Unforgiven(33)

A smile creeps across my face. God, I miss her too. I haven’t seen her in person since she moved back to California, but we keep in touch via text, email, and Facetime. I don’t have time to call her back right now, but I pound out a quick text message to her.
I’ll be here. Stay with me. I love you and can’t wait to see you. Text me the details. Xoxo
Mike sets a lunch tray on the table with two salads and two bottles of water. “Greek for you, chicken salad for me,” he says, pulling his plate off the tray. Our lunch conversation is comfortable and I manage to choke down a few bites of salad, mostly artichoke hearts, but it’s something.
“Eat, Lindsay,” Mike instructs as he devours his salad and breadstick in record time.
“I’m not really hungry.”
“You never are. You can’t live on coffee.” He raises his eyebrows at me and purses his lips.
“I love coffee.”
“We all do, but, girl, you need some calories. You’re getting too skinny.”
“You can never be too skinny,” I mumble under my breath.
Mike drops his fork and glares at me. “What the hell is this all about, Christianson?”
“I love it when you get all gay-mad at me and call me Christianson.” I smile at him.
“I’m serious. Is this about Amanda? She tells everyone they’re fat. It’s her ‘go-to’ method of watching new girls self-destruct… and, Lindsay, you’re self-destructing. Your clothes hang on you. Your cheekbones are starting to stick out, and you look fucking exhausted all the time. Eat.”
“I’m fine, and nothing Amanda says will get me to self-destruct, so stop worrying.”
“You’re my friend, Lindsay. I will worry.”
“Thank you for being my friend.” I appreciate Mike’s concern and love that he considers me a friend. I need a friend. Mike’s phone rings and, with an eye roll and a grumble, he answers it just as my phone starts ringing. My news director’s name, Rob, flashes across the screen.
“Hi, Rob,” I answer with a tone of confusion, as he never calls me.
“Lindsay, I stopped by your desk, but you weren’t there. When can I expect your story? You said it’d be done by noon.”
“I uploaded it to the server before I left for lunch.”
“Lindsay, it’s not there.”
“Shit. I’m on my way back now.” I jump up and grab my purse, not waiting for Mike. I’m only a couple of blocks away, but I’m in almost a full sprint, even in my heels. I keep replaying the minutes before we left for lunch. Mike is hot on my heels as he yells for me to slow down.
“What’s wrong?” he asks as he finally catches up to me.
“Rob called. The story didn’t upload to the server.”
“Don’t panic. It’s on your computer. Just hit upload when we get back. It was a mistake.”
“I don’t have room for mistakes, Mike. Everyone is watching me.”
“I know, Lindsay.”
He jogs in front of me and holds open the glass door as I run through the main lobby toward the hall that leads down to the newsroom and offices. Amanda stands just outside her cubicle with her arms crossed across her chest, a chest she paid for, no doubt, and a smirk on her face. She’s talking to another reporter and says something inaudible as I pass her before she breaks into a fit of laughter.
I toss my purse onto my desk and throw myself into my chair. I struggle to catch my breath as I punch in the password to my computer and my screen opens up. The software that I use to edit has been closed out. I don’t remember closing the application after I submitted the story. Mike stands in the open doorway of my cubicle, hovering over me. The application opens and there is nothing there. I stare at a blank screen. The story is gone. The original raw footage is gone. Everything is gone.
“It’s gone.”
“What do you mean ‘it’s gone,’” Mike says, pushing his way next to me. “Move over.” I roll my chair away as Mike clicks away on the keyboard.
“Did you lock your screen when you got up to leave?” Mike looks back over his shoulder at me.
“I think so. I mean, I don’t know for sure. Mike, this is bad. The story is gone.”
“Lindsay, go talk to Rob. I have someone else I have to talk to.” His eyes narrow and his tan face turns bright red.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit,” I curse at myself, rubbing my temples, trying to remember everything I did before we left for lunch. I don’t remember hitting submit and sending the story to Rob, but I know I saved the story in the application. It was there. I am confident it was there—in fact, I know it was there.