God, this didn’t sound like it was going to go well. I felt sick to my stomach over the personal nature of everything I’d bled onto that page and the way Rhonda discarded it.
But I maintained my composure, as always. “I agreed with her. So that’s what I wrote.”
“No. I don’t think that’s it,” Rhonda said quietly, pushing back into her chair and steepling her hands in her lap. “I think you’re like every other weasel out there, hooked by whatever spell she puts out and eager to keep a direct line to her genitals.”
Pulses fired behind my eyes and needles pricked at my skin, and I fought to make sense of each sensation.
It took an almost ridiculously long moment to recognize I was angry—something I was completely and wholeheartedly unfamiliar with.
My clarity was so hazy, so scattered, I had to take an extra second to gather my thoughts.
When I found my focus, aided no doubt by the daggers shooting out of my boss’s eyes, the only conclusion there was to come to settled over me like the San Francisco fog. “I’m not going to disagree with her just to disagree. Sorry. That’s not how I do things.”
Rhonda shot forward in her seat again, leaning her elbows onto the gleaming wood of her obscenely large desk. I’d heard of men compensating for penis size, but I wasn’t sure what the equivalent was when it came to a woman. “The column has a buzz because you disagree. That’s the whole point, Reed.”
“I thought the point was to help people looking for advice or direction in their lives.”
“Ohh,” she hemmed. “Yeah, that wasn’t the goal. We’re looking for sales, and let’s face it, people love conflict. The mushy, we-actually-like-each-other feelings you’re portraying, not so much.”
Thanks to her indifference, I came back into myself. I only sought the opinions of people whose passion matched my own—whose position held merit and substance. Rhonda Leech wasn’t either of those things. She was a money-grubber and a gatekeeper to ruthless morals. She was, perhaps, an exact portrayal of her true self—a concept I always preached—but she wasn’t a good mesh with me. I wasn’t even angry anymore.
“Again, sorry. Falsifying advice for the gain of the paper is not my scene.”
“You work for us, so really, we tell you what your scene is. And the gain of the paper is always it.”
I shook my head and stood up from my seat.
“I’ve never been good at being a puppet. Played Pinocchio once in my elementary school play, and all of the reviews said it was a spectacular failure.”
She grabbed my column from the desk and shook it. “This…love letter…is never going to print. Either you rewrite another draft that aligns with the goals of this institution, or you can consider your column discontinued. We’ll draft a good-bye from you to fill the spot.”
“Then it’s been a good run, but I guess this is good-bye.”
“Reed—”
“Have a good day, Rhonda.”
I reached forward and pulled the column out of her hand. “But this…I’ll keep.”
I didn’t look up, and I didn’t look back as I left the office and headed straight for Lola’s apartment. I wanted to see her, touch her, breathe her in as a means of reassurance as I struggled to understand the disappointment I felt.
My only comfort came from knowing the disenchantment wasn’t pointed within but outward, to the world around me. It was a temper tantrum of sorts, where emotion lashed out at the readers for loving a good scandal and at Rhonda for being so ruthless.
I mused over why people couldn’t find joy in writing rather than in drama, but by the time I made it a couple of blocks, all that fire burned out.
This wasn’t about a job or societal letdowns. This was about pouring my heart onto a paper, bleeding myself into the moment and my wants, and having them slapped down.
Lola’s validation felt more important than ever.
I was only a block away from Lola’s building when the power of distraction ran me right into the past—literally.
“Reed? Holy shit, man. Is that you?” the low voice asked, a crying baby on his hip. Wild blond curls and a thumb in her mouth, the little girl struggled to settle as I moved my gaze from her to the man holding her.
I could hardly believe my eyes. “Brandon?”
Once my best friend, this man had gone on to become everything I hadn’t and then some—a partner, a husband, a family man with a sense of purpose other than himself—everything that was now staring my Lola-loving self in the face.
Fate sure had a sense of humor.
“Knock. Knock,” I announced and tapped my fist against the door to Reed’s apartment three times.