Page 15 of Let's Kiss and Tell

“That’s okay, we’ll see you when we get back,” my mom says. “I love you. Have a good weekend.”

“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to be happy for them. “You too.”

I push past the residual feelings I usually have after talking to my mom and try to not grow more and more despondent.

The next couple of hours I focus and send Eman my article with a pretty solid vibrator ranking—I would even put money on it. My next story is the one about mynew relationship.As frustrated as I am, I try to see this as an opportunity. If I’m able to show Eman, and her boss, and her boss’s boss that I’m capable of writing for a broader audience, all the while bringing in new clicks and engagement to the column, it’s the perfect case study. If I can pull this off before the quarter is over, I have no doubt my job will be safe from layoffs. In fact, there should be absolutely no reason why I wouldn’t be able to get a promotion. A promotion I deserve.

The only missing piece is if I’m going to write aboutmy ownpersonal relationship, as Eman blatantly made clear…I kind of need to be in one. I could easily conjure up some bullshit stories, but that’s not the kind of writer I am. Making up advice for my committed readers goes against my journalistic integrities. Yes, I still have those…at least I try to, given the circumstances.

Fired up, I scroll through my preferred dating app and spend ten minutes aggressively swiping on what I think are good contenders to date for the next month. Already tired at the effort it would take to meet someone new, I look at all the people I’ve previously matched with. Maybe it would be easier to rekindle something with someone I’ve already gotten to know.

Josh was a private gym trainer who only wanted to work out together and talk about fitness goals. Cam worked in finance and revealed thirty minutes into our date his polarizing political views. Ezra gave literally the worst oral I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. It sounded like a thirsty dog lapping a bowl of water on ahot day. Dylan from the other night was super sweet but there was no spark. There’s never a spark.

By Sunday I’m defeated, and teetering toward desperate at my lack of options. It’s not that I’mpicky,but if I’m going to be spending my days and nights with the same person for the next while, I want it to be someone I’m actually excited to spend time with.

Giving my brain a tiny break, I openThe Rue’s internal assignment board. I not only get to see story ideas up for grabs, I also get to see bylines and profiles forThe Journaland all its sub-publications. Mostly, I keep up with these headlines to stay up-to-date onThe Journal’s voice and what we deem an important story.

As I go downThe Journal’s list, I see headlines like “Airline Fined $50 Million for Treatment of Disabled Passengers,” “What Is Nighttime Depression?,” and “The Dance Trend That Comes with a Warning Label.” There’s a story about advertising technology sitting under In Progress with a name next to it:

Oakley, Marshall (Senior News Reporter)

I stare at the words in front of me as if they’re in a language I don’t understand. Reading them repeatedly. The wordsMarshallandNews Reporterfeel like a water balloon being dropped into the pit of my stomach, exploding.

I’m confused. I’m thoroughly confused.

Marsh, the charming, sophisticated, handsome, funny guy I got to know on Friday night doesn’t work atThe Journal.I know who works atThe Journal.I would’ve at least recognized him.

“What the hell?” I mutter out loud.

I refresh my Google search from the Cleo’s website, and I furiously typeMarshall Oakley.Quite literally pages upon pages of bylines from some of the most respected publications pop up along with a headshot that confirms this is the Marsh I met the other night. My eyes can’t scan the headlines fast enough. “Trade War Rattles Investigators,” “AI Is Transforming the Global Economy—andHumans Are Letting It,” “Which Universities Are Choosing to Stay Neutral on These U.S. Issues,” “What We Know About Covid-19 Vaccines,” “Is the Country Ready for a Female President?”

I read one story. Then another, then another, and then another. I’m transfixed by the groundbreaking topics he’s covered, his impeccable writing skills, and what he’s done for news over the course of his career. Marshall Oakley is an unbelievable writer.

Almost two hours have passed, and I’m still seated in the same spot at my kitchen table. Leg asleep, mouth dry, and fully immersed in Marsh’s body of work. My mind is reeling because I’m in awe of this man. Not only do I want to ask him a million questions to get to know him better, I want to learn from him. What’s his writing approach? How did he get started in the industry? What advice does he have to give? I feel almost self-conscious about how brazen our conversation was.

Then I think about the Marsh from Gold Line.

I remember his warm complexion, brown hair, and thick tortoiseshell glasses. How there’s a slight crinkle around his eyes when he smiles and a dimple on his left cheek when he laughs. His tall frame towered over me, yet he carried himself with confidence and respect for my space. Marsh isn’t like most men I spend my time with. For starters, he’s incredibly intelligent and sharp and doesn’t feel the need to remind me that he is. He’s also refreshingly handsome and seems almost unaware of it; there’s an inkling of self-doubt he has that men who know they’re attractive don’t possess. His appeal is the same way you’d find a professor attractive. Or your doctor whom you see once a year and wonder just how someone so good-looking can also be so intelligent.

Marsh is also someone who isn’t all talk. Yes, he said he doesn’t want anything serious, but his actions speak louder than his words. He’s purposely not finding a date for this wedding because he doesn’t want to lead anyone on. I find that admirable.

I grab my phone and go to my recent call history. Jonah’s number is directly below my mom’s, and my thumb taps my screen.

“Hello?” he says.

“Hey!” I let out a breath of relief. “Sorry, I know you’re still in Vegas. Do you have a second?”

“I can talk for a sec,” Jonah says. “But Iamnaked.”

“Wh—” I stop. “Why?”

“I’m leaving for the venue soon. I’m changing.”

“Okay.” I push past the mental image of Jonah naked. “Have you heard of Marshall Oakley?”

“Is he that country singer that got canceled?”

“He’s apparently a news reporter?” I say. Jonah has, without doubt, all the latest work gossip. “I met him at Gold Line after you left.”