Shit, she hates it.
“Thank you, Britta. I’d like to see something more original than a weight loss piece, though. I’d want a stronger connection to wellness with there being so much body-shaming in the world already. But bring us the next idea.” She called on someone else, and I squelched the urge to sink into my chair and hide. It wasn’t the first time I’d had an idea shot down—everyone did—but I’d been positive this one would be the bump I needed to earn a place on the staff as a feature writer. Maricela had already moved on when I thought of counterpoints to her concerns, namely that I didn’t want to lose weight through the program. I glanced across the table. Claire had made no secret of her goals, and with one feature writer position available, we’d both been trying to stand out. Hopefully, she didn’t have some great idea to pitch.
Claire caught my eye, her expression pensive before she tapped at something on her phone, and I turned my attention back to the discussion about homemade mud masks and trending scents.
After graduating from college, I’d hunted for jobs, desperate to prove to my family that my English and journalism double major wasn’t a one-way ticket to unemployment. I was confident I’d find a job where I could write stirring pieces that would change minds and hearts. I was wrong, and I jumped at the editorial assistant position at Best Life. Four years later, I’d learned not to roll my eyes during meetings. Though we generated a lot of helpful and insightful content, my heart wasn’t always in it. Some days, it felt like I’d veered so far from my original plans of being a writer, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back.
“Great idea. Put together a plan for road testing the masks, and let’s get it up for part of the Valentine’s Day Alone series. Britta can assist.” I’d zoned out, but a senior staff member flashed me a big smile. I’d have to figure out what I’d missed later.
“Anything else?” Maricela looked around the table and paused at Claire’s raised hand.
“I have one,” she said, her voice even and annoyingly casual. “It’s a different angle on Britta’s idea. There is another app that is just starting to add coaches. I could join that one while Britta joins FitMi, and we’d do the project together but broaden the scope to focus not on changing bodies but on the entire fitness experience.”
I looked to Maricela. Please let her finger be traveling to her chin. No such luck. It was still tapping at her collarbone. She was interested in Claire’s spin. “What sets this second app apart? How would dual participation improve upon the idea?”
Claire’s shoulders squared. “The app is a lot like the others out there, but they take a different approach. It’s called HottrYou. Their philosophy is about owning hotness throughout the process.”
Our boss’s finger drifted toward her chin as her lips pursed. “This is an interesting take, but I don’t love the visual of a petite woman writing about being hot and a plus-size woman writing about being fit.”
A hundred responses flew through my head, all landing somewhere between tears and declaring I would write about being hot, too. Luckily, my rival spoke before I did, and with a more measured tone than I’d planned.
“On the surface, I agree. However, there’s a unique take here. Or rather, a very common take. We all have relationships with our bodies, don’t we?” She glanced around the room, where most people were nodding. “And I’m comfortable writing about it.”
I nodded and leaned forward, resting my arms on the conference table. “And I love seeing women who are big and happy with their bodies. I love reading stories about people deciding to make a change and losing a bunch of weight. Both can be inspirational, but neither is my story. Fat people can be interested in exercise and fitness without it meaning they don’t like themselves. I think I could tell that story, and I think it would land with our audience. Imagine a series focused on a fitness and nutrition experience where the goal isn’t thinness or weight at all.”
Maricela glanced at her notes, finger hovering between her chin and collarbone.
Claire joined me again, our impromptu tag-team approach seeming to work. “The project would be about relationship with one’s body. And, if the apps are focused only on looks or only on weight loss or fall short on their promises, we’ll point it out, so readers know. I think it’s a win-win.”
Maricela glanced down at her tablet, and after a few taps and swipes, she smiled. “Okay, put together a plan. Let’s try it.”
As we moved on with the agenda, Claire eyed me coolly, clearly conflicted about the idea of sharing the spotlight but also aware this could be the way one of us found ourselves on the writing staff. We’d been in competition since we started, both eager to do well and stand out, and both ready to move up at Best Life.
She was a talented writer, and when she spoke about her body, she sounded genuine. I swallowed, realizing the extent to which I’d have to step it up and make myself vulnerable. Despite my impassioned plea and how much I loved the dance class with Helen and the other women, exercising wasn’t my passion. I assumed I’d have to eat better and hit the gym for a few months to do this project, but I wasn’t wanting or expecting something paradigm altering to happen. Still, if I got it right, it would be big for my career, and I could fake passion long enough to make the project work. Nothing was going to get in the way of success with this assignment and earning that spot as a feature writer. In that spirit, I flashed a wide grin at Claire.
Game on.
2
I SCROLLED THROUGH my weather app to get a sense of the week ahead. The ten-day forecast called for rain, sleet, and bitter cold, not that I’d be anywhere besides my apartment, the gym, or the office for the foreseeable future. Work out. Meetings. Paperwork. Sleep. Repeat.
Mason, our vice president of communications at FitMi, waved his arm toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gloomy expanse of Chicago. “Like a fucking monsoon out there, am I right?” He took a quick gulp from a disposable coffee cup without looking away from his phone.
“Yeah.” I grabbed my water bottle. Mason had delivered on everything he’d promised when negotiating his ridiculously high salary the year before, but I still couldn’t stand the guy. Taking a swig, I glanced at my watch and fell into one of the conference room chairs, ready to get started with another meeting. At least this meeting was small. Recently, the list of people I could tolerate had grown very short.
My assistant stepped into the room, the subtle scents of cocoa butter and cherries tickling my nose. “Cord will be here in five.”
Mason cocked his head and flashed a toothy smile. “Hi, Pearl. It’s nice to see you today.”
I wasn’t sure why, but Pearl didn’t like him. I’d asked her multiple times if he’d done something to her, if he’d been harassing or bothering her, and she’d always said no. Still . . . Douche.
She raised an eyebrow but otherwise ignored Mason and handed me a manila folder. “You have that conference call at ten. Here’s the prep you wanted, and I left the résumés on your desk for the operations position. You need anything else?”