He shrugged. “Depends on what kind of journalist you want to be. Your mentor would probably advise against it.”
“My mentor?”
“Ellie. Your boss?”
I resisted a scowl. “She’s not my mentor.”
He searched my expression like he could sense my scowl lurking between the words. “That’s probably for the best,” he said, his tone so neutral that I couldn’t decide what to read from it.
I probed a little. “Did you ever work with her?”
“No. She was with the Advocate before she started the magazine.”
“I know that, but didn’t your paths ever cross while you were covering a story or something?”
His jaw hardened. “Sure,” he said. “Our paths crossed.”
His expression didn’t invite further questions, so I dropped it. For the moment. But the mellow vibe between us had evaporated, and I wondered how to bring it back.
“I’m working on a new piece,” I said.
He relaxed. “What’s it about?”
“I went to the Latin Heritage Festival in Salt Lake yesterday, and I met this amazing girl, Marisol. I’m going to write about her.”
“What’s the angle?” he asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “She’s from Ciudad Juarez in Mexico. She had to leave last year because her brother got caught informing on one of the drug cartels to the DEA. At first, they harassed the family to make him quit. She used to sell her jewelry at a small shop in town, and they burned it down. She was in it and escaped with severe burns.” The scars on the backs of her hands told the story in angry purple scrawls. It had sickened me to see them, not because they were ugly but because they told an ugly story of how evil people can be.
“Things escalated,” I continued, as gripped in the retelling as I had been when she’d slowly unfolded the events that had led her to Salt Lake. “But her brother was determined to bring the local kingpin down. When he gave up some key details to the US government, the cousins hiding him betrayed him to protect themselves, and the cartel killed him. Marisol, her mother, and her little sister barely escaped a massacre in their neighborhood when the drug lord’s foot soldiers shot up a community center and killed seventeen other people as a warning. Marisol and her family had been tipped off and were at home packing. They sneaked across the border and made their way to a distant cousin’s home up here in West Valley. Now she’s making and selling the most amazing jewelry to support her family, and I want to tell her story.” The words poured out in a rush, and I took a deep breath to calm myself. It was hard not to get worked up over the injustice she had suffered and overcome.
Courtney appeared at the end of our row just then and made her way to us. The teacher welcomed the class, and I subsided. But interest glinted in Tanner’s eyes, and I wanted his take on things. Quietly enough not to disturb the people around us, he leaned over and murmured, “I’m already distracted by your story. Want to go back out and talk about it?”
I nodded, thrilled that he wanted to talk to me. About the article, I mean. We climbed over Courtney’s legs. She shot us a curious look but stayed put, and I followed Tanner to the foyer. We reclaimed the sofa, and he stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back, staring into the distance without speaking. I studied the interesting planes and angles that made up his face. He was unarguably hot, and when he smiled, with his strong jaw and high cheekbones, he had an all-American quality to him. But now, as I looked at him with his brow furrowed and his eyes intense, I decided he was even hotter. Something about the concentration in his face as he puzzled out an approach to Marisol’s story made my insides flip, like maybe my spleen was doing a happy dance. I cleared my throat, although what I needed to do was clear my head. Or my spleen.
He glanced over. “Your audience is going to want to hear about the jewelry, right? Not the drug lord stuff?”
“Probably,” I said. “But I want to work it in. She’s sending a huge chunk of her profits home on a remittance to her grandmother, and I want people to understand why.”
“But Real Salt Lake readers are going to be looking for something that tells them where to shop, eat, or dance next, right?”
“That’s not all we’re about,” I said, bristling that he would reduce us to a simple trend magazine.
“Yes, it is,” he said. “But you get major credit for trying to bring something else to it besides a sense of your own importance and an overrated value of your opinions.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is there a compliment buried in there?”
“What’s the Real Salt Lake tag line? ‘Hip, Hot, Happening’? That magazine thrives on opinion-driven stories written by people who have an overinflated sense of themselves and their ability to judge what’s cool. In that sense, they’ve put together the right staff to write for their audience. The hipsters who read your magazine love nothing better than to feel like they’re on the inside of an exclusive club with people who think exactly like they do.”
My jaw dropped. How could he say such incredibly insulting things in such a reasonable tone of voice? Especially after he’d complimented my work on the Kirbi Dawn piece? I pushed up from the sofa, but he reached out and snared my wrist, holding me in place.
“You’re the exception,” he said. “Don’t be mad.”
I looked down at his hand on my wrist and wondered if the heat from it would brand me with finger-shaped marks, a permanent reminder of a guy I found fascinating and infuriating all at the same time. I relaxed, and he loosened his hold but didn’t let go. “You should definitely write about Marisol. Just do it in a way that readers will want to buy her jewelry and then be able to feel like they’re making a statement for social justice at the same time.”
“I already knew that’s where I needed to go with it,” I said, reclaiming ownership of my wrist. His assessment of Real Salt Lake still stung. “I want even more . . . layers, I guess.”
