Over the past weeks, our texting has grown from tentative hellos to a frenzy of banter. Never about anything serious, and rarely about our own lives.
But we have differing opinions on almost everything.
I sit down at my desk in the open landscape, and while my computer turns on, I send him another one.
Audrey: You know, I still don't know what you do for a living. Is that weird?
Carter: I've told you. I rescue women from bad blind dates.
Audrey: No, you said that's your hobby. Not so good at remembering all your lies, are you?
Carter: It's the number-one problem for superheroes, actually. Trouble keeping up with multiple identities. Leads to a lot of early retirements.
I grin down at my phone. He never says what I expect him to say. Always thinks of something different, something unexpected, doesn't like the way I take my coffee, disagreed with my choice of date location last weekend.
We haven't seen each other again since the bad date.
I don't know if I want to, either. This, our texting friendship, is… perfect. Exactly what I need.
Someone to shake me out of my rut. Exposure therapy.
"You look happy," a voice says to my left. "Too happy. Do you remember what story you're supposed to be working on?"
I turn toward Declan. He's my deskmate and he's always, always, in the newsroom early. He looks over at me with a vaguely disapproving frown, his round glasses low on his nose.
Like me, Declan is a junior reporter. He carries a leather satchel to work and yesterday he rocked a sweater vest. I think he fancies himself a journalist in the '40s, but I hope to one day win a Pulitzer, so Lord knows we both have journalistic dreams.
"I remember," I tell him. "How's your piece coming along?"
He pushes his glasses up. "Great. I'm going out after lunch to interview members of the church."
"They agreed to your request?"
He hesitates, but then he turns his chin up. "They will."
I smile at his resolve and set about opening my email inbox. I start the day by reading through all the official memos from the editor-in-chief and from the executive team.
Today's is short. It mentions the acquisition of The New York Globe by Acture Capital. It's a hands-off venture capital firm. The announcement is phrased in pretty terms, but I read it with a sinking pit of despair.
Print media is being sold to investor funds, one after one, and we all know how the worst of them treat newspapers. They lay off employees, rack up subscription prices, and bleed the company into bankruptcy.
Declan breaks through my mid-morning read-through. "Booker read through the draft of the Johnson article you helped with yesterday."
"She did?!"
He nods, but he looks pleased with himself. "Yes."
"Did you see her read it?"
"Yep."
"Declan," I say, "please. How did she seem?"
He finally relents and turns toward me with a shrug. "She said it was decent."
"Decent," I breathe. "Really?"
It might not seem like a lot, but decent is basically great in Booker's terminology. Tara Booker is the editor of investigative journalism and my direct boss, although she usually concerns herself with the reporters who don't have junior in front of their names.
"Did you get statements from the victim's family?" Declan asks.
I nod. "Yes. I'm going to write it up today."
"Should make for a good piece," he says, and that's the most friendliness I've gotten out of Declan so far.
What is this? My birthday?
I allocate an hour to my solo project. It's a story I've been following for months, about a bodega in Queens that's being illegally shut down because of rising rent prices. The owners had tried to take it to court, but because they didn't have the right paperwork-and no money to pay for an attorney to help them with it-they didn't get past the initial hurdle. So the construction company who wants them out will get away with it.
It's the type of David-and-Goliath story that makes my blood boil. I work straight through lunch, the words flowing, and I barely notice when a shape leans against my desk.
"Audrey," a sharp, feminine voice says. "Take a break."
I look up at Booker. She has her arms crossed over a peach blouse, the color accentuating her dark-brown skin. Brown eyes that regularly skewer seasoned reporters meet mine.
"Right," I say. "I will, just as soon as I've typed up the transcript from my interviews."
"Take a break now," she says, in a voice that brokers no dispute. "I need to talk to you."
"Oh." I close the lid to my work laptop and turn in my chair.
"Bad news," she says. "Your solo beat is put on hold."
"I'm… sorry?"
She inclines her head, and her voice sounds strained. "Wish I could say otherwise, but those are the new orders coming from management. The Globe has been bought. Seems like there's a different tune coming from the top."
"I just read about that… but surely it's a quiet owner? Someone who sits on the board?"
"No. They've changed management. As of two days ago, we have a new CEO."
I sink back into my chair. My article, lost. To another Goliath. "Why would they cut my article?"
"They don't know about you," Booker says. "But all solo-initiative reporting has been put on pause while management enacts some structural changes."
She says the last two words like they're sour on her tongue. There's quiet panic in her eyes.
"This is bad," I guess.