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“You…think your father might be guilty? Even though you gave him his alibi?” I ask carefully, knowing I may have stepped too far. This is exactly the sort of information I’m supposed to get for the Blaze article— and when I think that, I feel sick to my stomach. Carson is opening up to me, really and truly; how dare I even think about the article right now? I swallow hard to contain the disgust with myself as best I can.
Carson is staring straight at the ceiling, like he’s hoping there are answers to everything written up there, which means he doesn’t see the guilt in my eyes. “I don’t know for sure that I met my dad for dinner that night. I did when I gave the statement—but you’ve got to realize, my dad had just gotten arrested for murder. My entire world was getting turned around, I was scared, I was worried, we were all freaking out. Dad and I had dinner one night that week, I’m sure of it, but weeks had passed by the time the cops asked me about it.”
“There’s a traffic video of you, though,” I persist.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “On a route I drive all the time. It fits with the timetable of us getting dinner, but that doesn’t mean we definitely were. The lawyer has told me a thousand times that I don’t know for sure we didn’t get dinner, so it’s just as possible we did.”
I shift, nodding. “I don’t remember where I got dinner weeks ago. If someone told me I needed to remember it, I’m sure I would have, but there’s no way I could tell you off the bat if I went to Chipotle or not on any given Tuesday,” I say.
“Yeah,” Carson says with a half-hearted shrug. “It’s driving me insane, though, not being able to remember— not knowing if my alibi is actually legit. I just hate that the strongest piece of evidence for my dad’s innocence is all on me. If you were choosing between me and my brothers for a responsibility like this, you’d choose the other two before me, every time. So. There’s the family drama you’re getting yourself involved with, Astrid. Sure you want to go another round?” He says this with a grin, but it’s not a very happy one.
I smile genuinely. “First off, I’m not with your entire family. I’m with you. And secondly, I am very, very sure I want another round. You’re the one that’s making me wait, remember?”
Carson laughs lightly, then, after a moment of comfortable silence, asks, “What about you? Siblings? Parents?”
“No siblings. Parents are in Massachusetts. You’ve got something in common with them— they’re not fans of reporters, either.”
“Wait, are they famous or something?” Carson asks, frowning.
“No— they just think it’s a dying profession, and they’re mad I’m going into it. They want me to go into law. But journalism isn’t dying, it’s just changing right now— sort of like the music industry did a decade or two ago. My parents don’t much care though. They’re letting me get my undergrad in journalism so long as I promise to apply for law school afterward.”
“Just apply?”
“If I apply and get in, I know they’ll make me go,” I say, sighing.
Carson snorts. “They can’t make you do anything.”
“They pay all my bills. I’m only able to work for the newspaper because they give me an allowance so I don’t have to work a real job. They can make me do a lot,” I answer.
Carson disagrees, clearly, but he doesn’t appear interested in pressing the issue. Instead, he says, “Well, I’m sure when you show them this amazing story you’re writing on the great Carson Slate, they’ll change their minds.”
I feel a little sick at how close to home that comment hits.
And it makes me think about the fact that Devin isn’t interested in a positive story on Carson Slate. He wants an exposé, a story about Dennis Slate, a story about crime with a little football thrown in.
A story that I could write this very second and pad my portfolio with an incredible piece of work on a hot topic issue. And a story that I can’t possibly write— because if I do, I’ll lose Carson.
We go out for breakfast the following morning, since Carson’s suite doesn’t offer much by way of actual human food (though if you want old tortilla chips, random condiments, or potatoes covered in new growths, he’s got you covered). We’re in line to be seated at a popular pancake place when my phone buzzes. I glance at it, and sigh— it’s Devin.
Devin: Call me asap, need to review your work
“Something wrong?” Carson asks.
“It’s my editor. He’s sort of the worst. He’s one of those micro-manager types,” I explain.
“Tell me if you need me to put some muscle on him, get him to back off,” Carson answers, and leans in to kiss the top of my head. I jump, startled— are we doing this, now? We’ve been out together plenty of times before, of course, but this is a college town— just because a couple is out together doesn’t mean they’re an item or anything. All of our physical contact has been beneath tables and tucked away up until his point, but now he’s kissing my head right here, in front of everyone—
