4 #2
She blinked. That wasn’t what she expected. For a moment, her anger faltered.
‘Thank you,’ she said into the mic. ‘But it was still a lot to read. It was pretty insulting.’
‘It wasn’t that bad,’ he said, the edge creeping back into his voice. ‘I mean, come on. It was just a joke.’
‘But that’s not really the problem, is it?’ she said quietly. ‘The problem is I was just a conquest.’
Blake felt her spine straighten. ‘You texted your housemate that you were about to tick off two things from your bucket list: banging a redhead and a radio announcer. That’s not a joke. That’s a sentence that objectifies me twice.’
He scoffed, and she could practically see him rolling his eyes. ‘All right, all right. I don’t know why you’re getting so precious about this. Blake, you pop up on Bumble more than most women in this city. I think it’s pretty easy to assume you were down for a fu…’
Sam slammed the dump button.
The air jolted. A song crashed in mid-beat, Olivia Rodrigo’s voice filling the sudden vacuum. Blake’s headphones were already off, clattering on the desk. Her fingernails digging into her palms.
For a moment, nobody moved. The studio felt smaller, the air thicker. Blake could hear her own breathing, harsh and uneven. Her face burned with humiliation and rage.
Mack leaned back, his trademark smirk gone.
‘Bit far,’ he said. ‘Even for me, Blakey.’
Blake looked at the desk. The control panel. Her abandoned notes. The cold dregs of her coffee.
Then up at Sam. His face was neutral and professional, but his hand still rested near the button. Ready. Protective.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
The ON AIR light stayed off. The song played on.
And the phone lines kept ringing. Behind the glass, Britt’s fingers flew across her keyboard, managing the flood of social-media responses. Chelsea had her headset half off, fielding calls. The energy in the building was charged, electric and unstable.
Blake sat in the reverberating silence of what almost went to air. The word he’d almost said echoed in her head anyway. She knew what he thought of her. What they all thought of her.
But something shifted. The humiliation transformed into something else. Fuel. And underneath it, a truth she’d been burying for thirteen years. Every failed date, every man who didn’t measure up…she’d been comparing them all to one week. To him.
She thought back to last night. While she was frantically getting ready and Chelsea was in the bathroom, Morgan had looked up from her noodles.
‘Mum, is Chels right? Do you think we could find him on the radio?’
Blake had frozen, one earring in, the other dangling from her fingers. ‘Find who, sweetheart?’
Morgan had given her that look. The one that said she wasn’t a little kid anymore. ‘My dad. Do you think he even remembers you?’
‘I…’ Blake had fumbled for words, sitting down despite her rush. ‘Of course he’d remember. The way we both felt that week. It’s not something you forget.’
‘But would he want to know me?’ Morgan asked.
The question had hit Blake like a physical blow. Morgan had never asked about her father directly. She always danced around it, gathering information in fragments.
‘I think anyone would be lucky to know you, Morgs.’
Morgan had pushed noodles around her plate, considering. ‘So will you? Try to find him? On the show?’
Blake’s chest had tightened. ‘That’s a big thing, making it public like that. Once it’s out there…’
‘I know.’ Morgan’s voice had been steady, too steady for a twelve-year-old. ‘But I’d really like to know who he is. Even if… even if he doesn’t want to know me back.’
The words lodged themselves under Blake’s ribs.
‘You’ve got a mic, a platform, and a story people actually care about,’ Chelsea had said, standing barefoot in Blake’s kitchen. ‘Use it.’
It hadn’t felt like pressure then. Just truth. And maybe, just maybe, Chelsea was right.
Blake took a deep breath. For Morgan. She could do this for Morgan.
By the time the 8 am news wrapped, Blake had made her decision. Her phone sat silent on the desk; Fettuccine Guy was blocked on every platform. The studio felt different now, charged with purpose.
The opener rolled out, that familiar audio sting that usually made her smile. Today it sounded like a battlecry. Sam held up three fingers. Two. One.
The ON AIR light blinked red. Blake settled in, headphones on, mic live, fingers curled around her cup.
‘It’s six past eight,’ Mack opened. ‘And if you’ve been following along this morning, first, welcome to the drama.
Second, stick around. Because Blake’s got something to say.
Also, if you’re just joining us, top of nineteen in the city, light showers expected across the southeast. You might want to keep the brolly handy, Melbourne. ’
He threw it to her with a look that was more curious than cheeky now. Even Mack knew when to dial it back.
Blake took a breath. The words she’d been holding back for thirteen years were finally ready to spill. Behind the glass, Chelsea had stopped typing. Britt looked up from her screen, sensing something momentous. Even Steve, who’d materialised from wherever he lurked between segments, was still.
‘Melbourne, I need your help. Call or text us on fourteen-sixteen-twelve. After last night’s disastrous date, and a conversation with my daughter, I’ve decided I want to find her father.
Thirteen years ago, I had the most incredible week of my life.
It started at Eurofest when I was working on the station promo team.
You might’ve seen me. I was on the main stage at halftime, tossing out merch and trying not to trip over the sound rig.
Spoiler: I tripped. Badly. And that’s when I met him. ’
The words came easier now, like they’d been there all the time waiting to spill out.
‘That’s where I met. Leo. White T-shirt. Dark messy hair. Guitar over his back. Levi’s, classic. He looked like the guy every band wants as their frontman and every girl’s mum hopes is just visiting.’
‘You may have seen him help me off the main stage after I tripped. We spent a week together after that. It wasn’t long, but it was everything. We didn’t exchange numbers. Social media wasn’t what it is now. And then he left. The result of that week…is my daughter.’
Silence. Not dead air, but the kind of quiet that meant everyone was listening. Really listening.
‘She’s twelve now. She’s started asking questions.
So I’m starting to look for answers. If you were at Eurofest in 2013, and you remember a guy: tall, dark-haired, olive skin, white tee, Levi’s, maybe travelling with security, a guitarist in one of the bands.
Broad shoulders, jawline that could key a car… ’
Blake paused, her throat suddenly tight. Thirteen years of keeping this story close, and now she was offering it to the whole city.
‘Did you see him with me, a redhead who clearly didn’t belong in a VIP tent?
Picture me—if you’ve seen me on the billboard at Melbourne Airport arrivals—but thirteen years younger, more awkward, and yeah, perkier breasts.
If you remember him, or remember seeing me, or us there, or if you took a photo, or know someone who might have, text or call the studio. Fourteen-sixteen-twelve.’
She glanced up at Sam. The moment held. The whole city seemed to hold its breath.
‘His name is Leo. And I’d really like to find him.’
The words hung in the air, and Blake felt exposed in a way that was nothing like her dating disasters. She was asking for the one person who’d ever made her feel whole. But this wasn’t just for her. It was for Morgan too.
She hesitated. Just for a second. Then added: ‘Because my daughter deserves to know the kind of man who made her, and whether he’s still the man I remember.’
The silence that followed was full of thirteen years of questions, of single-parent school runs, of Father’s Day cards that went unmade. Full of a little girl who was starting to wonder why everyone but her had two names on their emergency contact forms.
Behind the glass, Chelsea had tears in her eyes. Britt was already fielding calls and managing the social-media flood. Steve looked like he was running calculations, something sparking behind his usual corporate mask.
Sam looked to Blake, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He cued up the next song with one hand while taking calls with the other.
Blake sat back in her chair, her heart hammering. What had she just done?
Behind the glass, the producer desk had turned into mission control.
The song played. The phones kept ringing. And Blake realised there was no taking it back now.
Melbourne was calling, and everyone had something to say.