“Let’s do it then,” I say, ready to trust whoever is responsible for that incredible smell.
“I’ll be right back,” Sterling says, standing and making his way over to the bar.
I watch in awe as he talks with easy familiarity to the server.I’ve never seen him look at home.It’s a good look on him.
Sterling returns with a bottle of still water and two glasses.“I’ll get sparkling if you prefer?—”
“Still’s fine.”
Once the water is poured, there’s nothing left to do except wait.Wait for the food, wait for Sterling to explain why he brought me here, wait for the other shoe to drop.
“Why did you ask me to help you?”I have to ask.I have toknow.
It doesn’t make any sense.He’s not the kind of man to give out favors.There has to be something else, some other reason why he requested me specifically.My gut is telling me there’s more.
He unrolls his napkin, smooths it out, places his chopsticks neatly on top.Controlled.Precise.“I know what it’s like, chasing that first opportunity.You deserve a chance.Your work in college, especially ousting the department head for covering up assault charges, was impressive stuff.”
“You read that?”
“I’ve read all your work.There was a line last month I particularly liked—now, what was it?”
My breath stops because I cannot imagine Sterling Ross reading,The best rooftop bars to day drink at, and,Diaper cream: the latest skin care miracle?
“That’s right.”He says, reciting it by memory, “When the end of the world is nigh, why not face the gates with a little pizzazz?”
Heat rises to my cheeks.
Monica hated that line, but I fought for it, probably more than I should have, but in the end, she let it through.To know that it’s lived an extended life in Sterling’s mind—when his words have lived on in my own—means more than I can say.
And it was only there because it made me smile.
He’s still watching me.“Why do you love this job so much?”
There are a hundred reasons.I could talk about the people I meet—Celine at the shelter, the small business owners who are so incredibly grateful for the exposure.
I could mention the thrill I get from writing a really good piece, the satisfaction that comes from seeing my byline, or finding the hook no one else can.
I could be honest and tell him that walking intoThe Observerand seeing him every day, knowing we’re colleagues, still makes me pinch myself.
But the truth is …
“I can’t do anything else.I won’t.The crappy reality is that not everyone gets a voice, and they should.There is truth to be told, and I want to help tell it.I’m not going to wait until it affects someone close to me to care.I can’t sit by and watch while people take advantage of others with lies and money.”
I’m aware of how idealistic it is, but I’m sick of debating my reasons with people.If Sterling wants to call me naive, … well, fine.
“You’re a good person, Mia.”
God, I love how he says my name.
“And that’s a bad thing?”
There’s a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he shakes his head and rolls up his sleeves.There’s the tattoo again.My breath catches in my throat.
“Not at all, but the people you’re chasing will see that as a weakness and do everything in their power to crush you if you don’t protect yourself.Success isn’t a buffer; it’s a megaphone.”
“Okay, so teach me how to do it right.”I’m not backing down on this.“I’m not going to give up my optimism because you or anyone else thinks cynicism makes you smarter.I’d rather learn how to get out of trouble than avoid it.”
He’s silent, staring me down.So intense, like everything he pursues.
