“You want me to write it?” After the way I withheld information? Why would he give me another shot at this?
David clears his throat. “I understand why you did what you did. Hell, I let this one move in with me after she dumped me.” He dips his head in Emily’s direction, and she sticks out her bottom lip.
“Poor baby.” Emily strokes his chest before adding, “I’m pretty sure it all worked out fine in the end.”
“The point is I get it. But you have to fix this, or Monohan will have your head.” David tips his empty glass in my direction before standing up. “Anyone else need a refill?”
I can’t believe he’s not walking out. “I’ll get it,” I tell him, but Emily stands up.
“I’ll go with him. You two stay here.” She looks back and forth between Whitney and me. “I’m sensing you need a minute to talk anyway.”
They head for the bar, and I shift in the booth to face Whitney. “What do you think? Do you want to tell your side of the story? It might help.”
She plays with the ring on her pinky finger. “It can’t hurt. I’m going to lose my job anyway.”
“We don’t know that yet.” I brush her hair behind her shoulder. “Let me write the story. I’ll give you final approval before I turn anything in to David.”
She bobs her head, looking defeated.
When Emily and David return with another round of drinks, David agrees to write the column if and only if I have that story in his inbox by noon tomorrow. That means cutting the night short so I can go home and write.
We say goodbye, and I drive Whitney back to her car, which is still in the school parking lot. I cut the engine and turn to face her. “I’ll call you in the morning when the article is ready to go. That way if you want me to add anything, I’ll have time to do so before I submit the story to David.”
She looks down at her phone, which she’s been typing on for the past ten minutes while we drove here from Last Call. “I wrote up some things I thought you should have for the article. I don’t know if it will help or not, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
I rattle off my email address so she can send me what she wrote. I’m afraid to try to kiss her goodnight. Her mood plummeted after talking to David and Emily. I settle for squeezing her hand, which is on her lap. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”
“Thank you, Alex. You really are doing too much for me.”
Then why do I feel like it’s not enough at all?
After thinking I’d never get to sleep last night, I finally crashed around one in the morning. I knew I couldn’t write the article while everything was still so fresh on my mind. It would’ve been like rehashing an injury that was still raw. I needed time to let my thoughts settle so I could approach the article like a reporter and not a man who is seriously falling for a mystery artist he happened to stumble upon.
With my coffee in hand, I open my laptop and click on my email. The message from Whitney is right at the top. I open it and read:
Too many people don’t have the luxury to see the world the way an artist does. Thankfully, I’m not one of those people. I was raised by my mother after my father was killed by a drunk driver on Halloween night when I was only two years old. My mother was a free spirit. She saw beauty in everything she looked at. She loved to paint, and she put a paintbrush in my hand when I was three years old. Instead of teaching me my ABCs or how to write my name, she taught me brushstrokes. She taught me to capture the essence of an object in both watercolor and acrylic paints. My mother put fresh flowers on my father’s grave every week because she said flowers were the ultimate work of art, their only fault being that they die so soon. I guess in that way, they were like my father. Maybe that’s why she assimilated the two.
As I grew up, I noticed other people didn’t see the world the way my mother and I did. They passed by that beauty without so much as a second glance, never seeing it before it faded away or died like those flowers. So I started painting everything I saw. My room was littered with canvases. When it came time for me to go to college, I didn’t need to think about what my major would be. I knew. I wanted to teach others to see the world the way my mom had taught me. She was so proud when I told her that. And I’ll be forever grateful I got the chance to tell her, because the day I left for college, my mother had a massive stroke. By the time the paramedics called me, she’d passed.
Since then, I’ve been determined to share my mother’s views with everyone I meet. Most of all my students. I’ve watched teenagers who struggle with math and science excel at art. I’ve seen them change their view on the world around them after painting not just what they see but what they feel. When I discovered the school board wanted to cut the art program, I wept for those students. I wept for my mother. I wept for our future. What is this world if we can’t see the beauty in it? I knew I was wrong to paint those murals without permission from the business owners, but I felt compelled to do so anyway because I had to make people see what they were giving up. And I’d say it worked. For a brief few days, people were talking about art. They were seeing the beauty in everyday life, and they were stopping to appreciate it. So I can’t say I’m sorry for what I did. I’m not sorry for opening people’s eyes or bringing art back into their lives. What I am sorry for is the loss they’re going to feel when the school board cuts the art program Tuesday night. That’s what I’m sorry for.
I reread Whitney’s email several times, and then I forward it to David with a brief message.
David,
Aria said she wanted a profile on the artist. Well, here you go, straight from the artist’s mouth. I couldn’t have written this better. This is the real news we should print. The byline is all Whitney’s.
Alex
I hit “send” and smile to myself before changing for my morning run. I’m about to leave the apartment when my phone rings in my hand. I glance at the screen and see it’s David. I groan because it can’t be good that he’s calling me instead of emailing me back.
“Hey, David,” I answer.
“Mr. Monohan is requesting your presence in the newsroom today, Alex. You’re email has caused quite a stir around here. My advice is to bring donuts,” he adds before hanging up.
