“Have you eaten anything today?” she asks as I sit back and raise my chin so she can button my collar and then straighten my tie and knot it for me.
“No. I couldn’t keep anything down. Once it pops, I’ll eat something.”
“Why not call in a scrub?”
Then I process what time it is. “Why are you still here this late?” She usually leaves the office by nolater than three in the afternoon, unless there’s breaking news she needs to cover live. She hosts a weekday morning show and is normally awake and leaving her place by three a.m. weekday mornings, meaning she doesn’t stay up late, even on weekends.
Unlike me, who is a night owl.
I watch my ex-wife flinch. “I’m worried about you. Lou called me and told me you weren’t doing well. I decided toswing by and check on you.”
“You’d already left for the weekend and cameback?”
She shrugs, that little playful, lopsided smile on her face.
When I need to call in a replacement, if Lauren’s in town, she’s my go-to first choice. Always. Because I can trust her with my copy, trust her not to try to run with her own agenda, and know my show is in good hands. Like me, she’s socially liberal. Eventhough she has to be up early, she asked me to let her take it when she can, with the promise that she’d always be honest with me if she had to beg off. She knows what a perfectionist I am when it comes to my show, how difficult it is for me to take time off.
But most of the time, when I need someone, she fills in for me. Not that it’s that often. I haven’t needed anyone in months. I once hosteda Friday with a fever of one hundred and two, and a PA had to drive me to the ER after the show. Turns out I had strep throat. Spent the weekend on my couch feeling like I was going to die before dragging myself to work on Monday to do my show.
“I’ll be okay, sweetie,” I assure her. “Go home. You’ve had a long week. If I made it this far, I can power through my show. I had some Gatorade earlier,and I’ve been drinking water.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “I can change and be through hair and makeup in five minutes, Kev. You look like shit.”
“Ihaveto do this,” I quietly say.
She holds my gaze. “Why today?”
I shrug and force a smile I know isn’t fooling her in the slightest. “Big news day.”
“I stopped by your conference room and saw the whiteboards. Charlie Corter wanted me to interviewhis friend this morning, and I told him to go fuck himself.”
“Yikes.”
She smiles. “I was smart enough to grab Henry and take him into the meeting with me. I had a feeling. Corter never talks to me unless he wants a favor like that. Henry laughed and then bought me a cappuccino. I’m the only morning show that didn’t run a story about the attackers. Well, I did, but I focused on the shitheads’previous arrest records.” She smiles.
That’s my girl.
Well, notmygirl, anymore, but we’re still friends. She’s my best friend.
“Ah.” I glance at the clock on my wall and realize I need to get moving. “I have to finish prep. Thanks for the oil and fixing my tie, but go home. I’ll be okay.”
“All right.” She drops a kiss on the top of my head and heads out. She knows better than to hang aroundwhen I’ve made up my mind. I’ll only feel guilty for keeping her there late—guiltier than I already do that she camebackfor me.
Once she’s gone, I return to my computer and go through my monologue text one last time. I’ve bumped the zoom setting on my screen to 300% so I don’t have to squint so much, but I get through it. Based on the word count, I can guess how long it’ll take me to read it,and I know where the split is for our commercial break. I print myself a hard copy on my private office printer and then save it to a flash drive and put it in my pocket.
* * * *
Five minutes ’til live, and my stomach’s tight, but I’m determined Iwillmake it through this show.
That’s when Lou walks into the studio when he should be in the booth.
He’s wearing a positively grim expressionthat I usually only see him wear when there’s a mass shooting or other horrible tragedy.
“What?” I ask.
“Dayonte Ramone’s mother collapsed at the hospital thirty minutes ago. Heart attack.”
I’m afraid to ask, but I have to. “Is she…?” I can’t even finish, because I know.
