“A lie,” Marcus finishes for me. “A lie you perpetuated on this station, on our viewers, on me.” He shakes his head slowly. “You used this fake relationship to position yourself for the sportscaster role, to gain exclusive access and interviews that landed you the job to begin with.”
“That’s not why—”
“And then,” Marcus continues, “you leveraged that manufactured relationship to secure an interview at KSLA, the place you’ve been aiming for all along, apparently.”
Wow, so Donny recordedeverything.
“Marcus, please,” I lean forward. “Yes, the relationship with Brooks started under unusual circumstances, but what developed between us was real.Isreal.” Even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. If it was ever true. “And the interview at KSLA only made me realize how much I love it here. In my hometown. And also, I applied based on my own merits, my own work.”
“Your own work,” Marcus repeats flatly. “The reels you did with Kingston? The exclusive interviews with him and his injury because of your ‘relationship’?”
Each example lands like a slap. The truth of it burns in my chest. Yes, dating Brooks—fake or not—opened doors, but I walked through them on my own, did the work, earned the respect. Right?
“I’m sorry, Sydney,” Marcus says, his voice softening, which somehow makes it worse. “But we can’t trust you anymore. Your position here... it’s no longer tenable.”
The realization washes over me in a cold wave. I’m not just losing the sportscaster role. I’m losing my job as a weather forecaster too. Or any other job here.
“You’re firing me?” The words come out small, disbelieving.
“We prefer ‘parting ways,’” Marcus says with the removed professionalism of someone who’s had this conversation too many times. “But yes. Effective immediately.”
Years of dedication, of early mornings and late nights, of weather maps and sports statistics and building a reputation in this town—all crumbling in an instant.
“You can clean out your desk.” Marcus is all business now. “HR will process your final paycheck. We’ll need your station pass before you leave.”
I sit frozen, unable to comprehend how quickly my life has derailed. Last week, I was headed to an interview for my dream job. But I’ve realized that was far from my dream. I was so happy to come home, to return to KBVR, the job I love, and now I’m being fired from it.
I swallow hard, steeling myself when I say, “Thank you for this opportunity.”
Marcus looks genuinely regretful for the first time. “You’re talented, Sydney. No one’s disputing that. But trust and integrity matter in this business. You’ll land on your feet.” He pauses, then adds, “KSLA is an amazing opportunity. Maybe a fresh start is what you need.”
A fresh start. As if my entire life in Dickens is something to be scrubbed away. As if Maisie, Zoe, my family, and everything I’ve built here is just a steppingstone to something better.
“Can I at least say goodbye to everyone?”I hate how small my voice sounds.
“Of course.”
I make my way back to my desk, and with trembling hands, I begin to pack my things. Each item is a memory, a piece of the life I’ve built here. I say my goodbyes, then, with my box of belongings clutched to my chest like a shield, I push through the station doors one last time. The crisp Dickens air hits my face, carrying the scent of impending snow and small-town gossip that will undoubtedly be spreading about me by dinnertime.
My phone buzzes, but I’m in no place to talk to anyone right now. I make it halfway to my car before the tears start, hot and angry, blurring my vision. I set the box on the hood and just stand there, letting three years of hard work and ambition pour out of me in messy, undignified sobs.
But I remind myself of something Maisie said to me when I was going through my awful breakup with Jake last year.
Endings and beginnings look an awful lot alike.
32
Beers and Bros
BROOKS
The Barrel House greets me with its sticky floors, dim lights, and the unmistakable smell of spilled hops. We like it here because the locals know us and don’t ask for autographs. I spot Jonah in our usual corner booth, already nursing a beer, his expression unreadable. He’s in Boise because his team plays mine tomorrow.
My chest tightens.
This isn’t just any beer with my oldest friend—this is the conversation that could either salvage what’s left of our friendship or burn it to the ground. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’ve taken hits on the ice that hurt worse than this conversation might. Probably.
He sees me approaching and straightens up, his shoulders tensing. Not a great sign. But he doesn’t immediately get up and leave, which, given the circumstances, I’m counting as a win.
