Page 117 of When There Was You
I swallow hard. Did she? Did he?
Forced to stow my concern for now, I hustle to the copy room and get on task.
At the next staff meeting,Tyler awards Tanya the top story. The following week, she gets another plum feature. The third week, I’m almost to the bottom of the feeder pool, and I’m sick to my stomach. Not only am I questioning my own abilities, but if my assumptions hold any veracity, it’s fucking terrifying.
I’m a day away from approaching Tyler when he summons me to his office. The verifiable shit-ton of debating I’ve done in the past few weeks has made me question my sanity. Maybe I’m about to get answers.
“Hey, Jacqui. Shut the door and take a seat.” I may be imagining it, but he sounds beleaguered.
I’ve got a million and one questions but I bite my tongue.
He folds his hands, his collective fist tapping against his desk as if he’s deciding what to say.
The printing press that now resides in my gut starts up, churning out fresh newsprint.
He clears his throat. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that you’re getting fewer features lately, and I wanted to explain what’s happening.”
“I appreciate that.”
“There’s been a complaint.”
My stomach lurches. “About me?”
“Partially, yes.”
My eyes widen. “By who…whom?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, but this person alleged you were receiving special treatment regarding story assignments. The complainant suggested your longevity in the industry and skill level weren’t in alignment with theirs.”
Of course it’s Tanya. No one else stands to gain as she hasalready. “That’s why I’ve been underutilized these past weeks?”
Tyler acknowledges with a quick dip of his head. “I’ve been mandated to give appropriate assignments to senior staffers. It’s not a reflection of you as much as a necessary part of the process.”
This isn’t totally true, and we both know it. Other staff members are still scoring primo stories instead of being reduced to the slush-pile dregs I’m getting.
“Do you believe the allegations are credible?” I notice my knee bouncing and still it with my hand.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Again.
Right.
“I’m sorry, Jacqui. For what it’s worth, I value your place on the team. You’re a good writer, professional, meet your deadlines, go the extra mile. I have no complaints with your job performance whatsoever. Quite the opposite.”
That’s effectively my answer. His hands are tied. He’s probably galled by it too. How I long to unload about Don and seek Tyler’s advice…but that’s far too risky. And likely useless.
I rub my brow, choking back the injustice. “Am I going to be fired?”
“No,” he assures me.
But I don’t believe it. This is Don’s way of showing me who’s boss—and what happens if I don’t play ball.
Fifty-Eight
Emmy turns eight in February, and I’m at Butch’s house for a weekend-long celebration. Today is the skating party. A dozen of her friends will gather at the roller rink, then her two closest girlfriends will sleep over. Liz and her kids are coming, and Jerri dropped off a homemade sheet cake for the party because she’s amazing like that. The family shindig will happen tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure Jerri’s makinganothercake for the occasion.
Butch borrows his dad’s Power Wagon, and we pile in and head for the rink a half-hour away.
Ten minutes in, he slides his hand across the bench seat and threads his fingers through mine. “You’re vibrating. One might think it’s your birthday.”