I look down at my running shorts and tank top. I’m tempted to change, but screw it. They’re calling me in on a Saturday, no doubt to fire me for not doing what they asked. Yes, Aria wanted a profile, but the piece I sent her doesn’t exactly fit the bill. I just couldn’t bring myself to report this story factually and without bias.
I call Whitney on my way to For the Record. Well, I should say on my way to Dunkin’ Donuts en route to For the Record. David wasn’t wrong to suggest donuts. My coworkers always soften their attitudes when food is involved.
“Good morning,” Whitney says, sounding a little better than she did when I left her last night.
“Hi. Thanks for the email you sent me. I’m going to try to get my boss to run it in the paper as is.”
“You are?” she sounds shocked. “I didn’t even proofread it.”
“That’s what editors are for,” I say, pulling into the long line in the drive-through.
“Are you sending me your article?” Her voice is full of nerves now.
“I didn’t write one.”
“Alex.” The one word packs quite the punch.
“I couldn’t. I’m too close to the story to be objective. That’s why I submitted your piece instead.” I hear what sounds like a paintbrush being dunked in water. “Are you painting?”
“Always on a Saturday morning.”
At least the situation hasn’t completely impeded on her routine. “Glad to hear it. Maybe I can convince Mr. Monohan to let you paint a mural on the side of For the Record.” Though since he only leases one office in the building, I doubt he’d be allowed to have a mural painted without getting it approved with the building owner first.
“You should just focus on not getting fired. One of us should keep a job.”
�
��Was that an attempt at a joke?” I ask, pulling up in line.
“A very bad one.”
I listen to the brushstrokes on the canvas. It’s actually really soothing. “I’d love to see you paint sometime. You know, when it’s not an act of vandalism,” I say, falling back into our usual banter.
She laughs. “That takes all the fun out of it.” She sighs dramatically. “But I guess that can be arranged. I live on the corner of Elm and Pine,” she says, even though we both know I already looked up her address. “It’s an old house that’s been converted into two apartments. I’m the door on the right.”
“Great. I’m heading into work at the moment. Actually, hang on a second.” I pull up to the window and order two-dozen assorted donuts. “Sorry, I’m at Dunkin’ Donuts. I’m about to head to the office.”
“Oh, you’re working today?”
“It wasn’t planned.”
“I see,” she says in a low voice. “Let me guess. You submitted my story and got called in for a meeting.”
“Something like that. How about lunch? I can pick something up and bring it over after I’m finished at the paper.” I pay for my order and place the two boxes on the passenger seat before pulling out of the parking lot.
“I’ll whip something up. Do you like spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Who doesn’t?” I say.
“I’ll see you later then. Oh, and Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to lose your job because of me. I’m not really picturing our next date being in the unemployment office.” She hangs up, and even though there’s a real possibility of that happening, I’m still smiling over the fact that she wants there to be another date.
I can hear the commotion in the office before the elevator doors open. And the fact that all conversation comes to an abrupt halt the second I step out of the elevator doesn’t ease my nerves any. I hold up the boxes of donuts. “Anyone hungry?”
David gives me a small smile and points to the conference room. I head in that direction, but Emily cuts me off. “Your girlfriend might have a future as a feature writer. You should talk to Eliza about bringing her on board.” She hands me an envelope. “This is for Whitney. I told Mr. M. he should pay her the standard fee for a freelance story.”
I stare at the envelope in my hand. “You’re kidding, right?”
She shakes her head. “Although, your paycheck might be thinner this week, considering you failed to turn in your story.” She smirks as she takes the two boxes of donuts out of my hand and brings them to the conference room.
Nate walks over to me because I’m not able to move at the moment since I have no idea what’s going on. “You better come with me,” he says. “There’s really no use putting this off.”
Putting what off? Am I being fired?
Chapter Twelve
Whitney
I’m just putting my brushes away when there’s a knock on the front door. The doorbell stopped working years ago, and I never had it fixed since I couldn’t stand the thing anyway. Every time I heard it, I had the urge to open the door and say, “You rang?” in my best Lurch impression. Mom loved The Addams Family.
I quickly glance in the hallway mirror on my way to the door. It could only be Alex knocking. He’s much earlier than I thought, though, and I’m still in my paint-splattered art clothes. I quickly pull the elastic out of my hair and shake my head. My hair falls down, stopping just below my shoulders. It’s not much better, but it’s all I have time for. “Coming,” I say, rushing for the door.
When I pull it open, it’s not Alex standing on the front porch. It’s a man in his thirties with dark hair. He’s only a few inches taller than I am.
“Can I help you?” I ask, assuming he has the wrong address or he’s trying to sell me something.
“Are you Whitney Stillwater?” he asks.
“Who’s asking?” My mother taught me never to reveal my name before learning the name of the person who wanted to know.
He extends his hand. “I’m Oliver Strauss, the editor-in-chief at Priority News.”
I stare him in the eye, not making any attempt to shake his hand.
Finally, he lowers his arm to his side and clears his throat. “I’ll make this quick and get right to the point, Ms. Stillwater.”