He stared off into the distance for another moment or two and then refocused. “Don’t make Marisol the story,” he said. “Make each piece she designs the story. Then your readers will stay interested in the style side of things—”
“But I get to unfold her story anyway as I tell about the jewelry,” I finished for him, realizing exactly where he was going.
He nodded. “Yeah. That should do it.”
“If you weren’t already so annoying, I’d totally tell you how genius that is.” I wasn’t ready to forgive him yet, but there was no denying it was the perfect approach.
He tilted his head and regarded me with a half smile playing around his lips. “Don’t worry about it. I already know.”
I laughed, knowing he was poking fun at himself. I liked that he could do that. These few minutes on the couch with Tanner were a perfect mirror to reflect every interaction we’d had—equal parts frustrating and exhilarating. I braced for every encounter with him, expecting him to make me mad, which he did. And then at some point, he always surprised me with a glimpse at the Tanner beneath his brusque professional facade. There was the Tanner who made scathing remarks about his competition’s publication, and there was the Tanner who hung out with his kid sister a couple of times a week because he worried about her. Tanner Graham, the enigma.
“So tell me again when this double date is going to be,” he said.
“It’s not a double date. It’s Josh and Courtney’s date, and you and I are tagging along.”
“Whatever. When is it?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I have to call Josh.”
Tanner didn’t say anything for a moment; he watched me like he was trying to figure something out. “Are you sure he’s going to be okay with substituting Courtney for you?”
“Yeah. No chemistry. He thinks she’s cute.”
“No chemistry,” Tanner muttered, and in an absent-minded gesture, his hand closed around my wrist again. He was still staring off, and I wondered what was running through his mind and what it meant that he was touching me w
ithout thinking about it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Yeah. No chemistry,” I said, flexing my wrist.
Startled, he glanced down and let go. Then he smiled. “None.”
I let the little bubble of . . . something settle between us. And finally, when the silence grew too fraught, I broke. And I broke it. “Thanks for the story help,” I said. “I’m going to go find Courtney.”
“I bet she’s still in the same seat.”
My cheeks grew pink as he poked a hole in my excuse for leaving. I didn’t know what I was running away from, but the urgent need to break away and breathe fueled my escape. Breathe air that didn’t have the light, spicy scent of him in it. Just breathe.
I slid off the couch and straightened my soft-gray, corduroy, A-line skirt, so my hands had something to do. “I’ll call Courtney with the details for our . . .”
“Date,” he finished. “It’s called a date.”
“I think it’s more like babysitting. That’s what you’re doing, right?”
He shrugged and held my gaze. “Maybe.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m going to go.”
He smiled. After another awkward pause, I turned and fled to the cultural hall and my seat beside Courtney, where I took a deep breath because I finally could.
“Everything okay?” she whispered.
“Maybe.” I smiled, surprising myself. “Maybe it is.”
Dear Mr. Handy,
I truly appreciate you for hiring me almost a year ago, and I am thankful I’ve had a job during a time when so many other people are struggling to make ends meet.
Things change, I guess. Even when we don’t expect them to. If we’re lucky, we make our breaks. Or maybe we at least manage to go with the flow when the tides of change come.
Then again, some things never change, like the Rust Bucket. She’s going to give up the ghost soon, and I don’t think Austin will get the same service from Nelson and Sons that I do. You might want to consider a new freezer. Like, consider it really strongly.
Again, I want to sincerely thank you for the opportunity to earn a paycheck when a lot of others don’t. I’ve learned more than I expected to, like approximately fifty ways to use vinegar and why yeast really does matter. Life, lessons, Mr. Handy. Life lessons.
Sincerely,
Pepper Spicer
Chapter 14
For eight months, I’d wallowed at the bottom of a rut I’d dug. After breaking up with Landon, I went into retreat mode, a reasonable thing to do given how long we’d been together and how much it hurt to realize he loved me because I was convenient. I’d never gone through a major breakup before, but if I’m supposed to believe books and movies, right around the time I should have emerged from my emotional hibernation, the media blitz for The It Factor hit, and I burrowed deeper. Landon was everywhere, especially in the Utah news because of his hometown roots. It was like death by paper cuts every time I heard a report or saw his face on TV or in the Bee, even though my dad generally tried to hide the Arts section when it ran a story on Landon.
For eight months, I lived in a routine of sameness. Get up, face the day in my Handy’s Sandwich shirt, come home and sulk on my blog, and slowly pay off wedding debt. Wash, rinse, repeat. Given the sameness and the excruciating slowness that defined everything in my life, I was shocked to discover that life could move so fast it was like old-school Star Trek warp drive.
In the three months since I had taken my dad’s challenge, everything had changed. It started when I sent out my first batch of résumés, but it blew up when my replay of the Rhys date hit. I knew something was up when I walked into the kitchen Tuesday morning to find Mace hunched over a plate of French toast, staring at my dad’s laptop and chuckling, each laugh louder and longer than the one before it.
“Something good on YouTube?” I made my way to the fridge in search of tortillas. It was a breakfast burrito kind of morning.
“Nah,” he said and laughed again. “Oh man. This is good.”
