by Lainey Davis
My frown deepens. This job as a general reporter at the Pittsburgh Post is a dream for me. Only because I pushed myself so hard in college did I have a strong enough portfolio to land a job here at all, and then I got promoted to reporter. For the past six months I've been writing whatever Phil tells me to write, whether that's meant interviewing city council or watching kids race robots around the science center. But art? I'm not an artsy gal.
"Davis really quit? Can we just expand our coverage of local science initiatives?"
"Emma, we've got investors. Surely you've noticed that we have an arts and culture section? I'm assuming you read every issue cover to cover?" I blush. He smiles. "You will write me 2,000 words on Thatcher Stag's glass show, and you will submit your copy by end of work day tomorrow." I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up his hand. "Go home, change into something more presentable, and be at the conservatory by 5."
He throws me my press credentials and a parking pass he knows I don't need, because I don't drive. Fifteen years of uncontrolled seizures took away that opportunity, I think, letting myself feel angry for just a moment before I shake it off. I've been healthy for over four years. I'm in a good place now. I pick at the medical alert bracelet on my wrist as I head back to my cubicle and grab my things from my desk.
I walk the few short blocks home, thankful as always that I got a job in such a walkable neighborhood. I cut through the park, trying to plan out questions to ask an artist about his work. God, I really know nothing about art. I smile despite it all when I reach my apartment. I'm able to afford the first floor of an airy duplex on the north side of the city, where I got a good deal by promising to help the landlord write ads for her vacant apartments. Now she doesn't have any vacancies, and I've got cheap rent in an amazing space. The beautiful brick building was lovingly restored with gorgeous woodwork, wide plank hardwood floors throughout, and large windows that let in tons of sunlight. I put two huge planters of lavender and sage on my stoop, since they do so well in the direct sun, and the place looks inviting. Like a real adult lives here. I am an independent adult, and I'm doing great, I remind myself. It still takes me by surprise sometimes.
My parents won't even come visit. They insist this neighborhood is "unsuitable" and I can tell they disapprove of my job as a reporter. I'm sure they'd be much happier if I had pursued political science like my perfect sister Veronica. I shake my head, trying not to think too much about my parents, and investigate my wardrobe options.
I ordinarily wear all black when I'm working, but it's a hot day and Phil didn't specify whether the exhibit would be indoors or out. I settle on black slacks with a lightweight grey top with a boatneck cut and 3/4 sleeves. It's a bit more snug than my typical reporting getup, but I remind myself that just because something fits doesn't mean it's inappropriate. My mother's rules about modesty and proper dress always baffled me. I spent years with her cramming me into pencil skirts and "respectable nude pumps." I cringe just thinking about it as I slide my feet into my favorite flats.
Since college, I've relied on my friend Nicole to coach me through most decisions that don't involve pearls and formal dinners. If Nicole said this top was ok for work, it must be true. She's working for a tech startup, but always looks like she could be featured in our Lifestyles section in the Post.
When I arrive at the venue, my breath catches. The gardens are so lush, so serene. I can't believe I haven't come here since I was a kid. I giggle, imagining my mother here for a fancy hat party, and I flash my press pass at the entrance. As I walk up the main stairs, I almost trip while staring up at the glass chandelier. Brilliant curls of glass in green, blue, and yellow intertwine, catching the light of the glass dome entryway. When the automatic doors slide open to reveal the exhibit, I am thrilled by the floral scent, the dazzling green plants, and the fiery shoots of glass I see peeking out from among the leaves. Maybe this won't be so bad of an assignment.
Spotting someone wearing a lanyard, I step into his path. "Excuse me," I say. "I'm Emma Cheswick from the Pittsburgh Post. I'm here to talk to Thatcher Stag. Would you be able to point him out to me?"
The man grins. He waggles his eyebrows, which seems strange to me, and he yells across the room toward a long-haired man squatting by an orange piece of glass. "Yo, Thatch. This chick is here to talk to you." My face twists in confused anger at this misrepresentation, but before I can elaborate, the strange guy brushes past and the man who must be Thatcher walks over.
