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“Could we pause for a moment?” Gisela suggests, easing back into her seat while she sifts through the stack of notes I've asked her to categorize chronologically. I prefer to keep a few less significant details off the primary script to maintain focus during the broadcast. They’re intentional intermissions that allow for moments of lighthearted banter with Gisela to serve as a counterbalance and prevent me from becoming long-winded. I tend to talk endlessly if left unchecked, and that can make for one boring show.
Glancing at my wristwatch, I notice we're ahead of our production schedule. Crafting and refining a single episode typically demands six to seven hours of my day. While some navigate this process much more efficiently than I do, my meticulous nature, especially concerning the nuances of my vocal delivery, forces me to insist on a minimum of three recordings for each segment. This is the finale of an exposé, structured into three installments to be broadcast over three weeks, and spotlights two new big-name sponsors. The first just aired and might be my highest-rated show ever. The stakes are high, and the margin for error is virtually nonexistent. This show needs to be flawless.
“Time for a break. I'm starving and craving Mexican food,” Gisela announces, swiftly gathering her belongings and standing up with a burst of energy.
Her words are like music to my ears, instantly lifting my spirits. The realization hits me that I've been so engrossed in work, I've neglected breakfast and lunch. My hunger pangs are now undeniable.
“Perfect idea. Let's head over to Phoebe's place downtown. I've got a couple of errands to run there as well. And don’t let me forget to grab a bag of fresh tortilla chips for later. I'm going to need some serious sustenance for the editing marathon ahead,” I say, grabbing my keys and preparing to leave.
Gisela's excitement is palpable as she exclaims, "Oh, and you have to try the strawberry margaritas from Just in Queso! Phoebe makes the best ones in town." Her enthusiasm, complete with an animated gesture, serves as a reminder of the long hours we've put in. We should have taken a break hours ago.
"Let's go, Gigi. Lunch is on me today!” I declare, using her childhood nickname. I’m eager to make amends for this horrible oversight and looking forward to a plate of chimichangas.
“Oh my God, these flautas are the bomb,” Gisela mumbles, barely pausing between bites to savor the day's special. Her delight momentarily sparks a twinge of envy in me, making me second-guess my own order. However, that fleeting doubt dissolves with the first taste of my chicken chimichangas, each bite confirming I couldn't have chosen better.
As we indulge in the best Mexican food in Magnolia Point, a persistent buzz emanates from my purse, signaling an incoming call. I'm determined not to let this interruption encroach on the rare moment of leisure that Gigi and I have carved out for ourselves. Especially not in the middle of the blissful haze induced by Just in Queso's surprisingly potent strawberry margarita. The phone insists with a second vibration, piquing my curiosity despite my previous decision to ignore it. Glancing discreetly at my watch, which conveniently displays notifications from my phone, I notice the call is from an unfamiliar number. With a swift decision, I redirect the call to voicemail and continue stuffing my face.
“Who's bugging you?” Gisela inquires, her eyes momentarily shut in contentment as she relishes a bite of her rice, fully immersed in the culinary experience.
I respond with a noncommittal shrug, giving the unfamiliar number another glance. "It's a call from New York, but I can't think of anyone there who needs to contact me. I'm certain I don't owe anyone money, and there's no reason for my agent to call—we wrapped up all our new arrangements just last week."
Gisela, however, seems blissfully unaware of my musings, her attention wholly captivated by the last of her flautas, each bite an indulgence she's not willing to interrupt. Her blissful moment is abruptly interrupted by the shrill ring of her phone coming from her bag. She hastily digs through her purse, casually placed on the empty seat between us, her movements suggesting an anticipation of an important call. "Just a sec, I'm getting a call," she announces. Yet, despite her quick reaction, the call slips to voicemail before she can answer.
Curious, I inquire, "Who was that?" all the while engaging in a futile battle with my straw to capture the last remaining drops of my margarita.
Gisela motions for a brief silence, pressing the phone to her ear, her face contorting with annoyance as she listens to the lengthy voicemail. After enduring the message, she dismissively rolls her eyes and flings her phone back into the abyss of her bag. "That was Adam Kelly's agent, again," she exclaims, clearly irritated. "Didn't you already make it clear to them that you're not interested?"
“Actually, I never responded,” I clarify through a mouthful of chips. “Which is probably why he’s reaching out to you.”