“I never confirmed that’s who I am,” I interrupt him.
He sighs, clearly annoyed, and raises his other hand, which I now see is holding a red file folder. He opens it and pulls out a piece of paper. He turns it to face me, and I see it’s a photocopy of my school ID picture. “I’d rather not play games, Ms. Stillwater. I know who you are, and I know what you’ve been up to for the past week.”
I start to shut the door, but he sticks his foot in the doorway to keep it from closing. “Get the hell off my property before I call the cops,” I say, wishing I had my phone on me. I left it in my art room, which his really a large closet. My eyes dart in that direction, but I know if I run for it, Oliver will push his way inside. I continue to push against the door instead.
“Answer a few questions, and I’ll be happy to leave,” he says.
Breaks squeal, and over Oliver’s shoulder I see Alex rushing out of his car. “Get the hell away from her!” he yells. He doesn’t wait for Oliver to oblige. He grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him away from my door.
“Get your hands off me,” Oliver says, shoving Alex, who falls backward down the front steps.
“Alex!” I push past Oliver and bend down next to Alex.
“I’m fine,” he says, getting to his feet.
“You must be Alex Wilkes,” Oliver says. “You know, for a split second, I thought you might make a good reporter. But then you let the best story you were assigned to slip right through your fingers.” He turns and looks me up and down. “Was she really worth your career? I’m sure Monohan had the balls to fire you after a stunt like that. I mean, who puts a cheap lay in front of their career?”
Alex rushes for Oliver, grabbing the front of Oliver’s shirt and pulling his arm back to punch him in the face.
I quickly grab Alex’s arm. “Don’t!” If Oliver is as bad as Emily and David made him out to be last night, I wouldn’t put it past him to hit Alex with assault charges.
Alex puts his arm down. “Get the hell out of here, Oliver. Go back to your mommy.”
“Did Nate or Aria teach you that one?” He steps toward Alex, getting right in his face. “Don’t pretend you know me or my mother.”
“You’re just bitter because you missed out on the story Alex saw a mile away,” I say, knowing I shouldn’t taunt Oliver but unable to stop myself.
Oliver’s gaze focuses on me. “I didn’t miss out. He did. The idiot was too wrapped up trying to get you in bed that he forgot to do his job.”
I don’t care if Oliver does think Alex and I are sleeping together. I want him gone. “Then go write your story. I have my own to tell. The one about the reporter who assaulted me and tried to force entry into my home.”
“I’ll be happy to write that one,” Alex says.
Without warning, Oliver swings at Alex’s jaw. His fist connects, and they both cry out. Oliver looks the worse of the two, cradling his hand. Alex rubs his jaw. “Good luck writing with a broken hand,” Alex says.
I pull him inside the house and lock the door. “Are you okay?” I immediately tug his hand away from his face so I can see his jaw for myself.
“I’m fine,” he says, looking into my eyes. “The question is, are you? Did he hurt you?”
“No. He tried to force his way in here. That man is...” There are no words to describe him.
“I know. I meant what I said, too. I’ll be happy to write a story about what he did here.”
“Sit down. I’m going to get you some ice.” I hurry to the kitchen. My apartment is laid out with the living room, bathroom, and then kitchen all in a row. Upstairs is my bedroom and another bathroom. I grab some ice from the bottom drawer freezer and wrap a few paper towels aroun
d it. Then I hurry back to Alex, who is seated on my couch. “Sorry, I know that thing isn’t very comfortable,” I say. “I’ve had it since...” I take a deep breath as I sit down beside him. “This was my mom’s place. Well, mine too.”
“You grew up here?”
I nod. “After my dad died, we had a hard time making ends meet. Hence the small place. My mom and I shared a room and everything.” I press the ice to his jaw, and he jumps. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No, it’s just cold.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, it is ice.” I hold the ice in place and rest my other hand on his cheek. “Thank you for showing up when you did and for taking a punch for me.”
“I wasn’t going to let him talk about you like that.”
“You really need to stop trying to rescue me,” I say. “People are going to talk.” I wink to let him know I’m only teasing.
“I brought you something.” He presses one hand to the ice, holding it in place, and reaches for the pocket on his running shorts. Then he laughs. “Sorry for my attire. I was about to go running when I was called in to the office.”
I gesture to my clothes. “I’m still dressed in my painting attire, so let’s call it even.”
He smiles. “Deal. And here.” He hands me an envelope. “My bosses loved your story. They’re going to run it. Eliza, the features editor, is going to make a few edits but nothing major. It will be online tonight.”
“And this is?” I flip the envelope over and pull up the flap. Inside is a check. A small check, but a check nonetheless.
“It’s the standard rate for freelance stories,” he says. “Emily said I should see if you’re interested in writing more feature stories. We could get you on staff until you find another job.”
I put the check on the glass coffee table. “Are you serious? I’m not a writer, Alex. If you’re looking for an art critic, I’m your girl, but—”
He removes the ice from his jaw, placing it on the table, and then takes both of my hands in his. “I was kind of hoping you were my girl regardless.”
Since I Found You Page 8