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Fiona places her cup on its saucer and her clasped hands on the table. She angles her face, and a slight smirk touches her lips. “I don’t have much time, Adam. Why on earth did you travel all the way from New York to Magnolia Point? This place is off the beaten path and hardly the kind of town you pass on a major highway,” she says, holding my gaze as she waits.
I wish I’d taken the time to come up with an answer that doesn’t paint me like an unhinged stalker.
"Have you had the chance to hear the messages I left?" I inquire, hoping to clear the air before potentially embarrassing myself further.
With a single, graceful nod, she barely conceals a chuckle behind her teacup. "Actually, I haven't listened to them myself," she admits, her voice tinged with amusement. "However, your agent told me about your interest in joining my podcast. What's the motivation behind that?" Her inquiry is laced with a hint of skepticism, her soft brown eyes narrowing slightly, betraying a wariness that's entirely warranted. She clearly suspects my motives are self-serving, an assumption that hits uncomfortably close to the truth. At least it was before now.
"I believe there's a mutual benefit here. We can expand our listener bases by tapping into each other's distinct audiences.” My voice lacks conviction. The truth is, I hadn't strategized my pitch.
Harry's warning echoes in my mind. Fiona has zero incentive to collaborate with my podcast. It dawns on me that a sizable portion of my audience might already be following her show.
Her response is direct yet not devoid of sympathy. "Let's not skirt around the real issue. Both of us know that your show's ratings have declined, which translates to a reduction in ad revenue. You're looking for a boost from me," she replies, her initially firm tone mellowing as she concludes her point.
My throat tightens, clenching with words I'm too apprehensive to speak. Fiona doesn’t owe me any favors, and if roles were reversed, I’d be far less gracious than she’s been so far. My father taught me to view people as adversaries, each gunning to challenge your position, eager to see you fail. I sense that Fiona doesn't share my cynicism. It’s refreshing to meet someone who hasn’t been jaded by life.
“I’m not trying to be dishonest, but asking for help is never easy. I love my job. From the moment I recorded my first episode, it was clear I'd discovered my true passion—there was nothing else I envisioned myself doing. As you know, this industry is immensely competitive, and staying outside the top rankings often means there isn't enough advertising revenue to sustain this as a full-time job. I once held the top spot, then slipped to second, and now find myself teetering at fifth. This descent has led to the loss of my primary sponsor, and I'm on the brink of losing more," I confess, my words tumbling out in a candid outpouring. She probably finds me pathetic.
Fiona cradles her cup between her palms, bringing it to her lips while her brown eyes lock onto mine from above the rim. "The issue is, you're not personable enough," she observes, her comment catching me off guard.
"Personable? Have I said something offensive?" My confusion is evident as I rapidly blink, trying to grasp her meaning.
With a shake of her head and a puzzled frown, Fiona clarifies, "Not in person, I'm referring to your show." She pauses, weighing her next words carefully. "Although, a bit more warmth in person wouldn't hurt either. But you come across as detached on your show, merely reciting facts without taking a stance, almost like a newsreader. It's okay to show emotion, to express a viewpoint, especially on cases as heinous as a man serving a life sentence for murdering his family, or a woman who kills her spouse for insurance money. I appreciate your show, yet I'm left wanting by your lack of personal insight. It feels like you're holding back on sharing your feelings about the cases you discuss."
"Is it vital to vocalize such an obvious stance? Surely, my disapproval of murder is implicit." Even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’m missing her point.
Fiona's expression grows more contemplative. "How was your coffee?" she inquires, seeming to divert the conversation.
Glancing down at my drained cup, I tilt it towards her, silently indicating its emptiness.
She interjects before I can verbalize my satisfaction. "That's precisely my point. The empty cup might suggest you enjoyed the coffee or merely sought the caffeine boost it provided. Maybe it was the finest coffee you've tasted or just good enough to consume. Without your input, I'm left to infer your experience was at least satisfactory. Your show, much like this situation, lacks your personal reactions. Our listeners want to know we share their feelings. They want to understand our outrage over systemic failures that enable further atrocities, like Ted Bundy's continued spree due to oversight. They crave the depth of your anger towards a murderer living freely while his victims' lives were cut short.” She punctuates her point by slamming her cup against the table, then quickly mops up the few escaped drops with a napkin.
This moment of clarity brings Harry's long-standing advice into sharp focus, revealing my previous obliviousness to the depth of engagement and connection my audience seeks. A self-deprecating chuckle escapes me as I recline, arms crossed, finally grasping the stubborn resistance that's clouded my understanding. I’m such an idiot. How have I been so oblivious?
"Would you like my help, Adam?" As she delicately dabs at her lips to preserve her lip gloss, Fiona's question disrupts my train of thought, sparking a moment of disbelief. Could she genuinely offer her help, or is this some joke at my expense?
"Please." The word escapes from me, a whisper tinged with a cautious hope.
"Okay, I’ll help you. How long do you plan to stay in town?" Fiona continues, beginning to collect her things.
"Until the job's done." My mind races through the logistics and financial implications of prolonging my visit. I may need to switch to a more budget-friendly hotel.
"Let's meet here tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. Don't forget to bring a notebook. And please, don’t be late," she instructs, rising from her seat.
Spurred by a surge of enthusiasm, I jump to my feet, quickly pocketing my phone as we make our way out. The prospect of her guidance slices through my usual reserve, leaving me with a smile too broad to contain.
"I wouldn’t dream of it," I assure her, my voice buoyed by a newfound optimism.
CHAPTER 6
"What do you mean you're helping him?" Gisela's shock mirrors the turmoil inside me.
In the moment, impulsively offering my assistance to him seemed right, yet now, it feels indefensible. As I sat across from his infuriatingly handsome face as he feigned ignorance to the glaring faults I painstakingly pointed out, I felt the urge to shout profanities and mess up his perfect hair. Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for underdogs, and his pity party reeled me in.
"I merely suggested I'd consider it," I lie, my cheeks warming with embarrassment. For years, I've ranted against Adam's arrogance, only to cave so quickly. It wasn't his charm. His allure was negligible at best. Despite my desire to be a hard-ass, I’m inexplicably soft-hearted.
“That’s not what you said five minutes ago,” Gisela scolds me with justifiable anger. “Adam Kelly is not our friend. He’s a competitor who could take what you teach him and beat you at your own game.”
Helping him is an amateur move, but something about his genuine plea warmed my heart.
