There is no pity in her face.
No automatic reassurance either.
Just attention, which is becoming one of the more dangerous things about her.
“So you store up points,” she says.
“Yes.”
“For later.”
“For proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That I’m not wasting everyone’s time.” I huff out a short laugh. “That I’m not just the entertaining one. The fast one.”
Her expression shifts, but she does not interrupt.
“That’s why I want to work for a London newspaper,” I say. “Or wanted it. Want it. I don’t know. National desk. Bigger rooms. Bigger byline. Something that says I’m not just a local reporter writing good pieces about bad things happening to other people.”
The words taste unpleasant the moment they leave me.
“And is that how you see it?” she asks. “What you do?”
“No.”
“Sometimes?”
I breathe out.
The cold turns it visible for a second before the night takes it.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “When I’m being honest and not trying to make myself sound better.”
She nods slowly.
Not approving.
Not condemning.
Just taking it in.
“The farm fire piece,” I say. “It was good. Technically. I knew it had a hook. I knew people would read it and think I’d found something others had missed.”
“And you liked that.”
“Yes.”
The word comes out rougher than I expect.
“I liked that.”
There it is.
The ugly little truth.
Not the whole truth. Not even the largest one, maybe. But one of them.
