Page 61 of Impulse Control
Sounds good,
I typed back.
What time?
She suggested one that fit neatly into the mental margins of my day—just enough space to finish everything at the Daily and still make it without having to leave early.
I’ll see you then.
I replied.
The newsroom swallowed me whole the second I stepped inside—voices overlapping, phones ringing, the steady undercurrent of movement and purpose. My desk held a neat stack of contact sheets with René’s handwriting scrawled across the top.
Two were circled decisively.
The other two had a single annotation:Non.
I smiled despite myself.
Of course he wanted something else.
I slid into my chair, already pulling the rejected images back up on my screen, letting the rhythm of the room carry me forward. Notes came in. Tasks stacked themselves neatly into the hours ahead. The day hummed along, vibrant and alive, everything moving just fast enough to keep me sharp.
And for a little while, everything fit.
The afternoon moved in clean increments. Edits. Emails. A short assist on a layout tweak that turned into a longer conversation about framing. Someone swore loudly across the room when a file corrupted; someone else laughed like it was a joke they’d heard before. Coffee appeared on my desk without explanation. I drank it anyway.
I lost track of time in the best way.
René passed once without stopping, glanced at my screen, and said, “Better,” like it was a complete sentence.
It was.
I was halfway through flagging a new set of selects when his voice cut through the newsroom—sharp, rapid, unmistakably irritated.
“Putain, mais c’est pas possible.”
Heads didn’t turn. This wasn’t unusual enough to warrant attention.
René stalked past my desk, phone pressed to his ear, muttering under his breath now. Something about schedules. Someone’s name I didn’t catch. A string of clipped French so fast—I really couldn’t make out the actual words—that ended with a sharp exhale.
He hung up and turned immediately.
“Rachel.”
I was on my feet before he finished saying my name.
“Yes?”
The irritation hadn’t left his face, but when he looked at me, it shifted—focused, redirected. Not anger. Assessment.
“They changed the location,” he said. “And the timing.”
I didn’t ask who. We were booked to do a huge shoot in a couple of days. I blinked. “Changed how?”
He made a short, dismissive gesture with one hand. “The day shoot is gone. Someone didn’t confirm permits. Amateur hour.” His mouth flattened. “We shoot tonight.”
Tonight.
