"—I'm sorry, Ellie. About yesterday at the office." He scratches his head and scrunches up his face. "And on the side of the road. My behavior was uncalled for, and I was trying to tell you yes."
“Yes?” I ask cautiously, not sure of where he’s taking this.
“Yes, we’ll run press for you. For the festival.”
My heart suddenly clenches, and I can't help but smile, the weight of the past few days finally lifting from me. "You'll do it?"
“Well,” he says. “We’re a little tight on reporters right now but—“
Shaking my thoughts away, I blurt something out. "I can write it," I challenge. "You wouldn't need to send anyone to cover it. You could just run what I write. I can do a piece on the lineup and a wrap up afterward and—"
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Ellie, but I can’t just run an article written by a random person,” he says, faltering on the word with a sigh.
His word stings. "Some random person?" The thought of the connection we shared over the Boxley Brothers that night now seems like something I'd made up in my post-John, chaotically buzzed mind. Shit. Maybe I was too drunk to realize that he's just another dude who enjoys a good concert once in a while. The thought alone drops a boulder down my stomach, and I scoff at him to make light of the situation. "You make out with me after the concert, and now I'm just some random person?"
“You made it very clear you wanted nothing to do with me when you left without giving me your number.”
"Well," I say, shaking my head in an almost-denial. "You don't know anything about me. I'm not just some random person off the street. I'm a writer."
Mason seems intrigued at my claim. "Oh. You're a writer? Anything I might have read?"
It’s not a lie, I do write. Poetic one-liners for Hop Hing, but still. Technically that is writing. But over my dead body am I telling him I write fortune cookies.
"No. I know this whole festival press thing has turned in to some insane joke between you and I. But you would be doing me a huge favor." I close my eyes and take a deep breath, the salty air filling my lungs, invigorating me. The fear of not following through on my word before the next volunteer meeting in T-43 hours finally sinks into me. "I told the festival director I'd have something in the paper. If I don't, I risk all of our vendors backing out. And worst comes to worst, the bands will bail, too. If they don't think anyone is coming, they won't even show up. No one wants to play to an empty park."
Mason shifts his weight, and I can read the contemplation in his furrowed brow.
"Please, Mason. I will owe you so much for this one favor. Think of how much it'll mean to everyone in town to have something so musically and culturally forward right at our fingertips. Plus, if the story gets picked up, we could even get some Wilmington traffic, and who knows where it could lead from there. Just let me write it. Then maybe next year we could—"
“There she is,” Mason interrupts. “There’s the girl from the concert.” He chews on the corner of his mouth while evaluating me with the same shade of fire in his eyes from the meadow.
"I can have you something by tomorrow," I say, quietly feeling him out. "If it's shit, you can just tell me, and I'll never bother you again."
Cocking his head to the side and pushing his glasses further up his nose, Mason gives me a knowing smile. “Not sure I’d want that.”
My heart pounds, but I stay silent as he considers my offer.
"Can you have me a 1,500-word piece by Monday morning at nine? If it's any good, we'll consider running it for the Wednesday paper."
I can't help but smile like a dumb five-year-old.
Taking me by the shoulders, he squares me up to him and pep-talks me like I'm batter-on-deck at a little league tee-ball game.
"So here's the deal. This is on a trial basis. I'm really going out on a limb for you here. Can you write me up that sample piece?"
"Of course," I grin, feeling like this is the most important piece of homework I've ever received in my life.
"And you’ll have it to me by Monday morning at nine?"
My smile fades as I nod at him, realizing that this may be harder than I imagine. How the hell am I supposed to write something report-like in thirty-six hours? I don't do well with deadlines as it is. Fortunes are one thing, but writing an actual paper? "Yes, I'll have it to you. Nine o'clock. Monday morning. Got it, Coach."
He chuckles at the name.
"By the way." Leaning in for a hug, he presses the side of his hot, scruffy face to my cheek, and I can smell the dark wood of his cologne again lingering at his neck. "You owe me one, Ellie," he whispers into my ear, his hot breath sending chills cascading down my spine. Releasing me, he turns and heads toward the other side of the fire.
