Chapter 8
“We got that all on camera!” Miranda called from behind the crew. “It’s gold. Someone see if we can get a release form from that woman before she’s gone!”
A crew member scrambled after the woman.
Amayah winced as she watched everything play out. “I don’t know that we should use that footage.”
Miranda hustled closer, headset bouncing around her neck. “Are you kidding? It was authentic. Heartfelt. People love that stuff.”
“Maybe too much,” Amayah murmured.
Miranda blinked. “What do you mean?”
Amayah’s gaze drifted down the street where the young woman had disappeared.
“She said she quit her job because of something I said.” Her voice tightened.
“That’s not . . . I don’t want people tearing their lives apart because they misunderstood a thirty-second clip.
Not every open door is meant to be walked through. ”
Miranda softened just a fraction. “You can’t control what people do with your content.”
“But I can control whether I amplify moments like that.” She exhaled, cold air stinging her lungs. God, what if I say something careless? What if someone takes it wrong? What if I hurt someone without meaning to?
Her fear was real: People thinking she had answers she didn’t. People following her when she barely trusted herself.
“I just . . .” She shook her head and forced a fragile smile. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Miranda searched her face but didn’t push. “Fine. We’ll revisit this later.”
Amayah turned toward the nearest house, grateful for the out.
“You see that door?” She pointed to a pine-and-cranberry wreath woven with frosted berries. “Excellent use of natural elements. I love a foraged vibe. But I’m deducting points for the blow-up Santa in the yard.”
Luke huffed a quiet laugh. “Harsh but fair.”
She glanced at him, warmth flickering behind her eyes. She was grateful for his steady presence after the exuberant fan encounter. More than anything right now, she wanted to know about him.
“So what about you, Luke Cross?” She slowed her steps.
He angled toward her. “What about me?”
“Is being a journalist everything you expected it to be?”
The question caught Luke off guard.
Most people didn’t ask him why he did what he did. He was usually the one asking questions.
When others did decide to turn the tables on him, they generally asked about his stories.
Not this. Not something personal.
He glanced behind them and saw the camera crew had backed off and were taking some B-roll instead. Still, he lowered his voice before answering, wanting to keep this conversation private.
“I guess you could say I’ve learned that journalism is more coffee and less glamour.” He shrugged as they began walking again.
Amayah smiled, but Luke knew she wasn’t done with her questions yet.
“Why choose to be a reporter?” she continued. “You’re smart. You could have probably done anything, and some people think journalism is a dying profession.”
Snow crunched softly beneath their steps as they continued down the decorated street. Luke found himself staring a little too long at the way a curl had slipped loose from her scarf.
He forced his attention forward.
“Truth matters. Or at least . . . it used to.” He exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl into the cold air. “I guess I thought if I dug deep enough, I’d help people see what’s real. Pull back the noise. The illusion.”
“That’s noble.” She said the words as if she meant them.
However, he didn’t feel noble.
He felt tired. Weathered at the edges. Wary of hope.
Luke cleared his throat. “I didn’t start out sounding like I wanted to lead a crusade.
I was just a kid with a notebook and too many questions.
Got my first internship at nineteen—tiny paper, bad coffee, worse pay.
I covered anything they’d give me: school board meetings, pothole repairs, the county fair.
But I loved it. I loved digging for the truth.
The stories behind the stories. The way the smallest detail could change an entire narrative. ”
Amayah listened, her total attention on him.
“I jumped to the Herald a few years later. Worked my way up from obituaries and restaurant openings to long-form features. Human-interest stories. Things that helped people understand each other.” His voice softened.
“That was my favorite. It felt . . . decent. Like journalism the way it was supposed to be.”
Her expression warmed. “And now?”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “Now? Most days I chase whatever gets clicks. ‘Ten Ways Your Neighbor Might Be a Menace.’ ‘One Tiny Habit that Could Make Your Week 300% Better.’ That kind of garbage.” He shook his head.
“It’s easier to get attention with shock than with nuance.
My editor knows it. I know it. Doesn’t mean it sits right. ”
“It sounds like it wasn’t what you set out to do. But maybe that can change once your editor sees how dedicated you are.”
“Maybe.” He hesitated before finishing. “I keep hoping if I write enough truth, if I just keep at it, maybe it will matter. Maybe people would care enough to look deeper.” His eyes lifted to hers. “But somewhere along the way . . . I stopped knowing if I still believe that.”
“And now?” She peered up at him, her eyes wide and . . . luminous.
His mouth curved faintly, though there wasn’t much humor behind it. “Now I’m not always sure the truth still interests anyone. But here I am, still chasing it anyway.”
She studied him as if weighing something. Then she finally said, “That sounds like faith to me.”
He almost denied it. Almost laughed it off—because faith wasn’t a word he claimed much anymore.
But her comment brushed against something he didn’t expect: the quiet, awkward prayer he’d muttered yesterday after his first meeting with Amayah. He’d expected it to feel wrong, but it hadn’t. In fact, praying had felt good.
It had felt . . . right, like a homecoming of sorts.
He cleared his throat, unsettled by how close she’d come to the truth. “Or stubbornness.”
“Sometimes they look the same.” She flashed a knowing smile, warm and disarming, as if she saw the tension inside him and didn’t find it strange at all.
As they continued walking, Luke realized just how easy their conversation felt.
Too easy.
Like something he wasn’t used to letting himself have.
Before Amayah could say anything else, something thudded softly against Luke’s chest.
Luke blinked at the white smear on his coat. “What—?”
Just then, a chorus of high-pitched gasps and poorly muffled giggles erupted from across the street.
“Retreat!” a boy shouted from behind a half-decorated hedge.
“No! Stand your ground!” another yelled, brandishing a lumpy snowball that crumbled in his mittened hand.
“Did I forget to mention the annual snowball fight tradition that goes along with this bazaar?” Amayah asked with a grin.
Luke turned slowly toward the cluster of bundled children. “I see what’s happening here . . .”
Another snowball arced through the air—this one slightly misshapen, slightly ambitious—and whizzed past Miranda’s ankle, skittering across the sidewalk.
“Oh, no, they didn’t! Keep the cameras rolling, people!” Miranda pointed at the lead cameraman. “If someone face-plants, we’re using it in the blooper reel.”
A few neighbors paused to watch.
Someone cheered, “Get him, boys!”
Luke lifted his hands in surrender. “I am but an innocent bystander.”
“You’re wearing a black coat,” one of the kids hollered. “That’s villain attire!”
Amayah bit back a laugh as another snowball splatted near Luke’s boots. “I think you’ve been profiled.”
A girl of about nine stepped forward, brandishing a snowball with the confidence of a seasoned warrior. “Surrender your kettle corn, sir, and we’ll let you pass.”
Luke looked down at the bag in his hand. “This seems like extortion.”
“It’s Christmas,” Amayah whispered. “Make a deal.”
Meanwhile, the camera captured everything:
Luke under fire.
Amayah barely containing laughter.
The kids cackling in triumph.
The festive street twinkling behind them like a storybook gone rogue.
Luke sighed dramatically. “Fine. Truce!”
He extended his kettle corn like a peace offering.
The smallest boy trotted forward, swapped it for a half-formed snowball, and saluted like a tiny general.
Amayah clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter as the kids retreated triumphantly down the sidewalk.
Luke watched them go, wiping snow from his coat. “Didn’t expect to be ambushed. That was humbling.”
“On the bright side, you survived,” Amayah offered.
“And I’m pretty sure the cameras caught zero dignity in that whole ordeal.”
She grinned. “Dignity’s overrated.”
He glanced at her, smiling despite himself. “I’m beginning to see that.”