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“That’s wonderful,” I said. “Very kind of him.”
Mauricio murmured an agreement, and we fell silent as he navigated the streets of Palm Beach and then West Palm Beach on his way to the Chatter headquarters. I took advantage of the time and reviewed my notes, as well as the schedule for the day. It promised to be a long day of speeches, ribbon cuttings, tours, and more fanfare. I doubted I’d get a chance to talk at all to Landon during the official proceedings because I figured he’d be monopolized by questions from other reporters and dignitaries. I jotted down a few notes to ask him later at the house when I hoped to have another chance to talk to him.
“Here we are,” Mauricio said when he turned the car onto the edge of the new Chatter property. “Let the fun begin.”
“Can’t wait.”
It had been less than twenty-four hours since my private tour of the building but seeing Chatter with so many cars and people around it really set the tone that this day was different. This was an important day for Landon and the rest of the Sparks Innovation team, and they’d gone all out to convey that. A huge red ribbon had been tied across the front doors, and through the glass windows of the lobby I spied what appeared to be an enormous multicolored balloon drop. Several food trucks lined the concrete walkway near the entrance, a red carpet blanketed the concrete, and a large step-and-repeat invited guests to take official photos in front of the glossy and bold Chatter logo.
“Wow,” I breathed.
“They did a great job,” Mauricio replied. “This is big.”
“I can tell.”
He maneuvered the car to the back entrance, near a loading and unloading zone. “The press pen isn’t far from here.”
He led me into the building, swiping in with a magnetized ID around his neck. We wound through a hallway that opened to the lobby and the area designated for the press. Once we arrived, Mauricio reminded me he’d be waiting in the car and said goodbye, leaving me with a smattering of reporters from all different kinds of media. Many were journalistic heavyweights and celebrities with large social media followings.
Here we go, Rebecca.
I climbed on the black riser to get a better view of the podium and VIP seating. Next to me, gear from national news outlets sat poised for any action, with the lenses of video cameras aimed toward the main stage alongside a gaggle of the tripods and lights. Twists of electrical cords gathered on the platform, and a few photographers concentrated on getting the perfect shots for their coverage. Ahead, at least twenty microphones balanced atop the podium, and a few people were already seated in anticipation of the official ribbon cutting. I didn’t recognize any of them.
“How late do you think this will start?” a fastidiously skinny blonde standing next to me asked the cameraman working with her. She carried a small notebook emblazoned with the Global News Network logo and her hair appeared frozen in place by a mountain of hairspray.
“At least a half hour late,” her coworker replied.
She rolled her eyes, which were enhanced by thick, fake lashes. “You’re right. We’re on Sparks Innovation Time, and we better not forget it.”
“The worst was when I covered the Naturalink launch from Cape Canaveral.” The aging cameraman cleared his throat and ran a hand through his sparse salt-and-pepper colored hair, his bald spot gleaming with a slight film of sweat. “Delayed almost two hours for no reason whatsoever.”
“Ugh.” She sighed. “I’ve got to tell the producers to give me better assignments.”
“It’s too bad Landon Sparks got Chatter,” her coworker mused. “It’s not going to be as much fun.”
“Nope. If I didn’t have to have an account for work, I’d probably delete it.”
“He says he wants a better platform for free speech. We’ll see how that goes.”
“It won’t.” The woman laughed without humor. “Too many trolls, psychos, and authoritarian assholes on the platform. He’s one of the biggest.”
“It’s infested,” her coworker agreed.
“You don’t think he can fix that?” I asked, not caring that I was inserting myself into their conversation. We were all on the same team, after all, even though we worked for separate outlets. I extended my hand to them. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. I’m Rebecca Owens.”
We went through the motions of basic greeting, exchanging names and news outlet credentials before the woman said, “I recognize you.”
“I doubt that.”
She furrowed her brow. Seconds earlier she’d told me her name was Lila Jacobs. Her photographer was named Ken Graham. “Aren’t youtheRebecca Owens? The same person who left theTimeslast year and then wrote that epic viral Chatter thread burning the place down?”
I suppressed a visible cringe. The red wine fueled post wasn’t one of my finer moments, and the thread I posted explaining why I wanted to leave had launched its own share of think pieces and commentary about the state of journalism and media. More than once I’d wished it away, but the Internet was forever. “Um—”
“No, you are.” She wagged her index finger at me. “That thread was crazy.”
“It wasn’t the right decision,” I confessed. “I was...upset.” Upset, mad, hurt, scared, frustrated...
“I get it.”
