God, I’m so screwed.
“One more thing.” Barrett opens the center console and pulls out my cellphone. “It’s charged, but the ringer’s off.”
I reach for it eagerly and he tsks me, shaking his head. He opens my purse and drops the phone inside. “No looking until you’re sitting at your desk. Not standing inside the building. Not riding the elevator. Your desk is officially ‘at work.’”
“That’s asking a lot.” I frown.
“You can do it. Just think about this instead.” He kisses me again, this time with tongue. I practically climb out of my seat and into his lap trying to access more of his incredible mouth. I don’t care who walks by on the street and sees us. I don’t care that this started out as a dreaded assignment. We’ve morphed into something more. Something…meaningful.
He palms my jaw and drops another kiss on my temple. “Go.”
“Okay.” I unbuckle my seat belt. “See you later?” Tonight, I hope.
“You’d better see me later.”
Well, that made me smile. “I’ll call you.”
“Deal.”
I step out of the car and into the building. My newfound freedom tempts me to reach into my bag and check the myriad messages, emails, and phone calls I’ve had to have missed.
I don’t. Instead I float through the lobby, glide up the elevator, and practically skip to my desk.
“Good morning,” I chime as I breeze by Nanci’s desk.
“Hey, Catarina. Amazing column.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you read any feedback yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve been electronically barren for over twenty-four hours, so give me a moment to settle in.”
“Oh. Okay.” Her expression is a mystery. I can’t tell if she’s nervous or bothered. Or maybe she didn’t like me putting her on my timetable. Well, too bad. Barrett was right. Most things can wait. I had my first stress-free day on Sunday in as long as I can remember.
I thought I’d go crazy during my screen fast, but it was actually relaxing. Now that I’m at my desk, and logging into my laptop, I’m not looking forward to plugging back in.
While my email inbox fills with—Wow—a lot more emails than usual, I turn on my phone’s ringer and check my texts. There are several.
Most of them are from friends and are some version of “Great article!” One is from my mom that reads “He’s so brave. Amazing column, dear.” I chuckle when I read it. Does she mean he’s brave for attending the governor’s party? Or is his bravery being commended because he’s dating me?
I set my phone aside, smiling as I scan the emails. My smile falls as I read the subject on several of them—they have an eerily similar theme.
Dyslexia.
Email after email reflects sentiments like:
“I had no idea Barrett suffered from dyslexia...”
“I’m dyslexic, too, and understand how harrowing this is...”
“I’m beyond moved that he overcame such great odds...”
One nastygram accuses Barrett of doing anything for publicity—even pretending to be dyslexic. I delete it with an angry tap of a key.
“There are phone messages, too,” Nanci interrupts gently as I’m poring over the many, many letters from readers. She hands over a stack of Post-its scrawled with notes and phone numbers. I don’t bother reading them. I have a good guess what they’re about.
“Where do I start?” I mutter. “I had no idea Barrett shared about his dyslexia in the column. It’s brave and amazing and...” Not like him at all.
“It’s in your half of the column.” Nanci frowns. “I thought you two planned it that way.”
My heart sinks to my toes. My cheeks grow cold as the blood rushes from my face.
Nanci walks back to her desk, and I numbly open the Chat’s home page. I skim Barrett’s half of the column. It’s everything I remember it being the first time I read it. Funny, charming, and blunt—like him. Then I skim my half of the article and stop breathing.
I read every column I write at least ten times. I read and reread. Edit and then read it again. I know every word in it and can usually recite parts from memory. The words that stop me cold are words I didn’t write.
What Barrett Fox doesn’t want anyone to know is that he works harder than I do on this column. He sweats over every word thanks to a lifetime of fighting dyslexia. As a hardworking college student who had to keep his grades up to play football, I can only imagine how taxing this must have been for him. He’s an amazing specimen physically, and knowing he’s been fighting this mentally has added an entirely new, fascinating layer to our relationship.
My hand covering my mouth, I stare in disbelief at the screen. From that paragraph it transitions back to my original column, wrapping with my summary of the elegant evening at the governor’s mansion where we all but leave in a horse-drawn carriage.
My mind races, spinning for an explanation, but there’s only one.
Mia. A woman who treasures readership numbers and advertising dollars over the well-being of her employees. I march to her office and bang on the door until she opens it.
“Good God, Catarina. Yes, yes. Won’t you please come in?” She yanks her glasses off her nose and scowls, but I don’t give her the chance to intimidate me. I lay into her.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Excuse me?”
“No, no. You don’t have the luxury of acting offended. Tell me why the mention of Barrett’s dyslexia appears in our column under my name when I didn’t write about it!”
She exhales, her lips pursing. “Because it’s a damn good story and you should have put it in there.”
I blink, stunned that she’s admitting to it. “How did you—”
“That day that you were talking in his cubicle. I overheard. I was walking out, and I may have slipped behind a wall to eavesdrop. It was a seriously juicy bit of information. I thought for sure I’d read about it in one of your columns. You never pass up a scoop.”
“I do when it hurts someone I care about!” I practically shout. “That’s his private business.”
“Catarina. You are a journalist. Information isn’t privileged when it’s shared in a newsroom, for the love of God. Have you seen the response? He’s a hero!”
“You sold him out.”
“I did him a favor. He’ll probably be asked to be the face of a local charity. Maybe he’ll be offered another job as field reporter. That’s why he took on this assignment in the first place. It’s not my fault you were swept up in the fairy tale and didn’t prioritize your column.”
“I pride myself on my integrity, Mia. Can’t you understand that?”
“I have a paper to run, sweetheart, and that means when we have dwindling readership I make a brilliant plan to increase it. And if it starts to flag at the end of a segment’s run, then I do what it takes to revive it.”
I shake my head, hardly able to believe this woman used to be my mentor.
“What you did to revive this column is reprehensible.” I turn and walk out of her office, ignoring her when she calls my name. My mind is on Barrett—and reaching him before he reads the article.