“Whatever. I need something I can send my parents. My tits are out in most of the pictures I have and I need ones that won’t send them into cardiac arrest.” Jasmine takes a seat at her desk and spins around in her chair.
I start to head toward mine, but Fallon says my name. “Liam, walk with me for a minute will you?”
“Sure,” I say and fall into step with her as she rolls the white board to the concept wall where the rest of the details for the holiday issue are laid out. “Is this about the list?”
“I said it in the meeting, but I do want to reiterate, excellent work. If you were staying with us, I’d put you on more culinary pieces. But it is the reason I’m going to ask you for a favor,” she says without looking my way. “Alara was planning to do a write up on Christmas tree farms, but she’s put on bedrest for the remainder of her pregnancy and will be submitting a shorter version of the original article. It was supposed to be a huge piece for digital. All other senior staff members have their assignments, so I can’t ask them to come up with another piece. I believe if you had stayed you’d be up for a promotion next year, so I’m asking you to do a holiday feature.”
“Oh, wow. Thanks,” I say, nearly tripping over my feet in shock. It’s always a bit of a surprise when I’m praised for my work.
“Is there any specific angle you have in mind?”
Since I left Colorado and went to college, writing has been my passion. I pursued it despite knowing it would be something I’d have to put on the back burner once I turned twenty-eight. I feel like I’m putting parts of myself out in the world that I can’t take back, even if they’ve been edited a thousand times.
Fallon continues as she adjusts the white board so it’s flush to the wall. “I’m open to any pitches you generate but will need to approve the subject of the feature by end of day tomorrow,” she explains. “I know it’s short notice. You’ll be home for the holidays, and I know you're hesitant, but a profile on an Olympic legacy family could be huge.”
I force my lips to maintain a smile even as my stomach drops. Three generations of Hughes are winter Olympians, making us essentially royalty in the world of winter sports. My parents now own and operate Dulcet Point Ski Lodge inColorado, where many elite winter athletes including my sisters, Penelope and Juniper, train. The only reason I’m not doing the same is because of an injury when I was sixteen, though that didn’t change expectations. When I majored in journalism, the unspoken hope was that I would go into sports coverage. Obviously, I diverted from that plan. I like to keep these two halves of my life separate, letting myself pretend my time in New York isn’t some temporary dream.
My life here is something I’ve claimed wholly for myself, and I do everything I can to separate it from the other parts of my life. It’s mine, and will continue to be mine even when I’m stuck on the side of the mountain decades from now. I won’t let the last thing I do here center around my unavoidable future.
“I’ll take it under consideration and update you if I come up with something else.” I give a quick nod. “If there’s nothing else, I need to book the photoshoot for my roommate Christmas card pitch.”
“That’s all. Best of luck Liam, I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
Dismissed, I stride back to my desk directly across from Jasmine’s. Only our computers divide us, so I have a decent view of her avoiding my gaze.
“What did Fallon have to say?” she asks innocently as she picks at the skin around her thumb as if she wasn’t eavesdropping the entire time.
“That she’s giving me a holiday feature.” I slump back in my chair searching my head for any ideas but my mind is blank. It’s been a busy month. Between packing up my life here, working, and dodging calls from my dad who is excited enough for the both of us about my return, I’m worn the hell out.
“Of course she did. If you walked up to her and asked for a mid-level staffer job she’d give it to you in a heartbeat. Your articles have some of the best metrics, I mean besides mine,”she says, humble as ever. Though she is one of the best known writers here, often asked to go on podcasts and give workshops on sexual health and empowerment. “Just stay and tell your dad to shove it. He can hire someone with an MBA and a suit to run everything.”
“You know it’s not that simple.” I sigh as I log on to my computer, pulling up a browser that auto-populates withSpitfire'shome page. “My dad and I have a deal.”
“I’m so sick and tired of that deal. Just pay him back for college and stay. I don’t want to find another roommate.”
The arrangement I had with my dad was that he’d fund my college and any further education, as long as I agreed to come back to Dulcet Point, saying that it would be good for me to get out into the world and know how a company works. If Dulcet Point wasn’t my home, maybe I’d be able to say yes to Jasmine’s request. But even though I retired from skiing at a young age, I can’t just walk away from the place I grew up and my obligations to it.
“Jas, you’ll find a roommate just fine. I need to get to work on this pitch so my final article here isn’t hot garbage,” I tell her and pull on my over the ear headphones before she can protest.
I spend the afternoon searching for an open slot for a department store photoshoot, eventually selecting one for the end of day tomorrow. Once that’s wrapped up, I scroll through past years’ holiday features. Exposés on glitzy celebrity New Years parties. Emotional biographical pieces on how people have transformed over a year by dedicating themselves to a “yes” list. Visits to towns that seem like they’re right out of Hallmark movies.
Due to my lack of non-family celebrity connections, limited timeline, and the fact that outright plagiarism won’t get me anywhere, I might be fucked.
Five o’clock hits, and hoping to find some last minute inspiration, I reach into my bag to retrieve my notebook. When I pull it out, a loose piece of paper comes with it and tumbles onto the pale wood of my desk.
It’s wrinkled, so I smooth it out to read the single line of writing.
A website. A long shot.
Dear Juliet,
I’m not sure if you’d need me to go through a background check first (per your policy), but would you be interested in an interview.
I sigh and hold down the delete button as words vanish. It’s the next day and I’m starting the fifth version of the email that I couldn’t get right yesterday, trying to sound professional instead of saying,Hey, remember me? The guy who didn’t stalk you the other day? We shared a cab and I called you pretty because you made me nervous and I didn’t know how to shut the hell up? Yeah, that’s me. Would you let me pay for your lunch, and forget all of that ever happened?
Fuck.
“Why would someone need you to do a background check for an interview?” Jasmine says, looking over my shoulder. At this rate, I need one of those privacy screens.
