by Harper James
“There’s a traffic video of you, though,” I persist.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “On a route I drive all the time. It fits with the timetable of us getting dinner, but that doesn’t mean we definitely were. The lawyer has told me a thousand times that I don’t know for sure we didn’t get dinner, so it’s just as possible we did.”
I shift, nodding. “I don’t remember where I got dinner weeks ago. If someone told me I needed to remember it, I’m sure I would have, but there’s no way I could tell you off the bat if I went to Chipotle or not on any given Tuesday,” I say.
“Yeah,” Carson says with a half-hearted shrug. “It’s driving me insane, though, not being able to remember— not knowing if my alibi is actually legit. I just hate that the strongest piece of evidence for my dad’s innocence is all on me. If you were choosing between me and my brothers for a responsibility like this, you’d choose the other two before me, every time. So. There’s the family drama you’re getting yourself involved with, Astrid. Sure you want to go another round?” He says this with a grin, but it’s not a very happy one.
I smile genuinely. “First off, I’m not with your entire family. I’m with you. And secondly, I am very, very sure I want another round. You’re the one that’s making me wait, remember?”
Carson laughs lightly, then, after a moment of comfortable silence, asks, “What about you? Siblings? Parents?”
“No siblings. Parents are in Massachusetts. You’ve got something in common with them— they’re not fans of reporters, either.”
“Wait, are they famous or something?” Carson asks, frowning.
“No— they just think it’s a dying profession, and they’re mad I’m going into it. They want me to go into law. But journalism isn’t dying, it’s just changing right now— sort of like the music industry did a decade or two ago. My parents don’t much care though. They’re letting me get my undergrad in journalism so long as I promise to apply for law school afterward.”
“Just apply?”
“If I apply and get in, I know they’ll make me go,” I say, sighing.
Carson snorts. “They can’t make you do anything.”
“They pay all my bills. I’m only able to work for the newspaper because they give me an allowance so I don’t have to work a real job. They can make me do a lot,” I answer.
Carson disagrees, clearly, but he doesn’t appear interested in pressing the issue. Instead, he says, “Well, I’m sure when you show them this amazing story you’re writing on the great Carson Slate, they’ll change their minds.”
I feel a little sick at how close to home that comment hits.
And it makes me think about the fact that Devin isn’t interested in a positive story on Carson Slate. He wants an exposé, a story about Dennis Slate, a story about crime with a little football thrown in.
A story that I could write this very second and pad my portfolio with an incredible piece of work on a hot topic issue. And a story that I can’t possibly write— because if I do, I’ll lose Carson.
We go out for breakfast the following morning, since Carson’s suite doesn’t offer much by way of actual human food (though if you want old tortilla chips, random condiments, or potatoes covered in new growths, he’s got you covered). We’re in line to be seated at a popular pancake place when my phone buzzes. I glance at it, and sigh— it’s Devin.
Devin: Call me asap, need to review your work
“Something wrong?” Carson asks.
“It’s my editor. He’s sort of the worst. He’s one of those micro-manager types,” I explain.
“Tell me if you need me to put some muscle on him, get him to back off,” Carson answers, and leans in to kiss the top of my head. I jump, startled— are we doing this, now? We’ve been out together plenty of times before, of course, but this is a college town— just because a couple is out together doesn’t mean they’re an item or anything. All of our physical contact has been beneath tables and tucked away up until his point, but now he’s kissing my head right here, in front of everyone—
“Follow me please,” the hostess says cheerfully, startling me. Carson follows behind the hostess, and I hurry to keep up, trying to sort through my surprise. Obviously, there wouldn’t normally be anything at all worrisome about an incredibly attractive guy displaying affection for me in public. But…he’s the subject of a story that Devin is hoping will go national and I’m hoping to write without ruining my relationship with Carson. If people have seen us together like this, my integrity as a journalist is shot.
“Hey, Carson?” I ask carefully as we sit down. He slide into the peach-colored booth beside me and has a hand on my leg, sliding it up a bit higher than necessary, and I tingle at the nearness of his hands, at the knowledge of just how good he can make me feel with his touch—
Focus, Astrid, I scold myself.
“What’s up,” he says.
“People can’t know we’re together,” I blurt out apologetically. “Because of the story, I mean. If people see us together as a couple, then I write a story about you, no one will believe a word of it.”
Carson’s eyebrows lift, and I can’t tell if he’s surprised or angry at my words. He takes a breath, though, then pulls his hand from my leg and taps on the table lightly. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with a wince. “It’s not that I don’t want us to be seen together or anything like that. You can still…you know…” I say, glancing toward my lap.
“How long do we have to pretend we’re not together?” he says.
“A few weeks is the plan,” I say, just as my phone buzzes again.
Devin: We need to meet up tonight to discuss where things are! Call.
And it hits me that my life and this story has gotten way more complicated than I ever could have imagined…
I call Devin that afternoon, while I’m waiting for my comparative literature class to start and while Carson is at yet another team meeting (I’m beginning to think football players simply don’t attend any actual classes whatsoever). Devin answers the phone too-fast, and I can hear urgency in his voice.
