Page 49 of Cockpit
And there it is. The final slap on the cheek to let me know what’s at stake, as if I don’t already know.
“You know what a small town Sunnyville is, Dad. You know how rumors fly. I’ve worked my ass off to do what you asked. To make this newsworthy and gossip worthy and trend worthy. All of them. And I’m still pushing for it, so if you want to be mad at me for gossip in the rumor mill, then so be it.”
“I know what I see, and I know what it looks like.”
“Is it too blue-collar in here for your white-collar hands to touch?”
Grayson’s words come back to me, and I hate that I’m hearing them in my dad’s words when I’ve never heard him imply anything of the sort. I hate that I’m wondering if he’s more worked up because of the picture and the implication of bias to readers or because I’m kissing Grayson Malone of the Sunnyville Malones.
“And your perception is wrong,” I say, knowing that he sees what he wants to see, and once he does, there is no changing his mind. He calls it the privilege of being older. I call it close-minded crap.
“I should have known you’d somehow make this story, this situation, this contest, about you. It’s what you do best, isn’t it?” The remark is sharp and cuts to my marrow. Does he really see me the same way that Grayson does? Selfish and self-centered?
I clear my throat again as I stare at all of my hard work on the layout on my screen that I’m not even here to do but that I’m trying to learn anyway, and school my voice into neutrality. “It’s late. I’m still at the office and need to close up.”
“You’re still there?”
“Yeah.” It’s where I am every night.
“Fix this, Sidney. You were doing great right up until now.”
The line goes dead, and I lean my head back against the chair and close my eyes as I process everything he just said to me. The accusations. The implications. The bullshit.
When I open my eyes, the picture from the weekly gossip column is right before me on my laptop screen. I sigh and scroll down a bit so I can read whatever nonsense they decided to publish with the picture.
In other news, it seems being a hero in Sunnyville comes with perks these days. Our very own hot dad in the Modern Family contest, Grayson Malone, seems to be spending a lot of time with here-then, gone-then, back-in-town-again Sidney Thorton. At a local party to celebrate Malone’s heroics from last week, they were seen getting reacquainted with each other. New couple alert. (picture right).
Thank you, small-town rumor mill.
I groan. Now I really do miss home and the anonymity of living in the big city. I was never noticed there unless I chose to be—show up at the right restaurant with the perfect guy so that I know our picture will be taken, only to play coy about it later.
But this is Sunnyville, not San Francisco. This is small-town journalism, not money-hungry paparazzi.
This is Grayson Malone, not my flavor of the month.
Without thinking, I pick up my cell and dial. “Sidney, is that you?”
When I hear Rissa’s kids in the background I regret it immediately. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”
“Let me guess, you finally left the office and saw the Gazette.”
“Nah. I’m still here and finally saw the Gazette,” I say.
“If it’s any consolation, the gossip column only comes out once a week, so they can’t write any more until next Tuesday.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I part-joke, part-complain. “At least I’ll have a week for my dad to chill out before something else is printed.”
“When I told you to problem-solve getting Grayson on board, kissing him wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” When I don’t laugh at her joke, she continues, “Was your dad pissed?”
“It’s really none of his business.” I glance back to the photo and article for a minute. “He does have a point about perceived bias, though.” It almost kills me to say that.
“I’ll call him now and tell him I orchestrated all of this. It’s my fault and—”
“Those aren’t your lips sitting squarely on Grayson’s.” I laugh and am more than surprised she’d take the blame for me. “Thank you for the offer, but it isn’t necessary.”
“Well, just think about what they are going to say when people catch wind of the photo shoot you’re doing tomorrow.” My shoulders sag in exhaustion. “Maybe you should be the one to oil him up—all hands on pec, er, I mean on deck kind of thing.”
“You really are trying to get me into trouble, aren’t you?”