He's wearing stained jeans that hang from his hips in such a way that I can see he has a perfect, round ass. His ripped t-shirt barely hides the black ink twined around his muscular arms. Shit, he's hot. Remember, he's a subject. Not a conquest. Thatcher leans on a column and crosses his arms, smiling at me. "The show opens in about an hour, sweetheart, but we've probably got time for a decent conversation."
Is he hitting on me? I hold out a hand for a shake. "Emma Cheswick. Pittsburgh Post. I'm actually--"
"Emma. I like that. Follow me and we can talk back in one of the offices." He winks, and walks in front of me, holding back a palm frond for me as we head through a side door in the conservatory. "So how'd you get in early, Emma? The ladies usually come find me after the show…"
I'm feeling less and less interested in this guy the more he talks. "I just waved my press pass. It hadn't occurred to me to look for you afterward. I guess that makes sense--what the hell??"
Thatcher spins me around so my back presses against a wall in the hall. Boxing me in with both arms, he leans in close. He smells like sweat and fire. And he definitely is hitting on me. I stiffen. "What, baby? You shy about being in the hallway?" He raises a hand to, I think, stroke my cheek, but I duck out from under his arm.
"You know what? I can get what I need from the conservatory PR people. Have a good show, Mr. Stag." I rush back out the door and into the atrium before he can formulate a response.
Four
EMMA
I walk away from him as quickly as I can, digging in my bag for my phone. I text Phil. Thatcher Stag is a sleazeball. He just made a pass at me.
My editor responds almost immediately. All men are assholes. Find someone from the conservatory to help you. Get this interview, Cheswick.
Unbelievable. I bite my lip and tap my foot, trying to figure out what to do next. I decide to just start wandering the space before the crowd arrives. As I walk through the purple and pink orchids, I see more of what must be Thatcher's art. His glass is delicate and ferocious at once. The contrast to the green surrounding it is stark, and yet I can tell each piece was placed intentionally, thoughtfully. His work is not so different from the flowers in the room. Some of the orchids sprout seemingly from nothing--no roots or dirt to be seen. His glass seems more natural here than those delicate, outlandish blooms. How can one man create something so beautiful and also be such a jerk?
When I've made a full lap of the inside, I've sufficiently calmed down to go searching for the PR staff from the conservatory. A smiling woman named Linda shakes my hand warmly and hands me a whole packet of information about the exhibit, the flowers that accompany it, and the conservatory's vision in hiring a glass artist to embellish their space.
"Anything else I can help you with, Emma? You know we're always thrilled for page space in the Post."
"Well," I say. "Actually…about Thatcher…"
Her face falls. "Yes. About Thatcher."
"I need to get a few quotes from him, but he seemed…distracted when I tried to speak with him earlier."
Linda rolls her eyes. "Will you be here for awhile? Do you want to give me your questions and I can make sure he answers them? I've got an intern who can record him talking while he…finishes setting up."
"Oh! That's a perfect solution." I mean, it's not. Third-hand interviews are a terrible idea, but Phil did say it was a puff piece, and I did tell him the source was a dick. So I tear my question list from my notebook and hand it to Linda. "I'll just interview some of the guests about their feelings wh
en they experience the exhibit and I'll make sure I find you before I leave?"
Linda nods and marches off. I see her hand over the slip of paper before embracing someone from Pittsburgh Magazine. I wander through the garden, chatting with people about the glass and the flowers. An hour or so later, I've almost forgotten that Thatcher Stag lured me into a hallway and tried to make out with me. Almost.
I finish up my conversation with a middle-aged woman named Marge, who drove in from south of the city to enjoy the show. She's got me answering questions about growing up in the same suburban town where she lives, and when I see Thatcher approaching us, it takes me a real minute to figure out which scenario is less annoying.