“Astrid, finally. Look, what do you have on the Slate story so far? I hear the Atlanta paper is running an article about Sebastian Slate, and I don’t want them competing with us. Do you have anything particularly good on Carson and his father?”
“I— no,” I lie quickly. “No, nothing really strong yet.”
Devin groans. “Seriously? You’ve been running around with the guy for weeks now, and someone told me the two of you were looking pretty friendly at a coffee shop the other day. He hasn’t told you anything worth sharing?”
“I’m working on it, Devin. Really,” I insist in a rushed whisper.
“Come by my place tonight and bring all your notes. I want us to try and piece something together,” Devin says.
“I can’t. I have plans tonight.”
“Astrid, we have to get this story together,” Devin says firmly. “I gave you total freedom to pursue this story and handed off all your other assignments. Don’t drop the ball now.”
I press my lips together. Devin always sounds pretty serious, but right now, he sounds almost threatening. There’s an undercurrent to what he’s saying that screams there will be consequences for not meeting up with him and handing over my notes. “Fine, I’ll swing by. Can’t I just email you my notes?”
“Astrid—“
“I’m coming by,” I say. “Class is about to start— text me your address, okay?” I nearly hang up on him, though we manage to get out some short goodbyes before I weave into class and find a seat. I might as well not have come, to be honest, because I can’t focus to save my life. How could I? I lost my virginity in the most mind-blowing way to none other than Carson Slate. I heard him practically confess that there’s a strong chance his alibi is trash. And now my editor is demanding to see my notes on Carson, so he can help me put together a tell-all article that would undoubtedly wreck any shot for a future between Carson
and I.
I can’t do it. I can’t betray Carson like this. Not because I’m sleeping with him, not because I want him, not because when I close my eyes, I can’t help but think of the way his arms feel around me. I can’t betray Carson because he’s a person, a person who opened up to me. A man whose family and personal life could be destroyed if I reveal what he told me last night while we were lying in bed.
I don’t want to be that kind of reporter. The kind who puts a story above a person. The kind that Carson had been avoiding for a year.
I open up my phone, and create a new file of notes on Carson— carefully editing out the information on the alibi.
11
I hurry to Devin’s door that evening, wearing heels and a short skirt— because if I can get through this meeting fast, I can be over to Carson’s before ten o’clock. Maybe even before nine o’clock, if I can keep Dickhead Devin (current reporter nickname for him) from launching into one of his know-it-all monologues. I ring the doorbell and step back, listening to the sound of Devin’s feet on the floor.
When he answers the door, I’m not particularly surprised to see he’s wearing what he normally wears to work— a collared shirt and khakis. I strongly suspect he doesn’t wear anything but this ensemble, not even to sleep in. He looks at me for a minute, then makes a face.
“What are you wearing that for?” he asks.
“I told you. I have plans tonight,” I say.
Devin shrugs. “Whatever you say. You don’t usually dress like those desperate girls on Broad Street, is all. You look good though.”
“Can I come in?” I ask impatiently. Devin shrugs a second time and steps back, allowing me into his apartment. It’s small and beige and totally undecorated, like it’s more of a crash pad than a place someone actually lives. He’s got the television turned on to a local news station, and his laptop open with a million tabs pulled up on his browser. As I near it, I can see they’re all articles about Dennis Slate.
“Have a seat,” he says, sitting down on the end of the couch and motioning for me to do the same. It’s one of those couches where you sink down farther than you expect, and I nearly flash him when my skirt hikes up from the drop. Thankfully, Devin is too preoccupied with arranging his computer on his lap to notice— I hope, anyway.
“Alright. Let’s hear what you’ve got,” he says, looking up at me.
“I’m thinking that a good angle might be to talk about his relationship with his brothers,” I say, a rehearsed line. It’s not the story he wants, but I think it just might be the story I can sell him on. “So, he’s got these two brothers, right? Sebastian and Tyson. Sebastian is the responsible one, Tyson isn’t really speaking to the rest of the family because of the drama with their dad. What if we made it a story about Carson being the one stuck in the middle of it all? You know, middle kid, family getting torn apart— a real personal story.”
Devin has been typing notes on this as I speak; when I pause, he looks up at me. “That’s it?”
“Yeah. That’s a great story!” I say. “Look, I’ve got some great quotes and everything from a few interviews.” I brandish my phone at him, but he doesn’t move to take it.
“You’ve spent weeks with this guy, and that’s all you have? A story about it being hard to be the middle kid when your dad offs his mistress? Carson is the key to the whole damn case, Astrid,” Devin says, looking bewildered that I’ve even brought this story idea to his door.
I lick my lips and try to calm the anger brewing around my heart. “Devin, why would he tell a reporter anything new he hasn’t told the police? I know we were wanting to do a more investigative type piece, but I don’t think an interview with Carson is going to make it happen.”
“Then what the hell are you doing with him all the time? Just hanging out? Taking a break from the newsroom?” Devin asks, shaking his head. He shuts his laptop a little too hard. “I thought you were really digging into him.”
