She leans back in her chair, index fingers tented, chewing silently. This thousand-yard stare is one of her superpowers—I’ve watched her win countless face-offs just by staying quiet the longest. “Why?”
“First of all, he hasn’t said or done anything offensive, so as of now it’d be a pretty boring story.” It’s a lame attempt at humor, and she rewards me with crickets. I forge ahead. “If I haven’t found anything incriminating by now, I just don’t think there’s anything to find.”
“Of course there’s something to find. Everyone has skeletons in their closet, including me.” She peers at me over the rim of her glasses. “What’s really going on?” Great, I’ve tripped her bullshit detector.
I sigh. “I just don’t feel comfortable with this anymore. I’ve gotten to know him, and he’s not who I—who we—thought he was. Sure, maybe it was funny at first, but now it just feels wrong. And frankly, cruel. That’s not who I am, and it’s not the kind of journalist I want to be.”
She continues to stare at me, her face unreadable. I don’t even think she’s blinked once. She’s going to make me—and my sticky thighs—sweat this one out. “You let him get under your skin.”
I know what she’s really asking. I don’t want to lie to her, but I’m also not ready to share the true nature of Jack’s and my relationship—especially since I’m not even sure what that is yet.
So I sidestep. “He’s a good guy, and he doesn’t deserve to be ridiculed.”
She tuts and shakes her head, her mouth in a thin line.
“I’ll write the story the way I originally pitched it,” I offer desperately, a sick feeling gripping my insides like a fist. I’ve never said no to Cynthia before; I’ve rarely even pushed back. I’m a team player, a model employee. I do what I’m tasked, no questions asked. “I’ll test out the tips on unsuspecting men and it’ll be hilarious, I promise. I’ll do whatever it takes to make the story a success.” I swallow past the knot in my stomach, hoping those words don’t end up biting me in the ass. “I just need to leave Jack out of it.”
“I see,” she says after a long pause, pursing her lips. “Whatever it takes, hmm? In that case, I’d like you to do something for me.”
I gulp. The regret came faster than expected. “Okay . . .”
“You can wipe that petrified look off your face. Who am I, Miranda Priestly? Some kind of tyrant? I’m offended, honestly.”
I let out a stunned laugh and bury my face in my hands, relief spilling over me.
“This isn’t a movie, okay? I can’t make you write something you don’t want to write.”
“You could fire me, though,” I point out.
“Fire one of my best writers? That would be a bad business decision, and I don’t make those.” She lifts the coffee to her lips and takes a slow, deliberate sip before setting it back down. “But I am going to be brutally honest with you about something, because I think you need to hear it: I expected this of you.”
An entirely different type of anxiety washes over me. “What do you mean, you expected this?”
“It means you never take on risky, boundary-pushing stories. When you first pitched me this idea, I didn’t believe you’d actually follow through with it. You seemed committed, though, so I hoped you’d prove me wrong this time.”
Her words hit me like backhanded slap to the face. She thinks I’m a coward? Some sort of gutless quitter?
She sets her hand on mine, as if to soften the blow of her insults, and I fight the urge to yank it back. “Cassidy, this is your MO. You come up with great ideas, really creative and unique ideas—and then you assign them to someone else. You have incredible instincts, but you’re not willing to take any risks yourself. You can’t play it safe in this business, not if you want to get noticed. Not if you want to make an impact. If I hadn’t taken the risk to start Siren ten years ago, I’d probably still be wasting away at some dying newspaper, barely making enough to scrape by.
“Listen, you’re smart and you’re driven and you have amazing potential, maybe more potential than anyone else here. But your unwillingness to put yourself out there and really go for it is holding you back. Something is stopping you from stepping up and claiming your success.”
“That’s . . . that’s not what this is,” I mumble, so hurt and caught off guard I can barely speak. There’s a freight train between my ears, a high-pitched ringing so loud it might split my skull. I need to get out of here.
“Of course this would have been a big story for Siren, but it would have been an even bigger break for you. You’ve gotten comfortable here, and as your boss, that’s fine for me—I know what to expect from you. But I was really hoping you’d surprise me this time. I was hoping you’d surprise yourself.”
She pauses, as if to give me a chance to respond, but I’m stunned silent. I’m simultaneously tingling and numb with shock. I feel like one of those Glee kids after they’ve gotten a slushie to the face.
“Look, I don’t need to know the details of your personal life. That’s your business. But from what you’ve said, it sounds like you’ve gotten too close to your subject and you’re letting some personal feelings cloud your professional judgment.” I bring my head up and meet her eyes, refusing to confirm what she thinks she knows—that I’m giving up my chance at glory for a guy. I won’t give her the satisfaction. “I think you need to ask yourself: If this same opportunity was in front of Jack, would he be sacrificing himself the same way you are?”
I want to say yes so badly. I think of how Jack’s eyes tend to linger on my face a few seconds longer than necessary; the way he touches me, his hands both possessive and protective; the way he listens, really listens, when I talk; the genuine relief on his face when I told him I wasn’t seeing anyone else. I desperately want to believe that if push came to shove Jack would choose me over his work, but the painful reality is, I can’t say so for sure.
“Whether or not you write this story is your choice, Cassidy. It’s always been your choice. But you don’t get these opportunities back.” She holds eye contact. “I’d hate for you to regret it.”
* * *
“SHE BASICALLY CALLED me a coward. A spineless pushover. A weak-willed wimp! Do you think she’s right?”
After I fled Cynthia’s office, red-faced and humiliated, I sent Nat an SOS text to meet me around the corner at one of our favorite dive bars, known for its vibrant happy hour scene and reliably heavy pours. I’ve spent the last half hour railing against the injustice of it all, Cynthia’s harsh feedback burning in my gut like a shot of cheap tequila. Like a true friend, Nat’s been letting me rant without interruption or judgment while I drown my sorrows in this (very stiff) martini.
“I think she’s trying to get in your head, and it’s working.” Nat motions over my head at our server, pointing to my empty glass. A true friend, I tell you.