Chapter Nine
Now
Saturday morning, I avoid my phone, TV news channels, and I don’t bother going online or checking social media. I hand Lauren my phone, and she checks my Twitter settings for me, then deletes the app, and Facebook, from my phone.
At some point I’ll get online, but not now.
Once Lauren leave, I clean out my fridge. While I do that, I decide what to pack totake with me. I won’t be back in town for a while, and I don’t want to have to deal with a gross fridge when I finally return to DC. Lauren has a key and will check my mail for me and forward anything I need to see. I pay my bills online, so that’s not an issue.
I make it to Tallahassee late the next afternoon, take an Uber to the house, and hunker down until after dark. Late that night, I takemy SUV and, with a baseball cap on to hopefully disguise me, I hit an all-night Walmart and stock up on groceries.
And then?
I wait.
In the days immediately following the aftermath of my unexpected liberation from the network’s employ, I honestly don’t know what I was thinking, at the time.
Problem was, when I blew up, Iwasn’tthinking. Not really.
Not of my future that’s for damn sure.
I can’t blame it all on the migraine, either. I chose to…
Explode.
Vent my spleen.
Bottom line is, I’ve held my truths inside for too damn long. It was too much.
I know there’s nothing I can do but let things blow over. And things will always blow over. That’s the blessing and the curse of a 24/7/365 news cycle—there’salwayssomething else that will bump my temper tantrum off the top of theheadlines and into the realm of yesterday’s news.
I simply need to decompress, regroup, and consider my options.
I’ll be too radioactive, at first, for anyone to talk to, especially about offering me a job in TV journalism. Well, anyone other than my attorney, my PR flunky—who left me a voice mail to firemeas his client hours after my meltdown—and my agent—who really doesn’twantto talk tome right now.
Mostly, I try to ignore the world while hoping something deadly and targeted might take out only my house in a very fast way, and I’ll never even feel it.
Like a really tiny nuke that would leave my neighbors’ houses unscathed but totally remove me from the planet.
No, I’m not suicidal, I’m just very, very…
Done.
I leave my phone in silent mode because it’s blowing up with calls,mostly from other journalists who feel they know me well enough to beg for a scoop.
And, of course, my father.
I don’t answer any of those calls. Once voice mail is full, I don’t clear it, either.
Why bother?
Besides, when Lauren calls or texts me, her number is set to bypass silent mode. It’s telling that she’s still positioned at the top of my ICE list as my main emergency contact.
Shechecks on me several times, and I know what she’s doing—she wants to make sure I haven’t done something even more stupid than nuking my career. I don’t feel like talking, though. I know if I need to talk I can text or call her, and she’ll answer, or respond as soon as she can.
What Iwantto do is fall off the face of the planet. Unfortunately, that’s not an option.
I also know I can’t lay hereand lick my wounds forever, but I haven’t even taken a fricking vacation in three years, so fuck it.