“He’s a legit nice guy. He’s worried about his dad. He wishes his relationship with his brothers was better.”
Devin scoffs. “Well, fantastic— it sounds like we’ve got all the material we need to write Carson Slate an amazing Tinder profile.”
“That’s not fair. There’s not a story here,” I say.
“There is, though, that’s the thing,” Devin says, shaking his head. He gives me a wary, annoyed look, then opens his laptop back up. “I had some of my assistants do some research on Dennis Slate’s case and the whole “we were getting dinner together” alibi. There’s a traffic camera shot of Carson Slate driving out toward Lithia that night, but that’s basically it. By the time the alibi was needed, all the security footage from the handful of restaurants out there that actually have it was gone.”
“Okay…” I say hesitantly, and move close to Devin so I can see what he’s looking at. He’s sorting through emails, now, and finally finds the one he’s after. There’s a spreadsheet of what I realize is all the restaurants in Lithia— everything from Long John Silvers to the upscale Indian place. Beside them is their opening hours, closing hours, addresses, and links to their websites.
“It was on the later side that they supposedly went to dinner, so it was probably to a fast food place or one of these four restaurants. But who goes all the way to Lithia to meet their dad for fast food? Plus, Dennis Slate has high cholesterol— they even had to make him special food in jail. Fast food would be the last place he’d eat,” Devin says, and I can tell by the way he’s speaking that even if the question wasn’t rhetorical, he wouldn’t let me answer it— not when he needed to showcase his own genius. “That means they probably went to one of these four. Except, this one was shut down that night because a of health inspector thing. This one was booked for an event, so they weren’t taking walk-ins.”
“So it was one of these two?” I ask, pointing to the other two names on the restaurant list.
“Yes. And the thing is, at this one,” Devin says, highlighting a place called Alessandro’s, “a woman went into labor that night, and an ambulance had to be called. And at the this one,” he pauses to highlight a place called Snap, “the power went out for thirty minutes because a transformer got hit down the street.”
I look at the names, realizing the connections Devin has drawn. Realizing what this means— that I might know the answer to the question that’s been plaguing Carson, and that it’s not the answer he wants. It’s not an answer that keeps his father out of jail.
“You think he didn’t go out with his father that night,” I say, eyes wide.
“Carson lied,” Devin corrects.
My eyes open yet wider, and I shake my head quickly. “No, no way— he didn’t lie. He really didn’t remember where they went for dinner. Do you remember where you went for dinner months ago, on some random day?”
Devin narrows his eyes. “No— and that’s what I’d tell investigators, rather than saying that I did just to keep my father out of jail. So, as you can see, I’ve more or less done your job for you here.”
I look down. Truth is, he has done some stellar investigative work, and if it weren’t for my feelings for Carson, I’d be excited about it. I really have spent more time getting to know Carson as a significant other rather than as a subject of a story, and while I don’t regret it for a moment, it does mean that Devin has the right to wave my failure in my face, doesn’t it?
“When is the story going to run?” I ask. I want to tell Carson about his alibi falling apart before he reads about it in the paper.
“When you write it,” Devin says, looking surprised. “I’ve got the information, but you’ve still got to put it together. You’re the one who’s been seen with him— it’ll seem more realistic if it’s from a reporter who has been following him around, getting the inside scoop. Which, speaking of, there’s one thing I think we need to make the story go big.”
“What’s that?” I ask flatly.
“We need to know if Carson knew his alibi was crap or not. Does he r
eally not remember, or is he covering for his father?”
“There’s no way he’d tell someone that,” I say, making a face.
Devin’s gaze is cool and careful. “I’ve already done the real legwork on this story for you, Astrid, while you’ve been out eating fancy dinners with your subject. You’ll get this information, or you’re off staff. What good is a reporter willing to sleep with a guy for a story if she doesn’t actually get the story?”
My lips part, hurt and anger and indignation coursing through me. Did he just say that? “Devin, that is totally inappropriate—“
Devin rolls his eyes. “Sure, sure, yeah, whatever. I’m just saying that I practically hand selected you to get this story from that first game, and you’ve bombed out at every turn.”
“Hand selected? I wasn’t even supposed to be at that first game! It’s just good luck for you that you’ve got a story at all— if I hadn’t gotten that first interview with Carson—“
“Oh, Christ, Astrid,” Devin says, putting his fingers to his temples and shaking his head. “The sports writer wasn’t really unavailable that day— I sent you because I knew he could do a great write up watching from home, and that you’re exactly Carson Slate’s type. I figured you had a better chance at getting in with him than anyone else did, and it worked.”
I jump up from the couch, grab by purse. “That’s bullshit.”
“It’s not,” Devin calls after me, standing and following me to his door. “Why the hell would any editor send the girl from the arts page to a football game? Look, it doesn’t matter, Astrid—you’re in now, okay? You need to finish the job. Get the linchpin for the story and it’ll be like I said— we’ll both ride it to some national coverage and some sweet internships.”