My stomach twirls at his confidence. "Wait," I call out to him, pulling my phone from my pocket. "What's your number, Mason? In case I need your help," I reason.
Turning back to me, he smiles. "Good luck with the writing, Ellie." And as if he'd read my little league tee-ball thought a few seconds earlier, he winks. "You'll hit this one out of the park. I believe in you." In an endearing goofiness, he tosses a pretend ball in the air and whacks it with an imaginary bat, sending it soaring over my head.
Chapter Ten
Mason
With The Rolling Stones filling my earbuds from my Hit the Road playlist, I jog the two miles to the middle school as my shoes pound the pavement in a rhythmic beat setting in my runner's high. I only had a few beers last night, so I'm not hungover. But my mind is still reeling from the fact that I ran into Ellie at the bonfire. She's been popping up in my life in unexpected ways. Except last night was different. Last night, she looked nearly angelic in that white shirt she wore. Almost like she'd lost her hard edge. Regardless, Chris is about to bust my balls even though he doesn't know it yet.
The early morning heat is already setting in, and sweat is pouring off of me as I reach the school. Rounding the corner toward the outdoor basketball court, I see Chris aimlessly shooting hoops while waiting for me.
"Hey, man," I say, pulling out my earbuds. Jerking the hem of my T-shirt up, I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Chris and I meet here every Sunday morning for a game of basketball to blow off some steam before starting a new workweek.
"Glad you could make it," he says with a smirk. "Little too much of a wild time last night, huh?"
Trying to catch my breath, I laugh. I pull my phone from my armband and lay it on a nearby picnic table out of the sun. "Nah, it wasn't that bad. Only had a few drinks. But hey, I do have some news.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me and shakes his head as if he knows what's coming.
“You remember what I asked you Friday about the music festival?"
Nodding, he dribbles the ball and checks it to me. "Go on."
"I may have told someone I could secure them press for it."
"Really?"
I nod and sigh at how ridiculous it sounds. Especially the fact that I did this for a girl. Cue ball-busting. "I know you said it was uncouth, but it just sort of happened."
He stops, resting the ball against his hip with his hand draped over it. "First of all, I said no such thing. I don't use the word 'uncouth,'" he says, rolling his eyes, the word sounding strange on his tongue. "Second, you realize that's against company policy, right?"
"Yeah, I know. But I already offered it. It's done. Besides that, I think it's a great idea. It could give us the momentum we need right now."
"And how exactly did you come to that conclusion?" Chris asks, checking me the ball once more, much harder this time.
As soon as I pass the ball back to him, he catches me off-guard. Faking me out, he spins off of my side, dribbling the ball to the left of me and driving in for a layup.
"Think about this for a second," I say as he takes his spot at the top of the key again. "I think we have a real chance here to get some traffic to our online site. Review the bands. Add to the specialty of it. Run a beat the week after. It'll be exclusive to us.
Obviously, we don't sacrifice any hard news for it, but we have a chance here to grow things and drive traffic for us. Don't you think?"
"Good point," he says, spitting on the asphalt. "But you think Tonya will see it like that?"
“I guess I need to make her see it like that. Plus we don't have to worry about the preliminary article. I already have someone on it. It'll be ready tomorrow morning.”
Chris shakes his head and grins at me before trying the same layup sequence on me, but I block him, stealing the ball from him mid-dribble. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that girl last night, would it?"
Taking my spot at the top of the key, I shrug and try to suppress a smile. “It might.”
"You dog," Chris growls with laughter. Waiting for a response, he eyes me. But I all I can do is nod. "Really?" he says, scrunching up his face in disbelief. "You haven't so much as spoken a girl's name in what? Two years now? And this is the one to make you go rogue?"
I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my arm. "It's not like that man. She's different than that," I say, tripping over the word. "She's smart and funny. But she's also a lot harder."
"Sounds like you're the one that's harder," he grunts, swatting at the ball for a steal as I try to beat him to the net. "She must really have an impact on you to get you to break the rules like this."
