“Calm down, please,” Dwayne says, his voice booming.
“You did,” Jerry says to Moriarty. “You knew the name of the person sending the emails when Quinn didn’t even say her name.” Jerry’s sporting a crap-eating grin on his face as he says this. He’s loving every minute of this.
“I only knew it because I heard Quinn complaining about it,” she says.
“And you just assumed that’s who I was referring to?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Just admit it was you,” I say, my voice getting louder.
“I won’t, because it wasn’t me,” she says.
“Hold on,” Dwayne says. “I think I understand.”
I hold my breath. Will Moriarty finally get what she deserves?
“Everyone get back to work,” Dwayne says to the room, and a low rumble fills the space as everyone in the newsroom goes back to what they were doing.
“Come over here,” Dwayne says, opening the door to the audio booth, and Moriarty, Henry, Jerry, and I all file in. Dwayne dismisses Brady as soon as he sees him. Brady, who had been inside this little cocoon and hadn’t heard any of what just went on.
Brady gives me a sideways glance as he leaves, and I reach over and grab his hand and squeeze it. This does not go unnoticed by Henry, and I see an almost imperceptible nostril flare at the contact.
“Stacey,” Dwayne says. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she says. “Quinn’s gone and lost her mind.”
“I think you’re the one who’s lost her mind,” I spit out.
“Did you or did you not send Quinn those emails?” he asks.
Moriarty pauses, only briefly. “Of course I didn’t.”
“She’s lying!” I say, louder than I intended, the noise getting absorbed by the foam-covered walls surrounding us.
Dwayne swipes a hand down his face. “At this point, it’s word against word,” he says, his voice sounding tired and agitated. “I’m gonna need to see more substantial proof.”
“I—” I start, but then stop myself as I look from face to face.
Moriarty is doing a fantastic job playing the part of a woman scorned, her eyes downcast, her lips pulling downward.
If the tables were turned, if Moriarty accused me of something like this, would I get the same treatment? Or would they dismiss me without needing substantial proof?
And even if I do get evidence, what will happen next? Moriarty is the face of the station. What will they even do?
Then it hits me. They won’t do anything. Even if I had all the proof in the world, Moriarty’s face is all over Central Florida—it’s nearly synonymous with KCFL. It would cost the station so much to be rid of her.
That’s the truth of the matter, then. Nothing will change for me here. Until Moriarty retires, or moves, I’ll always be in her shadow, always be relegated to something less. If I want to stay here, then I have to be willing to settle for that.
News flash: I’m not. I don’t want to settle. Not anymore.
Even knowing that because of that stupid viral video I probably won’t find other work in this market, or any other market, it’s not enough for me to stay.
“Okay, well,” I say, dropping my hands to my sides. “I guess, then, I quit.”
“What?” Henry says, his eyes wide, his posture going rigid.
“I’m not going to stay here and deal with . . . this,” I say, holding a hand out toward Moriarty.
“Quinn,” Dwayne says. “We don’t want you to leave.”
“You can’t quit,” Jerry says, his eyes wild as he searches my face. I recognize the moment when he realizes I’m serious. That I’m not going back on my decision. He looks down at the floor.
“I appreciate you giving me a chance, Dwayne. You brought me on after my internship,” I say, giving him a soft smile. “But I’m not going to stay here, working under these conditions. Thanks . . . for everything.”
I turn to go, but before I do, I give Henry one last look. I don’t plead with my eyes, I don’t expect him to jump in here, to rescue me. The only thing I allow my eyes to convey is one thing: goodbye.
Because this is goodbye. Goodbye to this job, to him, to working in news. To all of it.
I walk out of the booth, grab anything that I want to keep from my desk, which isn’t much, and I leave.
Chapter 25
“You quit?” Thomas asks, his voice loud over the Saturday night crowd at Hester’s. Everyone came tonight to try and cheer me up after yesterday, after walking away from the station and from Henry.
“I did,” I say, leaning back in my chair. Our table is full of drinks and appetizers, but I haven’t been able to touch anything. I’m just not hungry. I guess it takes quitting my job and losing someone I could see myself having a future with to get me off food. Good to know.
“It’s not official yet, though,” I say. “I have to go back and fill out some paperwork.” And I suspect Dwayne will try to talk me out of it. He called me after I left and said he wasn’t going to make anything official. Not until he could talk to me in person. But he won’t change my mind.
Holly, who didn’t drag Logan with her tonight, reaches over and puts her hand on my back, moving it around in circles. I called her last night, and she came right over. We ate Thai food and donuts, and commiserated about everything. About work . . . about Moriarty . . . about Henry.
It’s all been rather spirit crushing, but I’d say the whole Henry thing has made it that much worse.
“Well, then now you can date Henry,” Bree says, her lips pulled up conspiratorially.
“No way,” Alex says.
“But wasn’t that the problem? That he was her boss?” Bree says.
“Yes, but it doesn’t seem right that he should come running to her now,” Alex says. “What’s he sacrificing for her if he does that? It’s too easy.”
“Thank you, Alex,” I say.
Holly had said the same thing last night—not so definitively as Bree, but more as a question, asking me if I’d consider it.
“I’m not going to see Henry again,” I say, saying the same thing to everyone that I said to Holly last night. “I didn’t quit to be with him.”
I quit because I’d have been settling for a job that I now realize has been toxic. If Henry came running to me now, telling me that since I’ve quit, we can be together . . . well, that feels like settling too. I deserve more than that. I deserve someone who will fight for me. Who wants to be with me despite the possible consequences, not because things became so much easier for him. It took me twenty-seven years to start fighting for what I deserve. With my mom, with my job, and with my life. It feels right. I deserve to be happy, regardless of my pants size. I deserve to work in a place where I am treated with respect. I deserve to be with a man who wants me enough to face his fears, who’s willing to give us a real chance.
In Henry’s defense, he hasn’t called to try to talk me out of it or to ask if we have a chance. All I got from him is one text: I don’t want you to quit is all it said. I didn’t reply. It doesn’t matter what he wants now. I also didn’t delete his contact information. I’m not quite ready for that.