Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,30
know what’s going on. Plus, I made eye contact with Moriarty and I now probably have a curse on me. I need to go somewhere before she comes traipsing over here, her spear tail in tow.
There’s one place I can go, and he’ll probably know what’s got everyone acting so weird around here. He always seems to be in the know. Plus, I need to have a conversation with him, and I might as well do it now.
I get up from my chair and walk over to the audio booth, opening the door and walking inside. Brady is sitting at his normal spot, the sound of his typing on his laptop the only thing in the dimly lit, quiet space. It’s like a whole other world in here. There’s no outside noise, no distractions.
“Quinn,” he says when he sees me. He sets his computer down on the ledge of the sound board and goes to stand. He takes a few steps toward me. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“What’s going on out there?” I say, pointing to the newsroom beyond the now-closed door of the audio booth.
“Uh.” He reaches up and scratches his forehead. “You haven’t heard, have you.” He says this in the form of a statement rather than a question.
“Heard what?”
“Tim quit yesterday. Took a job in a bigger market up north.”
“What?” I ask, my eyes going wide. Tim Walstrom is . . . or I guess was the news director for the station. And he’s gone?
“Yeah, and so they’ve moved Dwayne up and have already filled the executive producer position. He’s here. Already meeting with the program managers and the producers.”
“Who is it?”
“Don’t know.” He rubs his chin with thumb and pointer finger. “Haven’t even heard a name yet.”
“That’s crazy,” I say, feeling a tinge of trepidation weave its way down my spine. Tim and Dwayne basically run the station, and neither have seen fit—as of yet—to fire me for my viral f-bomb. And they’ve had ample opportunity. What if this new EP comes in and fires me?
“I’ve heard rumors,” Brady says.
“What have you heard?”
“Whoever he is, he’s not nice, and he likes to clean house. I hear he’s coming here from somewhere north.”
I anxiously blow air through my lips, letting my shoulders drop. I’m only midday news: no expensive billboards of my face to take down, hardly even any advertising spots to remove me from. Just a midday news reporter with a viral video of me spectacularly dropping a very bad word. I’m most likely a goner.
“Listen,” Brady says, reaching for my hand, holding it gently in his. Well, it’s not so much gentle as like hanging on to a dead fish. His hand is cold and clammy. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I pull my eyebrows inward. “Oh yeah? Um . . . me, too.”
“I was thinking,” he says, sounding a bit . . . nervous, maybe? “I was thinking that . . . well, the truth is . . . I was hoping we could go out again sometime. I think we connect, you know?”
“Um,” I say, trying to think of what I need to say to him—how I can phrase it nicely. He thinks we connect? I mean, we’ve barely had a real conversation. Certainly nothing like the one I had with Henry last night. I’ve been on three dates with Henry and know more about him than I do about Brady, and we went on dates fairly regularly for a couple of months.
“I mean,” Brady says before I can reply. He reaches up and pushes his glasses so they perch higher on his nose. “I feel like things sort of just stopped. And I wanted to . . . maybe start them up again.”
“Brady, I—” I start, but then stop myself. His face is so vulnerable, so sweet. Last week if he had asked me, I might have said yes. I probably would have. But now . . . well, now there’s a Henry.
Before I can say anything, the door to the booth whooshes open, spilling cool air and bright light into the room.
“We’re screwed,” Jerry says, his face the color of ash except for his bulbous red nose.
“What?” I ask as I drop Brady’s hand and turn toward the door.
“Come out here, please,” Jerry says, running his hands through his comb-over, making it stick out obnoxiously around his head. He looks like a mad scientist.
I walk out of the booth and cross the few feet to my desk,