For one long, suspended moment, neither of us moved. The air between us felt electric, charged, like a storm about to break.
Then he reached for the card.
His fingers brushed mine—half a second of contact, electricity shooting up my arm—and I yanked my hand back like I’d touched a flame.
“This isn’t necessary,” he said quietly. “The car, the money—it doesn’t?—”
“It is necessary.” I met his eyes and held them. “Send the estimate.”
He stepped back, and the space between us opened up. I could breathe again. Barely.
I turned and walked to my car door with my hands trembling and my heart slamming against my ribs in a rhythm that felt like panic. I climbed into the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut, and gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles ached.
I did not look at him. I did not look in the rearview mirror as I drove away.
I didn’t breathe properly until I was three blocks away.
Tuesday morning, Gerald’s voice split the newsroom like the Red Sea.
“Wells! My office. Now.”
I looked up from my computer, where I’d been staring at the same email for fifteen minutes without absorbing a single word. Across the room, Alice Pearson’s head lifted with the alertness of a shark scenting blood in the water. The intern by the coffee machine took a physical step backward, like whatever I had might be contagious.
Gerald stood in his office doorway with his face the color of an overripe tomato, finger pointed at me like I’d personally offended him by existing.
Wonderful. This is exactly what today needed.
I walked across the newsroom with my head high and my stomach somewhere around my ankles.
His office was small and cluttered and smelled like stale coffee and broken dreams. Papers covered every surface, and a sad plant wilted on the windowsill, clearly having surrenderedto the void some time ago. I understood how it felt. We were kindred spirits, that plant and me.
“Close the door,” Gerald said.
I closed it.
He dropped into his chair, which screamed in protest like a wounded animal, and fixed me with a stare that was probably meant to be intimidating but mostly made him look like he was struggling with digestion.
“You’ve been here almost a month,” he said, leaning forward with his belly straining against his shirt buttons. “What have you produced?”
I stood in front of his desk with my hands clasped behind my back to hide the fact that they wanted to form fists. “I’ve been working on several?—”
“What stories have you broken?” He cut me off like my words were irrelevant—which, to him, they probably were. “What leads have you developed? What exactly am I paying you for?”
What I wanted to say was; ‘You’re paying me to fetch your oat milk lattes and transcribe interviews about municipal infrastructure while your favorites hoard every decent story. You’re paying me to do Alice Pearson’s research so she can swoop in and take credit.
What I actually said was; “I’m developing a lead on?—”
“Developing.” He said it like the word tasted bad, like I’d insulted his mother. “I don’t need development. I need results. I need stories—something on my desk that justifies keeping you on payroll.”
My jaw tightened, and the words slipped out before I could stop them, low and muttered under my breath: “Maybe if you gave me actual stories instead of Alice’s table scraps?—”
Gerald’s eyes narrowed. “What was that?”
I looked up at him and smiled, sweet as honey, innocent as a lamb who had never once fantasized about pushing her bossdown a flight of stairs. “I said you’re the best boss in the world and I’m so grateful for this opportunity.”
He stared at me for a long moment, trying to decide if I was mocking him. I kept smiling until my cheeks hurt.
“End of the week, Wells.” He jabbed a finger in my direction. “Bring me something worth printing, or we’re having a different conversation.”