After Chris scores once more, he checks me the ball, and it hits me how sour of a situation this could turn out to be when I present it to Tonya. She’s the Editor-in-Chief at The Anchor, and she’s old-school as hell. “You think it's a mistake?”
“I think if you feel a certain way about it, you should go for it. Besides, you're the boss man when it comes to those decisions. Ultimately, it's your call.”
“You put too much faith in me, man. I’m only the Managing Editor.”
“Yeah, but when’s the last time you saw Tonya enforce something?”
I scoff. "That's because I'm supposed to be the one enforcing shit around the office." I sigh and put my hands on top of my head for a rest and glance around the playground.
Chris lets the ball drop to the ground as he stretches out one of his hamstrings. "Speaking of enforcing, are you busy tomorrow? Kevin texted me yesterday and asked if I could find someone to cover his event. He has to go out of town last minute. Family emergency or something. I think it's called Zephyr."
“Yeah, sure,” I say, not really hearing him. “And I’ll have to negotiate, I guess.”
Chris stares at me, probably noticing my distraction. "Dude. Unstick yourself. Look, we can talk it over with Charlie next week. I know the man— I can give him a call to see if we can't work something else out, too. Aside from that, I bet Dale and Leda will be willing to cover the actual event. We'll need press passes, but—"
"Easily," I say, making a mental note to ask Ellie about them tomorrow. "The initial beat will be done in the morning. I'll just have to pitch the rest of the idea at our Tuesday morning meeting. Sneak it in the lineup."
"See? You're in charge, bud. Take control of it. You don't ask people what's going in the paper— you tell ‘em what's going in it." After a few dribbles of the ball, Chris narrows his stare at me. "This girl has a hold on you."
Shrugging it off, I laugh."I'm not sure yet."
"Well, the fact that you're willing to go out on a limb means she's important."
My mind flashes back to my last relationship. There were no sparks, no energy with the girl. I promised myself I wouldn't get involved with anyone without some sort of connection. And until I met Ellie at that concert three days ago, I hadn't imagined I'd find such a connection with someone around here.
"Yeah, man. She's something else. And I've only known her for four days. Though I guess I can't say that I actually know her. We just ended up connecting, and I really didn't expect it. Christ. What does that make me? A fool?"
Chris smiles and nods. "Maybe a little foolish. But not a fool." He draws in a long breath. "Besides, the good ones usually sneak up on you. Knock you on your ass," he laughs. "At least that's what happened with me. Speaking of, Lauren wants you to come over for dinner soon. The kids are asking about you. Might grill out in a few weeks, so keep your calendar open. And you can bring your girl."
"Well, it's not like that yet. She's not my girl."
Suspicious, Chris shakes his head. “What’s it like then?
"We made out a few times. We share some of the same interests. We've had some weird connection thing going on, and as dumb as this sounds, I'm addicted to the way she looks at me."
"God damn," Chris moans. "You have fallen for her." Shaking his head at me, he scratches his face. "Look, Mason. If you feel a connection with her, keep her around. I know you're not worried about the next huge step in your life right now, but when it comes down to spending the rest of your life with someone, you'll really want that connection in the long run. Trust me, man."
Chapter Eleven
Ellie
It's rare for me not to notice what's on the radio. In fact, I'm usually so disappointed with the music being played that I either ride in silence or pop in one of my classic cassette tapes I've been squirreling away since I was in middle school. Tapes are the only thing my ancient 1993 Volvo will play. Brooke tells me I need a new car, that driving one older than I am is dangerous for the environment, my safety, and most importantly, her image.
Today, however, I notice nothing about the music. I have a nagging caffeine hangover for stupidly agreeing to have a sample piece written and turned in to Mason by nine this morning. Since twilight last night, I've chugged three full glasses of sweet tea, a Dr. Pepper, and at least three mugs of black coffee. And don't think I didn't count. I needed all the help I could get to stay up and get this piece written. I didn't anticipate it taking so long, but that's the shitty thing about writing. It seems like right when I need the words to appear, they stay stuck in my mind. Irretrievable. I'd only finished up and been able to fall asleep at 4:12 this morning. So with only four whole hours of anxiety-ridden sleep, I am speeding along Main Street having woken up twenty minutes prior. Popping an Aspirin, I search for a parking space somewhere near The Anchor.