My frustration surfaces at the mere mention of Adam Kelly, once the kingpin of true crime podcasts and someone whose work I once profoundly admired. Despite never aiming to surpass him, I meticulously studied his approach, aspiring to mirror his burgeoning success. A chance encounter at a conference two years back led me to approach him in an elevator. I behaved like such a fangirl, lavishing praise on his show while attempting to introduce myself. My cheeks burn hot from that humiliating memory. To my horror, he dismissed me with a nod before I could finish my name, mistaking me for just another fan. His rejection was the catalyst that made me take my show to a new level. As my show reigns supreme and his podcast lags at fifth place, the thought of helping him recuperate his standing is ridiculous.
Gisela's reaction catches me off guard. "I can't believe you're still hung up on that. It's been two years. I thought you’d be over him by now,” she remarks, clearly surprised by the intensity of my long-dead crush and lingering resentment.
Her words snap me back to reality, and I realize I've been voicing my thoughts aloud. "Was I thinking out loud again?" I ask, shrinking back, embarrassed by the extent of my own revelations.
"Yes, you were. You really need to watch that," Gisela warns half-jokingly. "Someday, it might just land you in hot water."
CHAPTER 3
“You’re making a fool of yourself. Fiona said no, and you should always listen to a woman when she says no—especially when that 'no' is followed by 'not in this lifetime,’” Henry scolds me as I leave his place, my resolve unshaken to confront Fiona face to face. After a brief yet revealing dive into online research, I've learned she resides in a quaint town known as Magnolia Point, nestled within the South Carolina low country. Fiona has transformed a once-abandoned lighthouse into her sanctuary, where she broadcasts her podcast. Over the past two years, she has meticulously renovated it into a cozy, livable space, a fact she proudly shares through photos on Pinterest.
Last night, I found myself lost in the nuances of her design choices, each image a testament to her taste and the sheer will it took to turn a lighthouse into a home. The more I learn about her, the more she piques my interest. Unfortunately, that feeling may never be mutual.
Pausing at the top of his steps, I turn to address Henry and assure him that I haven’t lost my mind. "I won't do anything impulsive," I promise. The reality that Fiona has consistently ignored my attempts at communication has forced me to seek her out for a face-to-face visit. It’s not like I’m stalking her. Details about her are hardly shrouded in secrecy, and locating her took no more than a cursory online search. "If she was concerned about privacy, perhaps she should stop oversharing," I suggest, making excuses for my creepy behavior. "I'll keep you updated. This shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”
"It's a thirteen-hour journey, Adam. This isn't a day trip," Henry interjects, recalculating my overly optimistic timeline with a dose of geographic reality.
South Carolina is significantly farther than my initial estimate. Despite his reminder, I manage to grin, waving him off as if his words don’t reveal anything new, all the while internally questioning the wisdom of my plan.
On my drive, I immerse myself in the second installment of Fiona's Humphries exposé, which captivates me even more than the first one. My grip on the steering wheel tightens, knuckles bleaching under the strain as I marvel at her flawless execution. Each episode unfolds with such seamless precision that it's as though she's a seasoned veteran of the craft, despite having only been in the podcasting world for a mere fraction of that time. Her storytelling leaves me both envious and spellbound, pondering the secret behind her rapid ascent to excellence and wondering if I can learn from her. I'll never match it. The most I can hope for is a chance to ride her coattails.
Six hours on the road and a car full of discarded snacks and fast food leads me to a four-star hotel in Richmond, Virginia. It was a bad idea to leave late in the day, but the sooner I can do this, the quicker I can return home and to business. The allure of the South Carolina coast holds no sway over me. My skin burns far too quickly, and I’ve never enjoyed Southern cuisine. Moreover, the leisurely pace of small-town life contrasts starkly with the frenetic rat race of New York City, a rhythm that suits me best.
Sleep eludes me, leaving me restless and on edge in the unfamiliar silence of the hotel room. In search of distraction, I find myself poring over Fiona's online presence, spanning her professional achievements to glimpses of her personal life. Her photographs capture my attention with her radiant smile, almond-shaped eyes, and the delicate scatter of freckles across her fair complexion. A recent post marks her twenty-third birthday, yet her youthful features suggest she isn’t a day past nineteen.
These snapshots of spirited, unbridled joy starkly contrast my sense of misery and self-loathing.
As I'm caught in the delicate balance of professional respect and emerging personal affection, I ponder why our paths have never crossed. Despite my efforts to connect with Fiona at the last media convention, it seemed as though she deliberately kept her distance. Her blend of beauty and intellect is precisely what my mother envisions for me, yet until now, I have only viewed Fiona through the lens of competition.
