Chapter 38
Thirty Eight
The newsroom hummed around her, a wall of sound that never stopped.
Phones rang. Keyboards clattered. Someone laughed too loud near the assignment desk.
Jamie sat at her workstation trying to look busy, eyes flicking between her script and the red light on the coffee maker.
Her eyes stung from the studio lights even though she’d been off-air for hours.
The caffeine hum sat behind her teeth, too much and not enough all at once.
Her third cup of coffee had gone cold. She took a sip anyway and grimaced. Her stomach was already in knots, but the bitter taste kept her anchored. Across the room, Harper was talking through a rundown with one of the producers. She caught Jamie’s eye and tilted her head.
“You good?” Harper mouthed.
Jamie nodded once, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”
It was the same answer she’d been giving for two days. It was also a lie.
She scrolled through her inbox for something to do.
Nothing stuck. Roadwork update, a press release about a charity run, a follow-up on the city council’s parking vote.
All of it felt hollow. Every time she typed a sentence, it sounded like someone else wrote it.
She’d once loved the rhythm of newsroom mornings — the organized chaos, the energy — but now it all sounded wrong, like a song playing through the wrong speakers.
On the corner of her monitor, a sticky note clung stubbornly to the frame. Erin’s handwriting — neat, quick — still read, Don’t forget to eat before the 6. Jamie smoothed the corner with her thumb, as if touching it might make the ache go away.
Her phone sat beside her keyboard, face-up, screen dim. She’d turned off notifications but still checked it every few minutes, just in case. There was no new message. The last one she’d sent was hours ago.
Please let me explain. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.
Below that, another.
Just tell me you’re okay.
She’d sent a third before she left for work.
I’ll wait as long as it takes.
All of them sat on Delivered. None said Read.
She typed another now, thumbs shaking slightly.
I know I messed up. I know you need space. But I need to know you’re all right.
She didn’t send it. She deleted it, retyped it, and deleted it again. Her reflection stared back from the dark part of the screen, and she hated the way she looked — like she hadn’t slept, like she’d been crying even when she hadn’t.
“Live hit in twenty,” Tilly said, voice sharp enough to make her jump.
“Right,” Jamie said, closing the script. “Yeah. Ready.”
She wasn’t ready.
Outside, the wind whipped against the camera as they set up on the sidewalk. Tilly checked exposure, adjusted the mic pack, and tossed her a look. “Try to breathe this time.”
Jamie laughed under her breath. “You’re hilarious.”
The earpiece crackled. “Stand by,” control said.
She rolled her shoulders back, pasted on the smile, and stared into the camera.
The toss from the anchor was clean, cheerful.
Jamie’s response wasn’t. Her throat caught halfway through the second sentence, a tiny stutter that barely showed, but she felt it like a crack in glass.
She pushed through it. Finished the tag. Tossed back. Held the smile until the light died. The second the red tally blinked off, her face fell. Her hands shook as she unclipped the pack.
“You’re off your rhythm,” Tilly said, coiling the cable. “You gotta get it together.”
“Don’t start,” Jamie muttered, heading for the car.
“I’m serious,” Tilly said, following close. “You’ve been off for days.”
Jamie stopped short and turned, the words snapping out before she could swallow them.
“You think I don’t know that?” Her own voice startled her.
She exhaled hard, jaw tight, eyes bright with something she couldn’t name.
“She won’t answer me, Tilly. She won’t even read the messages. What am I supposed to do?”
“You give her time,” Tilly said, low but firm. “That’s what you do.”
“I can’t just sit here pretending everything’s fine.”
“You can if it keeps your job,” Tilly said. “You think I don’t get it? But you can’t fix this by blowing up your own life.”
Jamie opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. The heat behind her eyes built too fast. “I’m trying,” she said, voice small now. “I’m trying, but I don’t know how to not worry.”
Tilly exhaled through their nose and softened. “You care about her. That’s not the problem. The problem is you’re drowning yourself trying to pull her out of the water.”
