"What about it?" Daniella pressed. "What's the angle?"
"Pew Research Center compiled a summary of surprising statistics about online dating, with growing numbers of people in a committed relationship or married having met online. We could take a look at how online dating-the technology behind it-has improved over the years and future directions for continued advancement."
"Hmm . . ." Daniella paused, and I knew what that pause meant. It meant she liked the idea, but didn't want him to write the piece, at least, not by himself. "Marie? Are you on?"
I unmuted my line, breathing out silently before saying, "Yep. I'm here."
"Can you partner on this with Tommy?" she asked, confirming my suspicions.
Crap.
It was no secret that I was Daniella's favorite. If she had an idea for a story, she always passed it by me first. She'd told me many times that I demonstrated a commitment to understanding, to truly living an experience before writing about it that was rare these days, and that difference showed in my finished articles.
I appreciated her compliments and her faith in me, but it often meant she wanted me to take the lead on someone else's story.
It's not that I didn't want to write the piece with Tommy. What I knew about Tommy I liked. Rather, it was that this piece was his idea. He deserved the opportunity to write it on his own, to prove himself.
However, before I could pitch a different idea or make an excuse, Tommy piped up, "I'd love to work with Marie on this, if she has time."
I frowned at my phone and bit my lip, feeling torn. On the one hand, he sounded completely sincere. On the other hand, it was his idea. His story.
Unable to delay any longer without inviting an uncomfortable silence, I said, "Yes. Absolutely. Sounds good."
"Great. It's settled. Anyone else?" Daniella asked and the call moved on.
Twisting my lips to the side, I muted my line and returned my attention to the photograph of David and his betrothed.
Perversely, I wondered if they'd met online. And if he'd been her perfect match.
Continuing to quietly stew for the remainder of the call, I felt relieved when it ended. Grabbing my wallet, I stood from my desk and darted out of my office. What this situation called for was nail polish.
I owned too many nail polishes. It's true. I freely admitted this. Worst of all, I hardly ever painted my nails. I'd use a bottle once, usually as therapy to get over a funk, but then never used the color again. Yet nothing made me feel better quite like fancy nails.
"Marie! Wait."
I twisted at the waist, checking to see who'd called my name, and found Camille Yardly jogging to catch up with me. Turning around to meet her, I smiled warmly.
"Hey. Are you grabbing lunch?" Camille was a contract engineer and hardly made it into the shared office space as she frequently traveled all over the world for her job.
"No. Nail polish. I packed my lunch." I tilted my head toward the break room. "I'm on a budget, but I'll eat with you if you grab takeout." I tried to sweeten the deal with a large smile.
"Ha. Sounds good. I skipped breakfast and my date last night was so terrible, I lost my appetite halfway through." She rolled her eyes, and my big grin became a smaller one of pure sympathy.
"I'm sorry. That's sucks."
"Yeah, well, it's okay . . ." Abruptly, she shook her head, heaving a sigh. "Actually, it's not okay. Mind if we walk together?"
"No, no. Feel free. I'm just going to the drugstore across the street." We fell into step on the way to the elevator. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She didn't require any further prompting. "Yes. I do. I'm just so damn frustrated. Where are all the men? And I don't mean man-children. I mean men. You know, the guys whose interests extend beyond playing Halo on their Xbox, and who actually make eye contact, and aren't constantly scanning the room for a better option. This guy, last night, left me at the table to go hit on a woman at the bar."
I grimaced, because that was bad. Really, really bad. "Wow. What a jerk."
Camille heaved another sigh just as we stepped onto the elevator, and this one sounded watery. "I just-you know-would like to find a nice, normal guy. Someone who treats me with respect, like a person. I don't ask for much. Don't you think it's mind-blowing?"
I could definitely empathize.
"What's that?" I asked right on queue. I'd heard this speech from Camille before and knew what she was going to say.
"Things that ought to be just a normal part of being a healthy adult are considered praiseworthy and that drives me bonkers." She began ticking them off her fingers. "Being employed. Not being an addict. Treating your parents well. Not being in massive debt. Being considerate. Being educated, or at the very least, informed. I must know one hundred single women who check all those boxes, and one hundred men in relationships already who check all those boxes, but not one unattached guy. Not one!"