by M. C. Decker
Besides my career being somewhat of a mess, my love life was even worse. It was a joke, really. I hadn’t been out on a date in over six months. I swear cobwebs had taken up residence down below. B-O-B wasn’t even getting action lately. Cassidy had tried to set me up on several blind dates, but each one of them ended up in the “epic failure” category.
My most recent, failed blind date was with Matt. Matt was Cassidy’s accountant for her bridal boutique business and she insisted that he was an attractive, normal guy. I hadn’t been out with someone in several months so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give Matt a whirl. What’s the worst that can happen, right? Matt and I had talked on the phone for several nights before we finally decided to go to dinner. He seemed down to earth during our phone conversations and we seemed to really hit it off. For the first time in several years, I was looking forward to spending quality time with a man.
When Matt picked me up at my apartment for dinner, I was a little surprised when I answered the door and he was wearing a black polo shirt that was entirely covered in cat hair. I guess I was hoping for a man who was a little more kept.
I was even more shocked when I got outside and Matt opened the back door for me to slide in. He wouldn’t let me sit in the front seat because it was already taken by “Princess Sophia,” his feline companion. Seriously, this is a true story; I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. I really thought “Krull the Warrior King” was going to emerge from the back seat. I remember thinking that this date was over before it even began, but I smiled and scooted into the back seat, trying not to get white cat fur all over my black mini-dress.
All through dinner, Matt kept talking about Princess Sophia and showed me at least a dozen photos and six film clips from his iPhone. He even ordered a takeout of the salmon filet special for her to eat. Might I add, that he paid for Princess Sophia’s dinner, but did not pick up my tab.
Before taking me home, Matt also made a trip to the pet store to pick up some kitty kibble. Let’s just say that I didn’t even allow Matt to walk me to the door when he finally dropped me off at my apartment.
I yelled at Cassidy for weeks about “Cat Matt,” as we dubbed him. She did apologize profusely when she realized the ten photos of his cat on his desk should have been a telltale sign. I haven’t allowed her to set me up on a blind date in the last six months because of my horrible feline-induced nightmares.
I decided one Saturday evening, as I was feeling sorry for myself, that if I couldn’t do anything for my social life then it was, at least, time to put my skills and degrees to work. I still owed far too much to the government in student loans to remain at a crappy-paying job. I had plenty of experience now and I knew I had the ability to make a decent living still doing what I loved. My dad would understand. Maybe in time he would even want to move out East with me.
The three of us had visited the Mid-Atlantic region during my childhood on several occasions. My dad’s ancestors had settled in the Maryland and Pennsylvania areas in the 1800s and my mom always enjoyed working on his family tree. She had already completed her genealogical lineage and made it her mission to complete his, as well.
I remember taking two trips to Maryland when I was about twelve. We spent our vacation among dusty books in the basement of area historical societies, libraries and even walking around cemeteries looking for century-old gravestones. At the time, I remember wishing I could be riding the tea cups at Disney World like all the other kids at school, but I wouldn’t trade that time helping my mom for anything now.
I had to start putting myself first again. After Jay dumped me all those years ago and after losing my shot at love with Rich Davis, I had put my efforts into my education and later my career. My mom was my rock through those first years and when we lost her unexpectedly, it was the hardest time of my life. I remember walking around zombielike for days, or even weeks. Heck, maybe that was still me. Maybe that’s why I never took the leap and moved to D.C.
I used my poor father as my excuse and my crutch, but maybe the truth was that I didn’t want to leave home and the memories. Sure, I didn’t live in their house anymore, but I visited at least every other day. I would often cook dinner for dad and even helped him with laundry from time to time. I knew deep down that he was self-sufficient, but it gave me a reason to stay and to feel needed.
My mom died unexpectedly from what doctor’s originally thought was a simple infection. I could still hear her voice as she talked to me in the hospital just a few days before she died. My dad and my uncle (her brother) were there visiting, but had gone down to the cafeteria to grab a cup of coffee. My mom and I were alone in her room. I had taken her hairbrush out of the bedside table and was gently running the brush through her tangled hair, which besides a few gray strands matched the color of my own. She stopped me and pulled my head down to her chest. Petting the back of my head like she had done countless times before when I needed some comforting, she whispered softly in my ear so only I would hear.
“I’m so glad the three people that I love the most are here with me today. But, just remember, it’s you that I love the most. I’ll always be with you, baby girl.”
I thought she was just scared that day in the hospital, but now I know that she knew she was sicker than what she was letting on. She was telling me goodbye. I’ll never forget that moment, or her words. She will always be with me. No matter if I stay here in Michigan, or move to Washington D.C., her memories will always live within me, not in a particular city, or building.
It felt good to reminisce without feeling sad. Sure, I missed my mom tremendously, but it was time to move on. She would want me to be happy and to pursue the dreams that I had always envisioned for myself. If I couldn’t be happy in love, at least, I could be happy in my work.
On Sunday morning, I dragged myself out of bed, popped my French vanilla flavored K-Cup in my new Keurig coffee maker, and sat down at my laptop to update my resume. After I had completed the resume, I wrote the sauciest cover letter and addressed the envelope c/o The Washington Post.
