Chapter 8
It’s quiet when I enter the newsroom the next day and head straight to my desk. There’s an odd energy in the room, and I can feel it surrounding me, penetrating the air. Like a storm brewing.
I brush it off, thinking maybe it’s me, bringing my bad energy into the room after my date with Henry last night ended so abruptly. No kisses. And I had been really looking forward to those kisses. Imagining them on repeat in my head.
I look over to the area of the newsroom where the producers usually sit, but none of them are there right now. Which isn’t so out of place, they’re probably in a meeting. Some of the interns are standing in a group, heads popping out every so often to look around the room and then bobbing back into the huddle. Like groundhogs checking whether it’s safe to come out or not.
There’s definitely something suspicious going on.
Is there another blooper reel out? Please, no. Is this about me? Even as I try to make it about myself, the fact that no one is searching me out makes me think otherwise. What’s going on?
I walk over to my desk and sit down in my chair, rolling myself toward my desk as I move the mouse to awaken the screen. I Google myself and nothing comes up. Nothing new, at least.
I expect Jerry to come slithering around here at any moment, so I spend my time reading the latest email from Grace Is Amazing.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dress
That blue dress is not doing you any favors. Who picks out your clothes?
Only trying to help,
Grace
Today, I’ve decided that along with her cats and her housecoat, my dear friend Grace lives in an abandoned trailer. And she has rotted teeth.
Your appearance is the least interesting thing about you.
I wish Grace thought that. All she seems to care about is my appearance.
I look across the room; the interns are still huddled, and the area where the producers sit is still empty. The energy in the room is still strange. I see Moriarty is now here, and she’s talking to Alexis—the producer for the evening show. They look to be talking intently, their heads leaning in toward each other, their voices low.
She looks over at me, and I’m not quick enough to drop eye contact. She gives me her best smirk and then goes back to talking to Alexis.
I can’t wait for Jerry any longer. I need to know what’s going on. Plus, I made eye contact with Moriarty and I now probably have a curse on me. I need to go somewhere before she comes traipsing over here, her spear tail in tow.
There’s one place I can go, and he’ll probably know what’s got everyone acting so weird around here. He always seems to be in the know. Plus, I need to have a conversation with him, and I might as well do it now.
I get up from my chair and walk over to the audio booth, opening the door and walking inside. Brady is sitting at his normal spot, the sound of his typing on his laptop the only thing in the dimly lit, quiet space. It’s like a whole other world in here. There’s no outside noise, no distractions.
“Quinn,” he says when he sees me. He sets his computer down on the ledge of the sound board and goes to stand. He takes a few steps toward me. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“What’s going on out there?” I say, pointing to the newsroom beyond the now-closed door of the audio booth.
“Uh.” He reaches up and scratches his forehead. “You haven’t heard, have you.” He says this in the form of a statement rather than a question.
“Heard what?”
“Tim quit yesterday. Took a job in a bigger market up north.”
“What?” I ask, my eyes going wide. Tim Walstrom is . . . or I guess was the news director for the station. And he’s gone?
“Yeah, and so they’ve moved Dwayne up and have already filled the executive producer position. He’s here. Already meeting with the program managers and the producers.”
“Who is it?”
“Don’t know.” He rubs his chin with thumb and pointer finger. “Haven’t even heard a name yet.”
“That’s crazy,” I say, feeling a tinge of trepidation weave its way down my spine. Tim and Dwayne basically run the station, and neither have seen fit—as of yet—to fire me for my viral f-bomb. And they’ve had ample opportunity. What if this new EP comes in and fires me?
“I’ve heard rumors,” Brady says.
“What have you heard?”
“Whoever he is, he’s not nice, and he likes to clean house. I hear he’s coming here from somewhere north.”
I anxiously blow air through my lips, letting my shoulders drop. I’m only midday news: no expensive billboards of my face to take down, hardly even any advertising spots to remove me from. Just a midday news reporter with a viral video of me spectacularly dropping a very bad word. I’m most likely a goner.
“Listen,” Brady says, reaching for my hand, holding it gently in his. Well, it’s not so much gentle as like hanging on to a dead fish. His hand is cold and clammy. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I pull my eyebrows inward. “Oh yeah? Um . . . me, too.”
“I was thinking,” he says, sounding a bit . . . nervous, maybe? “I was thinking that . . . well, the truth is . . . I was hoping we could go out again sometime. I think we connect, you know?”
“Um,” I say, trying to think of what I need to say to him—how I can phrase it nicely. He thinks we connect? I mean, we’ve barely had a real conversation. Certainly nothing like the one I had with Henry last night. I’ve been on three dates with Henry and know more about him than I do about Brady, and we went on dates fairly regularly for a couple of months.
“I mean,” Brady says before I can reply. He reaches up and pushes his glasses so they perch higher on his nose. “I feel like things sort of just stopped. And I wanted to . . . maybe start them up again.”
“Brady, I—” I start, but then stop myself. His face is so vulnerable, so sweet. Last week if he had asked me, I might have said yes. I probably would have. But now . . . well, now there’s a Henry.
Before I can say anything, the door to the booth whooshes open, spilling cool air and bright light into the room.
“We’re screwed,” Jerry says, his face the color of ash except for his bulbous red nose.
“What?” I ask as I drop Brady’s hand and turn toward the door.
“Come out here, please,” Jerry says, running his hands through his comb-over, making it stick out obnoxiously around his head. He looks like a mad scientist.
I walk out of the booth and cross the few feet to my desk, Jerry hot on my heels.
“Why are we screwed?” I ask, nervousness swimming in my belly.
“I’ve just met him. The new guy.”
“And?”
“Well, he’s . . . it’s not good.”
“Would you just tell me?”
Jerry pushes air out his nose. He reaches up and rubs the bone between his eyes. “This whole thing was unexpected. No rumor of losing Tim, so they weren’t prepared for this.”