“What is it?”
“Your column.”
I couldn’t contain my grin. “You like it?”
“Dang, Pepper. I forgot how funny you can be when you’re not pouting.”
I threw a potholder at him. “Thanks.”
He pushed back from the table and brought his plate over to the sink. “Man. I wish I could tell my English teacher it’s you writing this. She loves your column. I’d probably get an A just for being your brother.”
“Your English teacher reads ‘Single in the City’?” I asked. Ginger wandered in and edged me out for space in front of the crisper drawer, where I rummaged for a bell pepper.
“Everyone reads it. Duh.”
Classic delivery of a compliment, Ginger-style.
Rosemary trailed in behind my mother, frowning as she tried to tug the stubborn strap of her Disney princess backpack over her shoulder. “I didn’t tell anyone it’s you!”
“Okay. Thanks,” I said. She looked proud of herself. “Way to keep a secret.”
“It’s up today?” my mom asked.
“Yeah. It’s a good one,” Mace told her on his way back up the stairs.
“Wait for me,” my dad said. He pulled up his chair next to my mom’s and within seconds, the giggling started, growing into a full-blown guffaw after a minute.
“I don’t know what to think about the fact that the column making the most fun of me is the one that makes you laugh the hardest,” I grumbled, but I was pleased.
My dad didn’t say anything for a moment, finishing the column with a few more laughs, and then he stood and walked over to hug me. “You should think that we love your sense of humor and we’re so glad to see you able to laugh at yourself again.”
He relaxed his bear hug and headed out for his office. “Well done, daughter!” he called over his shoulder.
“Mom?” I asked, wanting her input too.
“I was about to say I wish I had been there to see this, but honestly, the way you wrote it made me feel like I was.” She tapped the screen. “‘Fear enlarged Sir Hottie’s remaining good eye until it eclipsed his bright-blue regulation Frisbee when he saw me coming at him again, even though I waved an Alaska-sized cup full of ice as a peace-offering.’ Brilliant,” she said.
A text dinged on my phone, and I snatched it from the counter. It was from Courtney and read, HAHAHAHAHAHA.
I scooped my burrito up and sat at the table to read the column while I ate. I could probably recite it word for word, but there was something about seeing it official with the Indie Girl byline and the graphic they used in place of my picture. It showed a girl with a fall of dark hair hiding all but the curve of her cheek and one downcast eye. It was mysterious and artsy. And a little misleading since my hair wasn’t nearly long enough or well-behaved enough to drape that way. But I loved the slick production values on it and the way it said, “This is a real column written by a real writer.”
In past weeks, I’d grown used to seeing reader comments on the date recaps show up toward the afternoon of the first day they were posted, hitting a peak of around fifty after a day or two and tapering off toward the end of the week. This morning, more than two dozen comments already waited for me. I read through them, delighted. They ranged from single word comments like, “Awesome!” to paragraph length responses from a couple people who shared their own horror stories. Even with the use of screen names, it was easy to tell that most of the commenters were women, but there were a few guys who chimed in. The tone from all five guys was of the good-natured “glad it wasn’t me” variety. One joker added, “I’m not good-looking enough to make you nervous. Can we count this as meeting online? Then you could go out with me.”
The house quieted as everyone left for school and work, and I savored the rest of my breakfast as I read each new comment that posted. This should go quite a ways in my negotiation with Ellie for something a little more full time and permanent, especially given the presence of three shiny new ba
nner ads at the top of my column’s page. Business must be looking up. I had thought long and hard over the last several days about how to approach Ellie. I’d gone so far as to e-mail Chantelle and ask her advice, counting on her dislike of Ellie to win her help. Chantelle confirmed that based on everything she was hearing, my column was the biggest thing to hit Real Salt Lake. “Use that to your advantage,” she e-mailed back. “Ellie is using it to hers, and you deserve a slice of that pie.”
When my phone rang an hour before I had to be at Handy’s, I wasn’t at all surprised to see Ellie’s number. She had a hit on her hands, and we both knew it. I answered, curious about what approach she would take when I asked for a permanent position.
“I loved it,” she said. “Great column.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You should work this angle more in the future,” she advised. “You struck a nerve today. Or maybe a funny bone.”
It was time to test the waters. “About the future,” I started.
“Yes?” she said, her tone guarded.
“How are we doing on the page clicks?”
She cleared her throat. “I think you’ll be happy with your check. I’m pretty sure you’re going to max out this week, so that means the full amount.”
“That’s great,” I said. “But it seems like if the page gets even more views than that, it’s more valuable than what I’m being paid.”
“This is a new feature,” she said. “It’ll take more time to gauge the impact of your column on traffic and advertising.”
“Why? It seems like it should be easy to figure out how many people are reading my stuff. It should also be fairly easy to ask advertisers what draws them to spend money with you, right?” The instinct that “Single in the City” had suddenly become a key selling point for Ellie emboldened me to pin her down.
“It doesn’t work like that,” she said, refusing to be pinned. “We need to watch trends and see what’s happening over time.”
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