I sit out on my patio, overlooking my pool and the view of Los Angeles as the sun rises. But the normally soothing view does nothing to ease the pain in my heart that only gets worse with every word I hear as I listen to voicemail after voicemail of Paige pleading for me to talk to her. Her last voicemail guts me, and I can’t stop the tear that slides down my face when I realize what I’ve done. Her voice sounds more broken and defeated than any of the previous ones, but when it breaks at the end, that’s when I cover my eyes and try my damnedest to reel in my emotions.
I can’t cry right now. I need to fix this. I pull up her contact, needing to talk to her more than I need air to breathe. When I press call, it rings once and then goes straight to voicemail.
That’s weird.
I try again. Same thing. It doesn’t ring more than once, so I know she’s not sending me to voicemail, and the call doesn’t go straight to voicemail, so her phone must be on.
Did she block me?
My shoulders slump at the idea. In denial, I try calling her once more only to get the same result.
Fuck, I think she did.
My heart sinks. It’s too little, too late. I need to do something bigger if I’m going to prove to her that I’m fighting for us. I don’t care what it takes, because I’m going to win her back. There’s no other possible alternative.
I can’t live without her.
I hear Max shout my name from inside. “Out here,” I holler back.
He walks out, takes in my haggard appearance, red-rimmed eyes, and the phone in my hand. “You listened to them.” It’s not a question.
“Yeah,” I reply hoarsely.
“And?”
“I really fucked this up. I think she blocked my number.”
He looks at me, curious. “Why do you think that?”
“Because I called her, and it rang once and then went straight to voicemail. All three
times.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Yeah, definitely sounds like she blocked you.”
“I think I need to do something bigger.”
“Uh, yeah, you’d be right about that. I’m guessing you haven’t seen the latest.”
“What do you mean?”
He fiddles with the tablet that I only now notice in his hand. “An article came out by Paige from a newer digital media source called Newsworthy
. I just started following them in the last year. They’re up and coming, but definitely getting some pretty incredible stories.”
“Are we sure it’s by her this time?”
“Oh yeah. She definitely wrote this one,” he says as he hands it to me.
The
LA Chronicle was my dream job. They are the largest print media source on the west coast. What journalist wouldn’t dream of being a part of such a legacy? However, my dream quickly morphed into a nightmare when my editor manipulated me into agreeing to write an exposé on LA Wolves quarterback and NFL golden boy, Jack Fuller. My editor discovered that Jack and I had a history and used that to his advantage. My only option was to write the article myself to protect Jack.
With each passing minute, I realize Paige was trying to protect me all along, something she’s doing even now when I least deserve it. My stomach rolls with nausea as shame over‐ whelms me.
I did not write the “scoop” printed in the Sunday features of the
LA Chronicle last week. I never put myself in my published pieces, which can easily be confirmed by Googling any articles written by me in the past. This piece is the only exception to a professional rule of thumb that I have followed throughout my entire career, and I’m only doing it to clear the air.
Jack Fuller is one of the best people I’ve ever known. He’s kind, generous, intelligent, and caring. He is also an incredibly talented football player, and the NFL is lucky to have him. He is passionate about his career and always gives his all on the field. At the end of the day, it shouldn’t matter who he’s dating, what he ate for lunch, or whether he wears boxers or briefs. All that should matter is that Fuller is a man of integrity, and he plays his heart out on the gridiron.
She’s put it all out there, and I feel even more foolish for not trusting her.
I should’ve believed her from the very beginning.
I keep reading, unable to stop even though every moment that passes feels more painful than the last, as the weight of what I’ve done settles heavily on me.
I hope those of you out there who get a chance to read this article realize that the
LA Chronicle is no longer the prestigious news source it once claimed to be. It has fallen from grace most spectacularly, and I, for one, am thrilled that I no longer work there. They published an article under my name, about me, without my consent. By professional standards, that is highly unethical.
The
LA Chronicle has proven itself to be untrustworthy and has gone from chasing legitimate stories to hunting for skeletons where there are none. Perhaps someday Jack Fuller will give a personal interview instead of just a professional one, but that choice should be his. In this case, it was taken from him, and for that, I will always be sorry.
I finish the article and look up at Max. “I need to win her back.”
“Fuck yeah, you do. You’ll never find another woman who loves you like she does.”
“I’m going to need your help.”
“Done. What are we doing?”
I smile at my best friend. “I might have an idea, but I’ll need you to do some things for me over the next couple of days, and then I need you to make sure she shows up to our game on Thursday night.”
“I can do that.”
We go over my plan, and Max agrees it’s my best shot. I head off for practice, feeling more hopeful than I have all week. This has to work. But if it doesn’t, I’m not going to give up. I’m never going to give up on Paige again.
