Page 28 of Let's Kiss and Tell

“No,” Marsh says almost immediately.

“Oh, come on,” I encourage him. “Why not?”

“Because it’s inappropriate? We’re co-workers—well, I’m actually far more senior than you—which means wedefinitelyaren’t talking about blow-job preferences.”

“Okay, first of all”—I prop an elbow up on the table and point my chopsticks toward him—“I think we crossed theco-worker linewhen we agreed to pretend to date. And secondly, if we want anyone to believe we’re together, we need to stop thinking of each other like co-workers.”

“There needs to be a line,” Marsh demands.

This is a quality I appreciate in Marsh. Here I am pretty much saying that I don’t care about any boundaries between the two of us and he insists on respecting me.

“At work we areprofessional.” I put my fingers up in an air quote motion. “And outside of work, we think of each other like equals.”

The creases between Marsh’s brows deepen. He doesn’t say anything and takes a sip of his miso soup. When he places the tiny bowl down on the table, he finally makes eye contact.

“Fine.”

I smile. “So, what areyouworking on?”

“Uh.” He runs a hand through his thick hair. “There’s a political piece for tomorrow and then I’m doing a story on one of the South Central murders.”

He says it so casually. Like he’s reporting on the weather.

“A murder?” I repeat softly.

“Yeah, twelve-year-old kid…I’m talking to his mom tomorrow.”

“Marsh…”

“You get used to it.” He barely shrugs a shoulder. “You have to.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I linger on this. “Was your first one hard?”

“My first murder story?” His brow creases and his lips twist. “So, all through college I would report on heavy topics like that and it didn’t mean anything. I always told myself that this was the name of the game, it came with the territory. But when I had to interview the family…I threw up in my car afterward.”

“I can’t even imagine,” I respond, my breath hitching.

“You kind of have no choice but to separate yourself,” he says. “It’s the only way you’ll survive.”

I let this sit. What I don’t say is that I can relate to him more than he thinks.

“Where were you beforeThe Journal?” I ask.

“I was always freelancing for a bunch of different places. It’s new having to go into the office but day one kind of set the bar.” He gives a half smile. “I used to work under Nadia Lewis when I was a new grad at CNN. She kind of taught me everything she knows.”

This little detail catches a spark within me. Nadia Lewis is someone I admire. Every woman atThe Journaladmires Nadia—hell, every woman in journalism should admire her. Her career is not only one that could have a full thesis, but she’s a role model for women of color journalists everywhere. At twenty years old, she published a controversial piece about policing in America, which led to five cops in Los Angeles losing their jobs. By twenty-five, Nadia was a news editor at CNN; at thirty-four she became the managing editor at BBC News before returning to Los Angeles to manage the news team atThe LA Journal.Nadia leads stories from politics to business, sports, and world—she is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to journalism. “I’m a big fan of hers,” I say.

“She’s really great.” Marsh takes his cup of tea and takes a sip. “Okay, now tell me about these stories. What do you need from me?”

I lean back and collect my thoughts. “I’m going to write my first story tonight sharing that I’m in a relationship. Ideally it can go live this week.”

“You’re jumping straight into it,” he says like a statement more than a question.

“I have to,” I respond. “I think every day that I’mnottalking about this new relationship, I’m wasting time. I need at least five or six stories under my belt to prove toThe Ruethat I’m getting traction.”

“Fair enough,” Marsh says. “And then what?”

“I was thinking that maybe I map out the stories and we do…activities around these stories.”