I finally find a spot one street over, and with four whole minutes to spare, I race to the glass doors, throw them open, and am greeted by the cold, unsmiling face of the same receptionist from last week. Freaking Bridget.
"Can I help you?" she asks, eyeing me like she's never seen me before even though she knows good and well she snubbed me on Friday.
"Hey there. I'm supposed to meet with Mason," I manage to say through several long pants. In my hand are the typed press release and a flash drive containing the word document.
Bridget nods at me calmly. "Mr. Matthews is out for the day."
"I'm sorry, but that's impossible. He told me to be here at nine this morning with this press release and—"
“I don’t know what to tell you,” she says with a smug, infuriating smile.
I groan and shove the paper and thumb drive into my canvas bag. "Well, where is he? He said he would be here," I say, starting to lose my cool.
"Ma'am, I'm not at liberty to tell you that," Bridget says, trying to suppress the joy that's plastered across her puffy, powdered face.
My heart sinks, and I feel my stomach start to knot itself with anger. I did not run myself down all night with next-to-no sleep just to be snubbed by Mason. As is, he's not even giving me a chance to submit the damn sample. Sighing, I look at his closed office door and nod.
Be the storm.
"That's fine," I say, my voice eerily sweet. "I'll just wait for him over here." Sauntering toward the chairs at the front of the office, I fully intend to plant my ass here until Mason returns. If it takes all day, Hank will have to understand.
"Oh. Well, you can't do that," Bridget says, the hilarity in her face now replaced with nervous righteousness. "He may be gone all day. I'll have to ask you to step outside."
"Sure." Humiliation setting in, I grit my teeth. T
urning on my heel, I walk swiftly toward the glass doors. "Fine by me." I open the door and stand in the frame of it, letting the warm spring air sweep into the lobby of the Gazette. Not having any of it, I devise a mental plan. Taking a deep, satisfying breath, I shout out to a shocked and unassuming group of pedestrians. "EXTRA EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT!" The people look like tourists. And if anything, this will serve as an entertaining narrative they can take home with them. "LOCAL PAPER STIFLES FREE SPEECH AND CREATIVE SPIRIT!"
"Stop that!" Bridget hisses from behind her desk.
But I keep going. At this rate, my sample is going unread, and I don't have a damn thing to lose. "MASON MATTHEWS IS A MAJOR LIAR AND A PRICK! THINK BEFORE YOU READ!"
"Fine, fine! Shut the doggone door!" Bridget says, finally picking herself up from her desk and rushing toward me, her thick heels clicking on the tiled ground. Turning toward her, I notice two patches of pink sitting high on her cheeks, my outburst having taken a toll on her.
“Where is he?”
The woman furrows her brow and crosses her arms over her chest. “I can’t tell you that.”
Fury takes hold of me, and when I start to open the door again, she shouts at me. "No, wait! Good grief, you have issues! Okay!"
“Where is he?” I ask, enunciating each word like it’s my last.
Bridget grunts with frustration and stamps a foot. "You know, for such a little girl you're awfully—"
Shaking my head at her, I put my hand on the glass door as a sort of threat.
“Zephyr Gallery, North Howe Street past Stuart,” she says through clenched teeth.
"Thank you." Floating down the stairs, I walk away with a self-congratulatory smile, but it fades as soon as I reach my car. There's a neon yellow piece of paper tucked under my windshield wiper. It flaps in the morning breeze like a tiny yellow bird. I yank it out as I get in the car and make a mental note to insist that Mason pay for my ticket.
Stuart Street is a seven-minute drive with Monday morning traffic, and I'm already late running late for my shift at the Dream Bean. I text Hank at a red light to tell him I'll be there within twenty minutes. I know he's grateful I'm helping him with the shift, but his patience will wear thin if I take too long.
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