Gryffindorks
I approached the guard at the security desk. “Hi,” I said. “I’m here to see Darius Carver.”
“ID?”
I showed her my driver’s license, and she handed me a clipboard. “Sign your name on there, and someone will be down soon to get you.”
“Thank you.” I stepped away from the desk and over to a wall of black-and-white photographs of practically every famous person who ever lived in Chicago—Oprah Winfrey, President Obama, Harry Caray, Svengoolie…
A door opened to my left, and out came Darius, grinning big. He waved a hand down his body. “Perks of doing radio: relaxed dress code.” And sure enough, for the first time since I met him, he was not wearing a suit. He’d paired perfect, pristine blue jeans with a button-down shirt and a sweater tied across his shoulders. He looked like a J.Crew ad.
Darius took my hand and pulled me in for a quick kiss on the cheek, sending a shiver of excitement through my body. He smelled woody and masculine and clean. I couldn’t hide my giddy grin. Darius Carver just kissed me in public.
He led me through the door he’d just come out of and pressed an elevator button going up. “I’m so sorry about this,” he said.
“It’s no problem. I’m breezy.” We’d planned on getting dinner together tonight, but the Cubs game got canceled, and the radio station needed someone to jump on and do a show. For some reason not completely clear to me yet, that person was Darius.
“Well, thank you for being so understanding about changing our date’s venue tonight.” We stepped on the elevator, and he hit the button for nine. “When duty calls, I have to answer.”
“But you’re a TV newsperson?” I said.
“That’s my main job, yes, but I also fill in on WTS Radio when they need me. It’s a sweet gig, really.” He flashed his smile. “I’m hoping, if I play my cards right, to get my own permanent slot—late in the evenings or on the weekends, at least to start. It’d get me closer to my next career goal.”
“Which is?”
“To be the premier entertainment voice in Chicago.”
“Wow,” I said.
He counted on his fingers. “Food, music, theater, TV, movies—you name it.” He sighed. “But in order to do that, I have to be like a shark and keep swimming. It’s always about the hustle. You get it. You have your own business.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I suppose I do.”
“And you’ll see even more when your big segment airs on the news this week!” He made an excited face. “Your name is about to become synonymous with ‘concierge doctor.’ These days, you can’t just do your job and expect to get anywhere. It’s all about branding and carving out your own space, making yourself indispensable. That’s what I’m trying to do. When a Chicagoan wonders, ‘Should I see that play or eat in that restaurant?’ I want them to immediately think, ‘Let’s see what Darius has to say about it.’”
The elevator door opened, and Darius and I stepped off. “I ordered food from the same restaurant we’d planned to visit tonight.” He motioned for me to follow him. A bag of takeout sat on his desk. He handed me one of the cartons.
“This is fun,” I said, fully prepared to ride the changing waves of our second date. How many people got to hang out at a radio station? This was cool. On our first two dates, Darius had already showed me parts of the city I’d never seen before. “Dining together in a—”
“Oh, we won’t be dining together. I’m on the air in”—he checked his watch—“well, very soon, but you have a few options. You’re welcome to hang out here.” He turned on a TV. “They show a closed-circuit broadcast of the show throughout the building. Or you can sit in the green room with my illustrious guests—at least the ones who were able to come downtown to be interviewed in person. Or you can really see how the sausage is made and sit in the producer’s booth.”
“Wow,” I said, feeling a little overwhelmed. A few hours ago, I’d been anticipating a quiet VIP dinner with Darius at a fancy Italian place, but now I was at the WTS recording studio, about to eat dinner alone…somewhere…in a strange building. “I’ll check out the producer’s booth.” At least that seemed like it’d be close to Darius. “You got to see me at work. It’s only fair that I get to see you on the job, too.”
His eyes lit up. “That’s a fantastic way of looking at it.”
I followed him out of his office and down the hall. He peeked his head into a room on the way and shook the hand of a man inside. “We’ll come and get you soon.”
“That’s Steve Pumpernickel,” Darius told me as we continued down the hall. “He owns a bakery on the West Side, and he’s my first guest tonight.” He nodded back toward the green room. “I think he brought samples, if you’re interested.”
“Free bread? No wonder you like this job,” I said.
“Now you get it.” Darius finally pulled open another door at the end of the hallway, ushering me into a large studio filled with TV monitors, microphones, and wires everywhere. “News is on now, so we don’t have to be quiet.” He pointed to a TV screen on which a newswoman was reading today’s headlines. Darius walked me into the producer’s booth. “Cody, this is Annie. She’s going to sit in today.”
Cody, a young guy who really took the “dress down” directive to heart in black sweats and a trucker cap pulled down over his face, wordlessly pointed to a chair in the back corner.
“He’s not going to be the chattiest,” Darius whispered.
“Okay.” Maybe I should’ve stayed back in the office, but we made so many twists and turns getting here, I had no confidence I’d be able to find my way back. I set my container of food on my lap and sat quietly.
Darius went into the studio, and I watched him get geared up with his headphones, microphone, and water bottle. A few moments later, Cody was counting him in. “You’re on in three…two…one.”
“Good evening,” Darius said, launching into his intro, talking about his various guests tonight.
Cody sank into his chair and took a swig from a massive fountain drink. “You guys close?” He nodded toward the picture window in front of him.
“We’re getting to know each other,” I said.
He spun around, facing me, eyes narrowed. “You’re nothing like his last girlfriend.” He laughed. “But who is, right?”
I hesitated. “Right.”
Cody turned back around, focusing again on monitoring the show and answering calls.
I took out my phone and googled “Darius Carver girlfriend.” A picture popped up of him with a gorgeous, young, ethereal woman. Monica Feathers. I clicked on her name. Apparently she was a pop star, and a popular one, though I’d never heard of her. Not that my lack of knowledge in this area would surprise anyone. My music tastes stalled back when JT was still with NSYNC.
Monica and Darius looked so happy together in the pictures. He gazed down at her with a look of pure adoration. His carefully curated sheen and poise seemed to disappear in her presence. In the photos, he looked like the rest of us real-world goobers—purely and pathetically in love.
I glanced up at Darius, who was currently chatting up the bread man. I could see it now, the difference. He looked at Mr. Pumpernickel the same way he looked at me—with detached, professional interest.
He reserved his real smile for Monica Feathers.
But they were no longer together.
I opened my dinner container and tucked in. He’d gotten me an order of delicious four-cheese ravioli, because, while maybe he didn’t know me and I didn’t know him, he knew food. He was a hard worker, and so was I. The two of us had that in common. We hadn’t signed on for love and passion. We’d promised each other commitment and nothing more. There was a reason he was no longer with the woman he’d been passionately in love with, just like there was a reason I wasn’t planning on jumping into bed with my hot, young roommate. Darius and I were mature, experienced adults, and we were looking for pragmatism.
I noticed him looking at me through the glass partition, so I held up my fork and grinned, making “yummy!” circles with my hand over my stomach. He clutched his hands to his chest and sent me back one of his best made-for-TV smiles.