He sidles up to us, snagging two glasses of champagne from a server standing nearby. "May I offer you ladies a drink?" he says, smiling a crooked grin that only raises one side of his mouth. Why am I looking at his straight, white teeth? Maybe because I want to punch them out, I decide.
I shake my head at his offer. "No, thank you. I'm on the clock. Marge was telling me how much she's enjoying your art, though."
Marge is delighted. "Oh are you Thatcher Stag?? This Stag Glass show is simply superb." She flutters a hand to her chest and takes a flute of champagne from Thatcher. I smirk at him and duck away. Seeing Linda glide past, I rush over to her.
"I see you've got him distracted," she says as she hands me a thumb drive and my question sheet, where the intern has scribbled a few mono-syllabic answers to my carefully crafted questions. "Anyway. I think we've got about seven or eight words from him…his contact information is in the packet I gave you if your fact checker wants to verify any quotes you can garner from that file."
"Thanks for trying, Linda. I appreciate you looking out for me." I assure her that I will talk to Phil and come back sometime to write an in-depth piece on the conservatory and their efforts to revitalize and attract more guests. "Phil loves when I find him good tourism leads," I assure her.
I head for home, frustrated and pissed off at my editor, Thatcher Stag, and anyone else I happen to encounter as I go. I send Nicole a series of furious texts and she sends me angry GIFs. I can't believe your boss still wanted you to interview that scumbag after you told him he hit on you. I'll never buy Stag's bullshit tchotchkes.
Thank you! You're a true friend.
In the morning, I sulk my way into work and bang out the meanest review I can tactfully write about the show and submit it to my editor before he leaves for lunch. Not ten minutes later, his admin pokes her head over my cubicle wall.
"Hey, Emma," she says, grimacing.
"That bad?" I sigh and start to stand.
"Phil wants to see you right away."
Five
THATCHER
After my installation opening, I decide to just go home. I can't get my fight with my brother out of my head and I'm very aware the clock is ticking for me to find someone to agree to fool my family for a few weeks until after Ty's wedding. There has to be someone who isn't mad at me after we hooked up…
My assistant, Cody, comes back with me for a few beers. I decide to let him know what's going on to see if he knows anyone who can play a role for a while.
"Dude, you rolled up to your nephew's birthday party right from a one-night stand? That's crude, man." Cody takes a deep pull on his beer. "Hm. I honestly can't think of a woman you haven't already fucked. You even fuck all their roommates…you're pretty prolific."
I throw my beer cap at him. "There has to be someone. Someone left from art school? One of the new grad students at the Pittsburgh Glass Center?"
Cody rubs a hand across his chin, thinking. "Hey, what about that reporter chick from tonight?"
"What reporter?"
Cody's eyes go wide. "The redhead chick who came early to interview you."
"That fucking girl was a reporter? You made her sound like some groupie." I stand up and my stool tips over backward. "Fuck, Cody, I made a move on her. What paper was she with?" Don't say the Post.
Cody thinks for a minute and my heart sinks when he says, "She was there from the Post. You hit on her? Really?"
"You called her a 'chick' and said she was there to talk to me."
"Yeah. For the paper." Cody swigs down the rest of his beer and throws his bottle into the bin by the workbench. "Look, Thatch, it's late. I'm going to get on out of here. I'll be in--what? Thursday morning?"
I'm so pissed off I can only nod. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don't even ask first anymore. I mean, to be fair, 90 per cent of the women who want to talk to me are using 'talk' as a euphemism. It's just my luck that the one woman who actually wanted to talk was a fucking reporter.
That opening was a really big deal for me. I never did anything like that before, partnering with a conservatory. I worked for months with them, talking about the different plants that would be in bloom when the show opened, discussing different pieces to highlight at different times of day to catch the light. One day I was in there at sunrise taking pictures, sketching out my ideas. It kills me to think the work won't even get a fair review because I can't turn off…whatever it is that makes me do that shit with women.
