I hang up and sit there for a moment longer, phone resting in my palm, chest tight.
When I finally return to my desk, the newsroom feels louder than before. The rhythm of typing, phones ringing, and low conversations overlapping. I pull up my draft about Ava Noa, the cursor blinking expectantly at the top of the page.
Ava Noa is a pop icon who is temporarily stepping away from fame to focus on being a wife and mother. Wow, good for her.
I try to focus. I really do. I reread my notes, adjust phrasing, and tighten paragraphs, but my mind keeps drifting, slipping sideways into memory. Dark eyes, the weight of him, the way he barely spoke but somehow communicated everything through touch alone.
I shake my head and force myself back to the screen. This is my job. I’m good at this. I built a career out of observation, out of noticing the details other people miss, but today, all I can notice is the absence he left behind.
I type a few more sentences, delete them, type them again. The words feel hollow, like I’m writing about a life I don’t actually want.
By the time lunch rolls around, my head still aches, but the edge has dulled. Addison reappears at my desk, leaning casually against it like she owns the place.
“You alive?” she asks.
“Barely,” I groan.
Before she can say anything more, a familiar presence cuts through the noise of the newsroom.
“Sinclair.”
Addison straightens instantly, the casual lean melting away as professionalism snaps into place. I follow her gaze to where our boss, Marianne Blake, stands at the edge of the newsroom, hands tucked into the pockets of her tailored blazer, posture relaxed but authoritative in that way that only comes from years of being unquestionably good at what you do.
Marianne is in her mid-fifties, with silver threaded through her dark hair and eyes that miss nothing. She built her career the hard way—back when women had to fight twice as hard for half the credit—and it shows in the way the entire floor subtly shifts when she appears. Conversations lower, chairs straighten, respect follows—unspoken but absolute.
She looks at Addison first, then at me, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Lunch?” she asks, and we nod. “You two always make it look like a conspiracy.”
Addison grins. “Only the fun kind.”
Marianne hums. “Good. I like fun conspiracies.” She then turns to Addison. “Pack your bags, Sinclair. You’re going to Somalia.”
My best friend’s face lights up instantly, excitement crackling through her like electricity. “Finally!”
Only Addison would be excited to go to a war-torn country. I feel my stomach dip, a strange mix of curiosity and unease curling low in my gut.
“But,” Marianne continues calmly, holding up a finger, “we’ve hit a snag.”
Addison’s smile falters just a bit. “Of course we have. What is it?”
“Our interpreter is sick, and every replacement we’ve tried to line up has either declined or suddenly remembered they’re allergic to conflict zones.”
Addison groans. “Cowards.”
Marianne’s gaze slides to me then, and my stomach drops. “Ellington. You speak Arabic and Somali, don’t you?”
I straighten instinctively. “I do.”
Addison’s head snaps toward me, eyes gleaming like she’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket.
“No, absolutely not.”
Marianne arches a brow. “Not even going to let me finish?”
“I learn languages for fun, so I don’t have to watch movies with subtitles. This was never meant to be a professional skill.”
Addison laughs. “That is the most Kate explanation I’ve ever heard.”
