Page 8 of The Apparent Trap

“Right! I didn’t mean to interrupt you before you go on air.” He looks at his watch, as though the time is some great surprise to him. “Well, hop to it, I’m running out.” He gives me a hug. Then he looks at Carmen again. “It was so nice to meet you.”

“Would it be too forward to ask for your number?” she blurts out quickly. “I’d love to take you out for coffee and pick your brain on some of your thoughts on these wildfires we’re covering. I’m planning to do a wider investigative report on preventive measures and would love your input. Maybe we could even do an interview or . . .”

I watch as she keeps yammering on while they both pull out their phones and exchange numbers. I shake off the weird feeling. He’s a mentor to lots of students, and Carmen is basically their age. He is a good expert for that kind of segment, actually. He does a fair amount with us, generally. Because he’s based in New York, he’s often a go-to guy for climate-related stories when they want someone in-studio with a scientific perspective.

I’m probably reading into it because I’m not used to my work world and my home world colliding. The Mark Halevi superfans have always been anonymous PhD candidates or something similar.

My dad gives me another kiss on the cheek and hands me the Tupperware container. “I’ll see you tonight,” he trills and walks off.

I look over at Carmen. She’s blushing more than she should be.

I’m aware a lot of people think my dad is handsome—but in my age bracket of early-thirties women, that sentence is always followed with for his age. Especially now that he’s fifty-five. When he was newly widowed, no one talked about it because everyone in my high school had known my mom. But by college, when the past wasn’t colored in for new people, it was unmissable for me.

But for him, I think he’s remained deliberately obtuse. In the seventeen years it’s been just the two of us, he’s never had a girlfriend. And until our truncated conversation the other night, I never brought it up. Why would I? We’ve been fine.

I shuffle the papers on my desk and grab the script and research packet for the interview. I turn to hand them to Carmen so I can intentionally change back the subject, but apparently it’s already been changed for her.

Her blush is gone, and an anxious smile is on her face. It’s funny to watch, because I have to admit that one of the reasons why Carmen is so damn good at this job is that she doesn’t get nervous on camera. All her straightforward competence comes right through the lens. The camera changes most people, and even just a slight shift is subconsciously perceptible to viewers at home. But what everyone at home imagines Carmen is like is exactly what she is like. It’s rare, and unteachable.

So what the hell has Carmen looking flustered?

I look over and immediately do a double take.

Because Lee Morgan is now standing in front of both of us. Well, Carmen. Because he’s definitely not looking at me.

“Hey,” he says to her, reticent for reasons I could not possibly fathom. His normal glow is dimmed. “How’ve the first couple of weeks been?”

“Good!” she says with too much emphasis. “Are you on today?”

She’s seen the rundown and obviously would know he is. But maybe she just didn’t pay close attention?

“Yup, I’m doing a roast squash with sage and fall spices.”

“Oh awesome, that’s really great.”

“Yeah, I like this recipe, especially for mid-October.”

They keep talking in this stunted surface way about his boring, predictable segment, and I’ve gotta say—this is awkward. He’s subdued, like a puppy who’s been bopped on the nose, instead of his usual bouncy energy.

How do they know each other? Oh god, does Lee hit on everyone? Am I just another victim in a long line of women who think Lee Morgan understands them? Mortifying.

Even more mortifying is the fact that even when his eyes dart over to me for a moment, they immediately go back to Carmen. He clearly doesn’t recognize me at all. Typical.

News flash: Man who doesn’t think he could be hoodwinked by a slight makeover is, in fact, unable to recognize a woman just because she is now wearing glasses, has her hair pulled up, and didn’t deign to put on makeup to come into work at six in the morning.

But I’m brought back when I hear Carmen say, “Oh, and have you met my producer, Ezzie Halevi?”

“I um . . .” he says, glancing over at me, his jaw tight. “Nice to meet you.” He shakes my hand without even looking at me for more than a second.

He focuses back on Carmen. “It would be great to catch up outside . . . well, whenever you’re settled and have time. Maybe after the show one day.”

“Sure, that sounds good,” she says in a way that indicates it, perhaps, does not sound good. “Text me and we’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” he replies, nodding as though he’s taking in information much more complex than the very simple brush-off to whatever this is. “Okay. Well, see you soon, then.”

He walks off, and I spin around to look at Carmen, who’s watching him go.

I don’t want to pry. It’s not my business. And Carmen clearly doesn’t want to share. She’s got the distinct vibe of a reality contestant who’s decided she’s “not here to make friends.”