Page 100 of Cuts like a Knife
I headed back out into the night. Within an hour an a half, was home with new devices and had told Bex the whole story. She pledged not to tell a soul, even though she didn’t seem to get why I was so upset.
With my new phone, I texted both Adele and Kelsang.
Lex: It’s Lex. New phone. What happened? What did you say?
Lex: It’s Lex. New phone. Can we talk? I swear Rian sent me that story by email. This whole thing was a mistake. Please. I thought we were friends.
Neither of them replied.
“So you spent all the money in your bank account on this phone and this computer, right?” Bex said.
I knew she was worried about being able to cover our rent on her own. I needed to get a new job. Fast.
“I’ll find something. I’ll start looking tomorrow, I promise,” I said.
“Hey!” She said, like a lightbulb went off in her head. “Didn’t some guy try to recruit you just a couple of weeks ago? Do you still have his card?”
I suddenly remembered Lars Landon, the short, sleazy publisher of Citidaze, a local magazine. It was completely rinky-dink. Small time. They barely had a website. Still, Lars had tried to poach me. He’d given me his card. “What can I do to lure you over to us, Alexis Madison?” He’d said. “We’re always looking for fresh talent.” Had he meant it?
There was only one way to find out. I called him and left a message on his office voicemail. Then Bex and I watched movies and gorged on wine and popcorn until nearly dawn.
Lars phoned me back before noon the next day. By Wednesday afternoon, I had a new job offer. I’d start the following Monday.
I was unemployed for less than a week. But I’ve been tense every single day since307.
~
Aa the little boat flies across the straight toward Stocking Island, it all feels far away. Everything that happened with Flash. Kelsang, Adele. All of it. It was more than two years ago.
Eve Wolf is a lawyer — a big fancy lawyer — and she’d told me to start over. But I hadn’t. Not really. And I’d panicked and taken the job at Citidaze without thinking about whether I even wanted to be a journalist. And I didn’t. I don’t. Not really.
I should have listened to her. I should have let all of this go a long time ago.
We bump along over the little waves, and a light splash comes over the bow and hits me in the face and I can’t help but laugh. My hair is streaming off behind me and Drew’s hand is warm over mine.
What does any of it matter?
I think about the email from the mystery-sender. SpyMaster, whoever he is.
So maybe he’s going to tell. It’s been years. Even if he does, the worst that might happen is that I get fired. From Citidaze. It sounds ridiculous. Who would even care?
Media people? Kelsang and Owen and Adele and Rian? Callum and Lars and Dani? But would anyone from my real life care? Anyone who actually matters?
I look over at Drew. His dark hair is flying back off his face, just like mine must be, and he looks happy, squinting into the sunshine.
He might.
Maybe I should quit? Jump ahead, stop being so passive, stop waiting for something to happen to me, and take the reins myself.
But then what?
No, as much as I might like to, I can’t afford to quit with nothing else lined up. Which means I can’t afford to get fired.
And Drew is in advertising, which is journalism-adjacent. He knows tonnes of media people. If this comes out, he’ll hear about it, and he’ll judge me. Everyone will. The whole thing will definitely seep into my real life. The Madisons will hear. Everyone will know. And I’ll never live it down.
Stocking Island grows closer and soon JP is cutting the engine and steering the little boat up to another worn grey dock. It looks abandoned.
“Have fun,” he says. “Some of us are poor souls have to work. I’ll be back here for you around 2:00 pm. Don’t be late or you run the risk of running into the people from your show, right?”
