She sets her hand on mine, as if to soften the blow of herinsults, and I fight the urge to yank it back. “Cassidy, this is your MO. You come up with great ideas, really creative and unique ideas—and then you assign them to someone else. You have incredible instincts, but you’re not willing to take any risks yourself. You can’t play it safe in this business, not if you want to get noticed. Not if you want to make animpact. If I hadn’t taken the risk to start Siren ten years ago, I’d probably still be wasting away at some dying newspaper, barely making enough to scrape by.
“Listen, you’re smart and you’re driven and you have amazing potential, maybe more potential than anyone else here. But your unwillingness to put yourself out there and really go for it is holding you back. Something is stopping you from stepping up and claiming your success.”
“That’s... that’s not what this is,” I mumble, so hurt and caught off guard I can barely speak. There’s a freight train between my ears, a high-pitched ringing so loud it might split my skull.I need to get out of here.
“Of course this would have been a big story for Siren, but it would have been an even bigger break foryou. You’ve gotten comfortable here, and as your boss, that’s fine for me—I know what to expect from you. But I was really hoping you’d surprise me this time. I was hoping you’d surpriseyourself.”
She pauses, as if to give me a chance to respond, but I’m stunned silent. I’m simultaneously tingling and numb with shock. I feel like one of thoseGleekids after they’ve gotten a slushie to the face.
“Look, I don’t need to know the details of your personal life. That’s your business. But from what you’ve said, it sounds like you’ve gotten too close to your subject and you’re letting some personal feelings cloud yourprofessional judgment.” I bring my head up and meet her eyes, refusing to confirm what she thinks she knows—that I’m giving up my chance at glory for a guy. I won’t give her the satisfaction. “I think you need to ask yourself: If this same opportunity was in front of Jack, would he be sacrificing himself the same way you are?”
I want to say yes so badly. I think of how Jack’s eyes tend to linger on my face a few seconds longer than necessary; the way he touches me, his hands both possessive and protective; the way he listens,reallylistens, when I talk; the genuine relief on his face when I told him I wasn’t seeing anyone else. I desperately want to believe that if push came to shove Jack would choose me over his work, but the painful reality is, I can’t say so for sure.
“Whether or not you write this story is your choice, Cassidy. It’s always been your choice. But you don’t get these opportunities back.” She holds eye contact. “I’d hate for you to regret it.”
“SHE BASICALLY CALLEDme a coward. A spineless pushover. A weak-willed wimp! Do you think she’s right?”
After I fled Cynthia’s office, red-faced and humiliated, I sent Nat an SOS text to meet me around the corner at one of our favorite dive bars, known for its vibrant happy hour scene and reliably heavy pours. I’ve spent the last half hour railing against the injustice of it all, Cynthia’s harsh feedback burning in my gut like a shot of cheap tequila. Like a true friend, Nat’s been letting me rant without interruption or judgment while I drown my sorrows in this (very stiff) martini.
“I think she’s trying to get in your head, and it’sworking.” Nat motions over my head at our server, pointing to my empty glass.A true friend, I tell you.
“I don’t know, I don’t think of Cynthia as manipulative. She may be ruthless, but she doesn’t lie.” I wish I didn’t respect her as much as I do; it would make her criticism so much easier to dismiss.
“If that’s how you feel, then I guess the more important question is: Doyouthink she’s right?”
I gulp. It’s the million-dollar question, but putting my own behavior under the microscope like this is excruciating. “I do assign a lot of my best story ideas to other people.”
Nat flicks a dismissive wrist. “You’re an editor—it’s your job to assign stories. You can’t write every one yourself.”
“What about the fact that I can’t seem to get anywhere on my book? I’ve been talking about it for years now and have nothing to show for it.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to change that. Why don’t you take this righteous anger you’re feeling and use it as motivation? Channel it into your writing and prove her wrong.”
I blow a raspberry. “Right now, I just feel like having a pity party.”
She flashes a palm in solidarity. “Understood. I will stop offering productive solutions to your problems. Vent away.”
“Thank you.” Our waitress returns with the plate of fries Nat ordered and my refreshed drink, which I grab right out of her hand. “You know what I was doing before you got here? Scrolling through old articles to see if I could classify any of my work as ‘risky.’ Spoiler alert: nope.”
“You know, looking at it another way, one could say that you’re ‘risking it all for love.’ ” She laces her fingers under her chin and bats her eyelashes theatrically.
“Oh please, we’ve only been on three dates. You can’t be in love with someone you barely know.”
“Speak for yourself! If Gabriel had asked me to marry him on our first date, I would’ve said yes.”
I fake-gag, then throw her a smile to let her know I’m kidding. “But that’s you.”
“Exactly. That’sme. I’m impulsive and reckless. And I have this idiotic butterfly tattoo on my ankle to prove it.” She sticks her leg out in proof. “I go with my gut, and you think things through. Neither is wrong.” She pauses. “Well, this tattoo was definitely wrong,” she mutters.
I sigh and stare down at the table, ripping my soggy cocktail napkin into tiny pieces.
“Cass, tell me the truth about what’s going on with Jack,” she says gently. “You obviously have feelings for him. What really happened last night? No one here is going to judge you.”
I exhale a breath. I purposely only shared vague details of my date-gone-wrong-then-right last night (torching the Engagement Chicken makes for an entertaining anecdote, after all), but if I’m planning to seriously pursue something with Jack, I’ll need to bring Nat into the circle of trust sooner or later—and at this point, I desperately need someone to confide in.
So I confess it all: the attraction I’ve felt building since our first date at the US Open, how different he is than I expected, the crushing guilt of lying to him, and my epiphany about my feelings for him, all culminating in the steamy kitchen hookup I can’t seem to stop replaying in my mind on an endless loop. Just recounting it fogs up the windows of this bar.
Nat’s eyes are wide as cake plates as she leans back inher chair and whistles. “Wooow. I had no idea things had gone this far. I just thought you had some sort of schoolgirl crush!”