Jamie looked away, blinking hard. “That’s poetic.”
“It’s true.” Tilly lifted the gear bag into the backseat and shut the door. “You’re no good to her like this.”
Jamie didn’t answer. She climbed into the passenger seat and stared out the window, the world blurring past in dull gray streaks.
Back inside, the newsroom felt heavier than before.
A feed monitor near the assignment desk played b-roll from an older story — the Medford presser.
Erin’s voice came faintly through the speakers.
Jamie froze. It was just background noise to everyone else, but for her, it landed like a heartbeat. She forced herself to look away.
By six, the newsroom shifted into its evening rhythm.
The day crew filtered out, but the night producers moved in, settling at their desks with energy drinks and half-eaten sandwiches.
The air smelled like takeout and cold coffee.
One of the anchors walked by, heels clicking, joking with the weather guy about a graphic glitch.
Normally, Jamie would have laughed too. Tonight she barely looked up.
She stayed at her desk long after her work was done, pretending to tweak a package she’d already filed.
The room wasn’t quiet—phones still rang, printers still hummed—but somehow it felt like silence anyway.
A producer laughed at something on Slack.
Someone yelled for a graphic fix. Jamie felt like she was standing in the middle of it all, invisible.
The newsroom she loved felt foreign, like she was watching it through glass.
Harper called a quick goodbye from the door, and Jamie waved without turning.
The ten o’clock producer shuffled papers at the far desk.
A morning show writer slipped in early with a hoodie and headphones.
The cycle never really stopped in here, and she was usually comforted by that.
Tonight it only made her feel like she was standing still while everything else kept moving.
She replayed her morning live hit on loop, focusing on every breath, every word that felt off. She wondered if Erin had seen it. If she’d muted it before Jamie spoke. If she even had the TV on anymore.
Her phone buzzed and she lunged for it. It was a calendar alert. She silenced it and laughed, a sharp, broken sound that startled even her.
Another hour passed before she finally shut her laptop. She told the night producer she was heading out, and he nodded without looking up. The parking lot outside was half-full, light from the control room windows spilling across the asphalt. The air smelled like rain that never came.
She sat behind the wheel with the keys in her lap, staring at the faint glow of the phone in her cupholder.
Erin’s name was still pinned to the top of her messages.
The contact photo—one Jamie had taken at the dog park—showed Erin laughing at something out of frame. She traced her thumb over the image.
She tapped the address in her favorites. The map loaded fast.
Twelve minutes away.
She gripped the wheel. Her heart hammered. For a second she thought she was going to do it. Just go. Show up. Apologize face-to-face. She could tell her she never meant to hurt her. That she wished she’d made a different choice. That she couldn’t stop thinking about her. She could say all of it.
Her hand shook. The map glowed brighter.
And then she closed it.
She opened messages instead.
Please. Just tell me you’re okay.
She hit send.
The message hovered, then locked.
Delivered.
She waited. The car idled, rain tapping against the windshield, the city lights washing her face in gold. A red light from the tower blinked steady in her rearview mirror, unmoved by anything happening below it. The screen stayed still. No dots. No reply.
Her breath stumbled once, then again, and before she could stop it, she was crying—loud, sudden, ungraceful.
The sound ripped out of her, sharp and ugly.
She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white.
The sobs came in waves, fast and shaking, until she couldn’t breathe.
Her chest ached. Her throat burned. It felt like something breaking loose inside her, something that had been stuck for days.
When it finally stopped, she was left gasping, tears streaking her face. She wiped them with the sleeve of her jacket and laughed weakly through the leftover hiccups. “You’re really losing it, Garrison,” she whispered, voice raw.
Her phone lit up again, but it was just the dashboard reflection. No message. She set it facedown and started the engine. The lot gate lifted slow, metal against metal. She pulled out into the street, headlights cutting through the dark, and drove toward nothing.