However, I thought I’d done a decent job making Lisa look good in the article.
“Then, why haven’t I received it?” Mr. Williams questions, his tone sharp.
“Oh.” My brain races backward through the chaos that is my wiring, trying to find the moment I had typed the final period on the piece—when I’d received that dopamine hit of being done with something I hated to do—more commonly known as relief.
Then dread blankets me.
Dang it.
I’d forgotten to submit it.
I’d finished, but I’d clicked over to one of my thirty-some open tabs to scroll through comments on the latest chapter I’d submitted onBarrett After Dark, the name of my fanfiction series to mimic Evan’sMurder After Dark.
“I forgot to submit it, Mr. Williams,” I say, my face warming at this admission of guilt.
“I suggest that now is an excellent time to do that instead of whatever you’re doing on your phone,” he grunts before turning away to find his next victim to harass.
I swallow as my gaze follows his steps toward, to my delight, Cameron Hays, sportswriter.
Cameron Hays is the guy in the office that thinks everyone adores him and wants to be him. He also swipes the company credit card more often than he trades out women, which really is saying something. When I was twenty-four, I’d let his smilethat was wider than an Oklahoma sunset make me believe that he believed in me.
But he’d been just like most guys—unable to share the spotlight with a woman. He preferred them on the sidelines, and I wasn’t okay being a sideline kind of girl.
“Cameron Hays!” Mr. Williams bellows, his voice vibrating through the thin office walls. Then he slams a stack of papers down on his desk, which I assume are credit card charges. “Explain yourself!”
But I know this rant is all for show, just like the show couch in Lisa Graham’s library. It’s part of Mr. Williams’ daily performance to ensure every writer on staff knows they answer tohim. Cameron Hays isn’t really a victim in this situation, even though I truly wish he was. He’s just playing a part, too, because I, and everyone else in this office, know that Cameron Hays will get away with practically anything. It’s the boys’ club atThe New York Standard,where the men know their careers are never in jeopardy and us women always believe ours are. And us women aren’t wrong.
After Mr. Williams finishes his façade of fury, Cameron steals a look over at me and winks.
Gag. Me.
Thankfully, my phone buzzes in my hand, shifting my gaze from Cameron-Full-Of-Himself-Hays to my phone screen, where the notification is alerting me of a new subscriber. But that username…
EvanTHEAuthor.
Surely, that can’t be right.
But I feel my jaw slightly drop at the possibility. Would Evan Michaels ever actually subscribe? Had I caught his attention? What does he think of my writing?!
Andthatthought makes my eyes grow big.
Evan Michaels readingmywords but withhischaracter. His fictional friend, according to the few interviews I was ableto find.
I click on the username. The profile picture is blank, and all that is underneath the name is that this is a new member as of today. Most likely it’s just someone wanting to spam me with comments and possibly slip into my inbox with some inappropriate conversation, which I always ignore. The internet is the wild, wild west where rules are made up as people decide what they should be. And the more my fan base grows, the more ridiculous comments I receive.
There’s a 99.9% chance that EvanTHEAuthor isn’t Evantheauthor at all. Just another distraction from getting what I know I need to get done—done.
So, I silence my phone and slip it into my desk drawer, focusing on getting the article sent to Mr. Williams before I am subjected to another belittling conversation. Or worse…unemployment. I don’t exactly have a fallback plan. Working at this newspaper was the means to an end, a job to pay the bills while chasing down the dream. And while my family always said I could come back home…That would be way too far of a fall.
Especially since Andrew is there.
Andrew Dalton.
He was my best friend turned to much more our sophomore year. We dated for eight years before it ended in a bad breakup that made me look like a complete idiot.
“Rachel!” The squeal is high-pitched but suppressed to stay quiet.
It’s Emma. She writes the announcements in the newspaper, usually gushing or gossiping over the latest engagement after she’s done a deep dive on social media of the happy, or not-so-happy, couple. Emma is obsessed with love. Cupid used all his arrows on her.