I'll just have to kiss her ass before she turns in her draft. I look around my shelf of finished work and my eye settles on a bonsai. At least, it was supposed to be a bonsai. It never looked quite right to me, so I set it aside. But it's beautiful--clear roots and branches tipped with blues and blacks. I decide it will make a fine token of my apology.
In the morning, I shower slowly after a long run, making sure to condition my beard, comb my hair. I decide an apology calls for extra attention to how I look. I even stick a blazer on over my t-shirt. Apparently I needed a wakeup call to remember my manners. I've decided to drive into the Post, find whichever reporter I mauled, and offer my most sincere apology.
The sweet thing at reception is putty in my hands when I turn on the charm. I offer her my best smile--the one I save for when I really have to work for it with the ladies. I lean across the counter and check out her nametag. "Hey there, Mindy." My voice is smooth. I know I look good, smell good, and sound good. "I'm Thatcher Stag. Last night I got interrupted when one of your reporters was interviewing me at my art show, and I never got her card. Do you know how I could find her? Just to see if she had any more questions?"
"Last night? Gosh. Hm. It could have been anyone…" Mindy crinkles her nose and looks at a computer screen. "It was an art show? What did she look like?"
"She had red hair and green eyes," I say. "Maybe…this tall?" I hold my hand about mid-chest.
"Oh. That's Emma." Mindy sits back in her chair and looks down the hall. "She got called in to talk to Phil, though. I actually think she will be glad you're here." She stands and walks around the desk, nodding toward the doorway. "Come on. I'll take you back."
I can hear shouting from halfway down the hall. Mindy points to the door that says EDITOR and heads back up front to the desk. I give her a wink and move closer to the editor's office, and I hear someone shouting my name from inside.
"Jesus, Cheswick. Did you even fucking Google him? I told you I wanted a puff piece. I absolutely cannot print a scathing defamation of his character."
Then I hear a familiar voice, sounding about as angry as she was last night. "Nothing I wrote there is untrue. He is a smarmy creep, and I did talk about how his delicate glass pieces brought light to the conservatory, in contrast to his awful personality."
I hear someone pound on the desk. "Damn it, Emma. Do you know who owns this paper?"
"Lash? What's that got to do with anything?"
The editor sighs. "Do you know who represents Lash, legally? Who is a major donor to our paper and likely funds the majority of your entry-level reporter salary?" He waits a beat. "Tim Stag. Older brother of Thatcher Stag, who I told you to write a fucking puff piece about."
"Phil, that feels inappropriate."
"It's not above the fold on the front page, Emma. It's Arts and Culture. If I wanted an exposé on
Stag as a womanizer, I'd send you out to report the hell out of that story. But I want a nice, glowing review of the art show. Did you look at the art? Did you read the PR materials? Ok, then. Get the hell out of here and don't come back until you've got something I can work with. And get me a fucking quote!"
I can't help but smile, even if I am irritated that my brother's name gets evoked whenever I try to do anything. Emma's going to have to talk to me. When the office door flies open I lean back against the opposite wall, holding out my olive branch. She growls when she sees me standing there and her eyes fly wide open. "What the hell are you doing here?" She practically hisses at me.
"Sounds like I'm saving your ass, sweetheart."
Six
EMMA
I drag Thatcher Stag through the office by the lapels of his blazer, only partially wondering why he's more dressed up today to come to the Post's headquarters than he was at his damn art opening. Once we reach the lobby, I let go of him and start laying into him. "Look, I don't know what you heard or what you are thinking, but you can't be here right now. I'd prefer if you left."
The asshole grins at me. "From what I heard, your boss wants you talking to me. Pronto. Asking me in depth questions. Sounds like it could take hours…"
I can only roll my eyes. Because of course he's right. I stomp my foot in frustration. I need to talk to this dickhead. At least he smells amazing, I think, immediately angry at myself for noticing. "Look," I say, "there's no place here to do an interview and I'd feel safer speaking with you in a public place. Can you meet me in the library on Federal in a half hour?"
