Chapter Forty-Six
Sin
Choice
I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve been at Kwame’s house for almost a month straight. It’s been interesting. Mostly in good ways. Waking up next to him is a top tier dopamine hit that starts my day off right.
We don’t share a bathroom or a closet and he’s outfitted one of the other rooms into an office for me.
I wasn’t sure how I’d feel living with anyone again, but I love it.
And him.
The aroma of fresh coffee and toasted bread wakes me up this morning. As nice as that is, I run a wistful hand over the pillow where his head would normally be.
I glance at the clock, and my rose-colored point of view clarifies. It’s already after seven, I have a meeting with Kathy at eight thirty. I should hurry.
In the weeks since my run-in with Sofia, every story I’ve submitted has been cut from the digital version of The Spectator.
It happens to the best and most seasoned staff writers but not every single week.
I’m salaried so my income isn’t affected.
But I didn’t become a journalist to collect a paycheck.
It’s killing my soul, but Sofia’s words echo in my mind. Is that my reputation? Difficult?
I drag myself out of bed and trudge to the bathroom.
“I thought you’d be done with the shower by now.” Kwame comes in just as I’ve turned the shower on.
He’s wearing my pink and white batik patterned house robe. I gape at him and shout over the roar of water hitting the tiled shower floor. “Oh my God, why are you wearing that?”
He frowns and looks at himself in the mirror. It’s a one size fits all and the sleeves are voluminous on me. It hits me at the knee. On him, it’s barely long enough to cover his thighs. And the tip of his dick peeks out below the hem. “I like it. And all my clothes are in the laundry.”
“Maybe if you owned more than seven pairs of underwear or let me send your laundry out with mine, you wouldn’t have this problem.” I stick my hand under the rain shower head to test the temperature. It’s perfect, as always.
“Why do you send your laundry out? We have a washer and dryer.”
“Because it saves me time or lets me spend the evening reading instead of folding and sorting and ironing. And I always have clean clothes.”
“But then I wouldn’t have an excuse to wear your robe. It smells like you. Well, when you’re clean.” He winks, taps my ass, and leaves before I can think of anything clever to say.
When I get out of the shower he’s sitting on the bed, reading something on his phone.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. I haven’t seen your column in the digital version in weeks.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that’s because it’s been cut.”
I open his closet and pull out one of the garment bags I brought over and unzip it.
“What do you mean?”
I look at him puzzled and then remember that I never told him what happened with Sofia. “Ugh, sorry I was so upset when it happened that I didn’t want to talk about it and then…I guess I just moved on.”
He tosses his phone onto the bed and gives me his full attention. “Tell me.”
I fill him in on my conversation with Sofia from last August and when I’m done, he’s staring at me in disbelief. “She said that to you?”
“Yup.”
I slip my skirt on, and he stands to zip it for me. “Thank you.” I caress his shoulder and slip my blouse on.
I give myself a critical once over and frown. “I’m not sure I should wear white. I’m notorious for spilling things.” I walk back to both closets and eye the meager selection I have here.
“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to take the blue or red pill,” Kwame jokes from behind me. “Why are you going to work in a place that treats you like that?”
“I can’t have her as an enemy and succeed at The Spectator.”
“Does this feel like succeeding?” He asks and comes to stand beside me, eyeing me as critically as I was eyeing my blouses.
“I don’t know.” I bite my lip and try not to let my self-pity get the best of me this morning. “I’m not sure I can do better than this right now.”
“If you think like that you certainly can’t.”
“I’m being realistic. I haven’t been there a year. I don’t want to look like I can’t keep a job. This woman has a direct hand in my future.”
He takes my hands in his. “You have a direct hand in your future. What are you afraid of, Sin?”
I close my eyes and want to cry. “That I’m not cut out for this and everyone can see it but me. That’s why I keep getting passed over.”
He lets go of my hand and picks up his phone. “Can I read you something?”
I eye him warily. “Sure.”
He nods and clears his throat.
“She has worked extensively as a journalist covering the stories of people who are often forgotten in the headlines.
Her work has followed the rules of climate injustice in migration patterns, the exploitation of refugees, the immigration detention center systems and in 2021 she managed to find her way into a federal prison to record footage of neglect and abuse.
She's testified for Congress about the repatriation of stolen artifacts. She has been honored with the Sarah Coleman award in 2019. She’s also the 2015 winner of the Peabody future of media award.”
He looks up at me. “Does that sound like someone who’s not cut out for her career?”
“Oh my God, where did you get that?”
“You have a whole Wikipedia page, Sin. People know who you are. You know who you are. And I remember someone telling me that even if I didn’t have anyone, I had myself.”
“Oh my God, thank you. You always know what to say.”
“I’m glad. Because if you’re unhappy, my only concern is fixing it.”
Joy bubbles up inside of me and pushes a laugh up and out of me. I’m overwhelmed by everything I’m feeling and bury my face in my hands.
“Hey, hey,” Kwame is back by my side and he puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side.
I wrap my arms around him and hug him tight.
“What’s wrong, baby?” He lowers us to sitting on the bed and I crawl into his lap and cup his face again and rest my forehead on his.
“Nothing is wrong. I’m so happy.” I bury my face in his warm neck and pepper it with kisses. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
He circles me in my arms. “Of course,” he leans away. “Are you surprised?”
I swipe at my cheeks with the backs of my hands and give him my brightest smile. “No. I guess I’m still getting used to it.”
“Get used to it. I’ll always bet on you, Sin. But it doesn’t matter if you won’t bet on yourself.” He kisses me swiftly and heads to the bathroom.
I didn’t get where I am by playing small or being a doormat. Nor have I ever hid my ambition. Where would I be if I’d waited for someone to give me a chance? I’ve always made my own luck.
He’s right. It’s time to bet on myself.