still triple-checked her alarm every night before sleep.
The conversation slowed until silence felt just as comfortable as speaking.
Jamie’s eyelids grew heavy, her cheek pressed against the pillow, the phone warm in her hand. The last thing she heard before sleep took her was Erin’s voice, softer than she’d ever heard it.
“Sweet dreams, Garrison.”