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Chapter 1
DARA
My phone pings with another email from my boss. I sigh, and text my friend Tanisha that John the Content Manager is flat driving me nuts.
Tanisha texts back, “You’re already nuts.”
I snicker and start to text back, but John pokes his head out of his office and gives me an impatient stare across the Channel 10 newsroom, where the crew is preparing for the noon broadcast.
The noon show is a step up from weekend broadcasts for me. It’s not that I don’t have the talent for evening anchor; it’s that our top weekday evening anchor is—like me—a Rivertown native, well-beloved locally, and unlikely to be shoved out of his spot in favor of a younger news reporter. But the second slot at weekday evening anchor keeps opening up, as those people get snapped up frequently by stations with bigger markets.
I have hopes.
And I’m not just a pretty face. Telling the stories that matter is important to me. I do my own reporting whenever possible, just like I used to when I worked in print journalism.
But I’ve only been reporting for television for seven years, four of them here at WRTN, and the station is number one of three in our local market. That’s probably behind John’s nonstop string of story ideas, as I know we’re only a step or two ahead of Channel 7.
I wave at John to let him know I’m on it, and open the email.
It’s an invitation.
What the hell?
My boss wants me to go to this speed-dating event.
He doesn’t mean just report on it. He wants me to attend it, as a participant, and then report back on how it goes.
Seriously?
I mean, okay, I’m single because I’m too busy.
No, really.
When I’m not working on content, I’m at the gym. I don’t do anything else. It’s kind of sad, and kind of lonely.
My phone pings yet again, and I read the follow-up message, where my boss adds that on-air romance draws viewers. Makes them more engaged with the channel. Could be good for ratings if I find someone to date at the event. I set my phone down and press hard on my closed eyelids. Is this workplace harassment, or just John being an idiot?
Then my phone rings, and it’s my mother. I answer, already wary. After a few minutes of how-are-you-how’s-your-day chitchat, she starts right in on me. “Sweetie. You know your cousin Suzanne is getting married this coming weekend. Do you have a date yet?”
I close my eyes. “No, Mother, I do not have a date. I told Suzanne I didn’t have a plus-one.”
“I’ll call your Aunt Jen to fix that. Look, Dara. You’re thirty-two, you’re not getting any younger, and you’re not even trying. I don’t want you to be alone.”
“Get a dog, Mom.”
“You don’t want to spend the rest of your life alone, do you?”
What do I say to that? “No. But that has nothing to do with Suze—”
“You should try speed dating,” Mom says brightly. “My friend Sarah’s daughter met her husband at a MatchMakers Inc. event. Oh, look. I just found something for you. They’re having one tonight. You should go.”
“Mom. Seriously? The only men who go to these things are complete losers. Not interested.”
“You’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your handsome prince,” my mother says.
“Speed dating is ridiculous. Five minutes is really not enough time to figure out if you want to date someone.”
“You say you don’t have time to date,” Mom says in a reasonable tone. “So pucker up, buttercup.”