I had researched job openings the night before and saw they had a position open for a rookie reporter. Sure, I wasn’t exactly a rookie anymore, but maybe they would decide they wanted someone with a little more experience. I had been doing the reporting thing for the last five years and covered every aspect from feature writing, local government and schools to reviews and opinion pieces. Yes, they would want me – a seasoned reporter.
The next three weeks went by and I had pretty much forgotten about my mailed application. They had probably decided to go with the rookie reporter to save on costs. I mean practically every business in corporate America is cutting costs these days.
It was a little after one o’clock when I heard my phone vibrate. I didn’t recognize the out-of-area number that appeared on the screen and I almost sent it to voicemail assuming it was just another telemarketer wanting me to consolidate my debt. Right, like they could handle my debt. The call was on its last ring when I remembered the resume I had sent weeks ago, so I quietly picked up the call so as to not disturb my co-workers.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Hello, Ms. Anderson?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“Hi, my name is Caroline Murphy. I’m Mr. Davis’s secretary with the Washington Post. He recently received your resume and is interested in scheduling an interview.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. the Washington Post was calling. Holy Fuck, the Washington Post was calling! Breathe and respond to the woman, Brooke.
“Yes, that would be great. I would appreciate that opportunity very much.”
“OK, great, how about next week? Would Tuesday work for you? Let’s say eleven a.m.”
“Yes, I do believe that would work just fine.”
“Great, I will e-mail you with flight and hotel arrangements. If you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to call, or e-mail. Have a nice day, Ms. Anderson.”
“Thank you,”
I said before ending the call.
Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God! This wasn’t really happening. I couldn’t contain my excitement as I exited my cubicle and ran through the office. I probably received a few blank stares, but I just couldn’t help myself as I jumped up and down, even in my heels. I had to call Cassidy and tell her the incredible news!
Cass was as giddy with excitement about this interview as I was. She insisted on meeting me for dinner at our favorite bar sans Kaitlyn for the evening. It was like old times; I was so excited to spend some girl-time with my best friend. Kaity-bug was just as excited to spend the night with her grandma, so that helped ease my guilt for not including her, just a bit.
I arrived at Bubba’s shortly before eight, and was surprised to see Cass already waiting for me in our old corner booth.
“You’re early, lady!” I yelled from across the bar.
“Mom took Kaitlyn early, so I thought I would get a head start. I don’t get many nights to myself so I wanted to take advantage.”
Just as I was slipping into the somewhat tattered booth, our favorite bartender, Scott, walked over to take my order.
“Hey, beautiful ladies, long time, no see. What are you having tonight, Brooke?”
“Hey Scott, I’ll have what she’s having as I pointed toward Cass’ nearly empty glass.”
“One Long Island coming right up.”
“A Long Island? Holy shit, Cass, you really did want to take advantage! I can only have one of those. You do realize it’s a Wednesday and normal people still have to work tomorrow.”
“Eh, that’s the beauty of running your own business. My boss doesn’t crawl up my ass if I’m late, or take a mental health day.”
Cass had combined her knack for fashion and design with her business degree, and with a little monetary assistance from her parents, she was able to open her own wedding planning business. She was so wonderful at it, too. She had all the area’s brides eating out of the palm of her hand. It really was shocking that she hadn’t been able to plan her own wedding, yet.
Scott just stood there and watched our back-and-forth banter as if he was fully enjoying the show.
“Hey Scottie with the body, fill ‘er up again, will ya?”
“Sure thing, ladies, two Long Islands coming right up. Oh, and Cassidy, might I add you are looking damn fine tonight.” With that declaration, he walked away, leaving us both completely speechless.
After watching Scott and Cass flirt outrageously throughout the evening, I decided it was time to call it a night. Cass told me she was OK and that I could go on ahead without her. I made her promise to call me, if she couldn’t catch a cab to get home.
She insisted on meeting me on Saturday to find the perfect outfit for my interview the following week. I couldn’t very well tell her no once she gave me that puppy dog, pouty face. Unfortunately for me, she shared that identical expression with her daughter and they both knew that I always fell for it hook, line and sinker.
There was a limousine waiting for me when I exited the terminal at Dulles International Airport, just a little after daybreak. I’d only ridden in a limo once before and it had been with him. I never imagined a potential employer going to such extremes for an interviewee. First, I received first-class boarding passes and now a stretch Hummer with my very own driver. This was certainly a few hundred steps above my current, small-town, reporting gig.
Even while riding in the lap of luxury, I couldn’t shake the butterflies fighting in my stomach, or the incredibly sweaty palms that I kept wiping on my navy, pinstriped, pencil skirt. Thankfully, I decided to forgo breakfast before catching my red-eye out of Detroit. That would’ve made the butterfly situation a whole lot worse.
I could do this. I should have researched the editor, Davis, a bit more. Why didn’t I think of doing it two days earlier? Where was the brown paper bag when you needed it? They were always so readily available to the broken heroines in the kinky romance novels that I enjoyed reading.
