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“I guess you’d already know about Haley’s scoop, some fraud story,” said Eunice, mid-afternoon.
“What did you hear?” Oh yeah, she needed to work on her nonchalance. Almost leaping across the workstation partition at Eunice didn’t help with the “what’s it to me” attitude she was meant to be projecting.
“Was in the elevator with Berkelow and one of the lawyers. Sounded big. Why are you smiling like that? It’s creepy.”
Derelie rolled her lips to get rid of the overly enthusiastic smile. “Everyone loves a scoop.”
“Not if it pushes your own story off the front page.”
What did it mean if frolicking penguins or oily firemen could push a genuine news story off the front page and out of prime website real estate? It wasn’t the day to ruminate on that. There was green tea to reject in favor of coffee, because she’d never really enjoyed it, and deadlines to meet.
And on the way to the break room there was Jack, appearing unexpectedly at the end of the corridor, on his way back from where she was going, with a steaming cup in his hand. He looked distracted, eyes down on his cell screen. There was no one else around, though the noise of the office was their soundtrack, and not a lot but hot coffee stopping her from running to meet him and throwing herself in his arms.
She slowed her stride and let him draw closer, until they were almost at the point of passing each other. He looked up to check his progress and broke into a smile that squeezed her heart. That sudden joy was for her, a visual echo of what her own face must be doing. Another two steps each and they were face to face, but the corridor was no longer empty, people behind Jack, laughter behind her.
He pocketed his cell and shifted his cup to the hand farthest from her, his eyes up briefly to whoever was going to interrupt them. “Anything interesting happen in the editorial meeting?”
Everything interesting was happened here, in a service corridor that led to rooms where people did ordinary, everyday, unmemorable things. They used the bathroom, they washed their hands, and dithered over clothing, hair, teeth and makeup because nothing rang, beeped or screamed for attention there. They poured coffee and searched for the cookies that were plentiful this morning when their willpower was stronger but gone now when they were desperate for a pick-me-up.
This corridor was for slices of downtime, for essential pit stops and stalling like her breath did. Everything in her body went on high alert because Jack was here, stealing her attention, robbing her of the willpower to walk on, close enough to touch, to smell the sweet cloves from his smokes, but wired to detonate her career in ways neither of them wanted.
“Nothing interesting happened.” Except her whole life was somehow rammed into this stuttering moment where the office, the job, the city, her decision to build a bigger life, fell away and there was nothing but what she could be with Jack.
That laughter was right behind her now and the mailroom trolley was lumbering its way toward Jack.
“Good to know,” he said, weight shifting as he moved to pass by, his arm brushing hers, the back of his hand grazing over the back of hers, eyes warm behind their frames licking softly over her face and then going blank to meet the world again. She turned her hand and he did too, their fingertips glancing before he stepped clear.
Derelie reeled in his wake, looking at the floor to hide her expression. Anyone could tell she was love struck.
From behind, “Hi, Jack.”
“Tomas, Samar.” Jack’s voice, strong with a side of amusement.
From in front, “Did you drop something?”
Eyes up on the mailroom guy. “A button, I thought.” She patted her shirtfront. “No, no. It’s fine.” She stepped around the trolley and went to the break room, face hot and blood hotter.
When she got back to her desk there was a text from Jack. You’re the headline in my heart.
She responded, Derelie Loves Jack. Verily, merrily. No clickbait. She put hearts at both ends of the phrases.
He came back with, Sub head: Jack Can’t Believe His Luck.
And then she got an email from Phil. See me.
She knew her way to Phil’s office well now. Knew to wait in his doorway until he motioned for her to enter. Knew not to bother sitting in one of his guest chairs because it was more efficient not to.
He motioned; she stepped inside his glass-walled office. “Do the love story with Artie Chan.”
“Ah, okay. I almost have it with Jack.” Almost, nearly, maybe. She grimaced. They were words she’d tried to eliminate from her vocabulary when dealing with Phil, because they were hesitant and cautious, and the only word Phil wanted to hear was yes and its variations—got it, exclusive, most clickable.
Phil looked up from his screen. He didn’t look annoyed. “I should never have pushed Haley on that. It was a dick move. Don’t bother him about it. I’m sorry I wasted your time. Start again with Artie. Get video. Get marketing involved.”
The signal to noise ratio in what Phil, a man of as few words as possible, said, fixed her to the spot in close to the same way she’d been a magnet stuck on Jack in the corridor. “Did you—?”
“Yeah, don’t get used to it. Apologies give me gas.”
“I’ll do the love experiment with Artie.”
