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Here’s the thing. I don’t want to work for Old Mike. I don’t even want to be a journalist.
But as my dad, “Beast” Chapman, likes to say, we bleed ink. As the daughter of award-winning reporters—now owning small newspapers nationwide—my career has always been a foregone conclusion.
“You’ve got the drive in you, kid. Just like your mom. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Easy for him to say. Both my parents are lifers. As coworkers, they got stranded together during a blizzard and fell in love.
A year later, Y2K happened. Remember that? Neither do I because Mom and Dad’s favorite cringey story is about how I was conceived on New Year’s Eve at the turn of the century. “We were both so exhilarated that the world didn’t turn upside down. And thenyouhappened, which turned everything upside down in the best way,” as Mom likes to tell it.
Yeah, my parents are super into each other, even in their 50s. It’s sweet, but I’ve given up any hope of finding someone who makes me feel that instant connection like Beast Chapman and Avery Jacobs had for each other. Most of the guys in my journalism school were way too shy and serious for me. When I decided to take the initiative and ask one or two of them out, they looked at me like I was a leper for even asking. Or like I was the whore of Babylon. As in, how could I even think about dating when the world was falling apart around us?
Meh. I told ’em all to touch grass and call me when they got tired of working themselves ragged.
“Seeing a workplace is a lot more intimidating than studying it,” I try on my dad, hoping he’ll get the point.
“Ah, but you ran the school paper!”
He’s not wrong, but the school paper was rough on me. First, the office was in a basement, and everyone looked like they hadn’t seen sunshine in years.
No offense, but there’s a reason my sister Rebel calls them all the mole people. And she spends most of her time indoors throwing imaginary fireballs at dragons. But Rebel’s never been one to shy away from speaking her mind. When Dad offered her an internship, she blinked at him blankly, then went back to writing her ’zine. Yes, you read that right: a physical paper ‘zine that Rebel sends in the mail to about six thousand paid subscribers. She’s been doing that since she was 13, and now at 26, she has so much money socked away that no one can tell her shit.
Maybe I should go work for Rebel.
But this morning, I was determined to go along with my predetermined path, telling myself that I like writing enough that I can make this work. Besides, what else can I do for money besides starting an OnlyFans page? No thank you.
And yet, when I showed up for the newspaper interview, I smelled the familiar scent of ink and stale coffee. People paced around, some shouting at each other. Others were chained to desks and furiously typing.
Everyone looked—you guessed it—too serious.
My stomach plummeted to the floor when I saw my future. I couldn’t go through with it.
So, I left.
I just got into my dad’s car and drove.
I know, I know. I should tell my parents the truth. And I will. I just have to devise an alternative life plan that won’t make their heads explode. So far, I’ve come up with bupkis.
As I sit here on the phone with Dad, a pickup truck parks next to me, and the driver dashes out. From inside the diner, a server sees the driver and immediately meets him at the door with a big cup containing some type of milkshake, with a spoon and a straw sticking out of the top. He hands the server a few bills and tells her to keep the change.
The passenger window rolls down, and a pretty woman in her 30s sticks her head out. The server leans out the door. “Thanks, Maya,” says the passenger as the driver hands over the milkshake.
“You picked a name yet?” asks the server.
The passenger pats her stomach. “Luckily Harley was happy to stick with keeping the Elvis names in the family,” she laughs. “Lisa Marie if it’s a girl and Aaron for a boy.”
Maya seems overjoyed to hear it. She clutches her heart. “Oh my god. I hope it’s both!”
“Twins? Don’t make me pass out, Maya!” shouts the driver, evidently the father.
The women both laugh. “Keep the Oreo shakes coming, ’cause this craving isn’t going anywhere for a while,” the pregnant one says.
“Just say the word, and I’ll bring it to the job site next time, Presley,” the server calls out as the couple drives away.
That. That’s what I want.
Not a pickup, and not even an Oreo shake. But a nice man with a good sense of humor who would give me babies and drive me around town to satisfy my pregnancy cravings in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday.
But how do I verbalize that to my career-focused parents?