After what seemed to be a short drive, the limo began to slow down in front of a large building with oversized, tinted glass windows. Both an American flag and the flag of Washington D.C. flanked the entrance of my destination, the home of the Washington Post. Before the car came to a stop, I wiped my sweaty palms one final time, pulled my compact from my purse, applied a light pink lip gloss and took a deep breath. Showtime!
My driver came around and escorted me from the car. For that I was thankful, as I’m not sure my nervous, wobbly legs could have survived my new ankle-strap, cream leather Louboutins that I had purchased just for this interview. Sure, they may have cost me half an entire paycheck, but I wanted to look the part of an up-and-coming Washington reporter. My new shoes paired nicely with the vintage Valentino suit jacket that I found on clearance at my favorite consignment store and with my favorite go-to, pencil skirt.
I made my way up the front stairs, opened the heavy doors and headed toward the receptionist’s desk. There sat a young blonde with what appeared to be a fake rack and an even faker tan.
“Hi, I’m Brooke … Brooke Anderson. I’m here for an interview with Mr. Davis.”
The much-too-perky female handed me a visitor’s badge and directed me to the twelfth floor where I was to ask for Mr. Davis’s secretary, Caroline. I waited at the elevators for what seemed like an eternity before the doors opened and a group of people pressed forward.
A few suits exited the elevator on the sixth floor before the doors, pinging open on the twelfth floor, snapped me out of my nervous trance. I straightened my skirt and began to exit the elevator when I collided with all solid muscle and six feet three inches of him. And, that smell – why did this man smell so familiar? … I hadn’t smelled that perfect scent since … it’s then that I looked up and was greeted by those teal eyes. I’d never forget those eyes - those eyes that I never believed I would gaze into again. It was immediate déjà vu. I’d met him like this once before, only eleven years earlier. I had been a young and naïve student with so much to learn about life, love and heartache. I felt my heart begin to race and I feared that it might actually leap from my chest.
“Ms. Anderson. We need to stop bumping into each other this way.”
Oh. My. God. Mr. Davis is Rich effin’ Davis? How didn’t I put two and two together?
“Brooke … Are you all right?” he spoke again, stopping yet another potential panic attack from rising in my chest and throat.
“Yes. Fine. Thank You. … Hello … Ri—Um, Mr. Davis.”
“Really, Brooke? Mr. Davis was my father. It’s just me … Rich … Your Rich,” he said, as his lips turned upward into what could only be described as a smirk. Rich knew he was getting to me and he was enjoying every minute of it. “Come … with me.”
Oh, the sexual innuendos came thick and fast and we’d only been together for thirty seconds. This was going to be a long and uncomfortable interview.
Rich reached out to grab my hand before walking toward what, I assumed, was the newsroom. He let go of my recently manicured fingers and ushered me through the area stuffed with tiny cubicles. His hand never left the small of my back as he introduced me to several reporters who were frantically typing away, trying to meet what I believed to be their early morning deadline. None of them seemed to be paying enough attention to notice Rich’s hand on my back while we walked by, only muttering simple pleasantries.
We finally made it into a large office which overlooked the east side of the city. It wasn’t the typical editor’s cubicle that I had become accustomed to at my current job, this being far more than a cubicle. It was an expansive, corner office with a wall of windows looking out into the newsroom on one side and the city on the other. A chocolate suede couch with matching throw pillows sat against the wainscoting on one of the olive-colored walls, while a plush, cream chair sat in the opposite corner.
Near the outward-facing, floor-to-ceiling windows sat Rich’s impressive, cherry wood desk. After seeing that desk, I may have entertained
a few improper thoughts. A large, matching, coffee table sat in the middle of the room. The walls were adorned with framed newspapers, several Associated Press awards and Rich’s diplomas. Rich was understandedly proud of his successful career without seeming overly conceited. Of course, I couldn’t prevent the smirk crossing my face, knowing the real truth.
His office was fairly tidy, much more so than anything I’d ever seen in a newsroom. The only things that sat on his desktop were his all-in-one computer, a picture of a much younger-looking Rich sitting on his father’s lap, and a digital voice recorder.
I was quite impressed because my own desk was cluttered with pens, notes and flyers from every event in town. The stacks of paper practically towered over the framed pictures I kept of my mom and dad on their wedding day and one of Cassidy, Kaitlyn and me taken on the day of Kaitlyn’s baptism.
I momentarily wondered if I should tell him about my hatred for voice recorders. I had to explain myself to practically every one of my peers that I had ever encountered in the field. “I had a bad experience once and lost my entire recording,” I always explained. “I was so embarrassed that instead of asking for a second interview, I simply stepped down from my internship position for a semester.” Luckily, in the end, it still worked out for me, but to this day I would not rely on a voice recorder during my interviews.
I would go into all of my interviews with an old-fashioned reporter’s notebook and pen. I may get strange looks, seeing as though it was now the twenty-first century, but it was what I felt comfortable with and most people understood. I was always accurate in my reporting and I think it actually made me listen and truly understand what my sources were saying. In spite of my messy desk and slightly dated reliance on pen and paper, I hoped that Rich would not question my competence. Of course, Rich would only know I was unorganized if he asked, and I would certainly not let that little detail slip.
