Paige
You know that feeling you have when you first wake up and notice that it’s brighter than normal? That feeling just a split second before the panic sets in that it’s too bright before you realize you’re running late? That’s the feeling I have just before I shoot straight up in bed and reach for my alarm clock.
“Shit! Motherfucking shit!”
I dash out of bed like my ass is on fire. I’m late for my first day working at the LA Chronicle.
I’m never late.
Frantically, I search for my clothes. Why the hell didn’t my alarm go off? I swear, I set it.
Suddenly, blinding pain in my toe debilitates me.
“Dammit!”
I hop around on one foot, trying to hold in the other curses battling to get out of my mouth.
“Stupid boxes,” I mumble, attempting to shove them aside.
I’ve lived in this apartment for two days, and it’s astoundingly clear that I’ve had no time to unpack anything. Half-full boxes litter my new 600 square foot, one-bedroom apartment in downtown Los Angeles. It costs me a fortune to live downtown, but the commute is easy since my office is only one mile away. I couldn’t stand the idea of being stuck on the freeway in the notoriously horrible LA traffic for hours at a time just trying to get to work. Plus, my new job at the LA Chronicle came with a pay raise. My old meager salary from when I worked at the San Francisco Gazette barely covered my cost of living.
I stumble into the shower – graceful as ever – and quickly lather soap on my body. I’d skip it altogether since I’m already running exceptionally late, but I was too tired last night after my weak attempt to unpack. I can still feel the aftereffects of moving – that grimy feeling of dried sweat and greasy hair. It’s a lovely image, I know.
I quickly rinse my hair before running back into my room – tripping over another half-unpacked box – and throwing on a modest black pencil skirt and white blouse. Not my nicest professional outfit, but I honestly don’t know which box is holding most of my clothes. Yes, I was the moron who didn’t pack them in suitcases or something to keep them separated from all my other household essentials, and who also failed to label any of my boxes – rookie move. I complete my ensemble with simple black flats – since my toes have been tortured enough today – and then dash out the door.
I make it to the office only five minutes late, but that’s still about 20 minutes later than I was hoping to be on my first day.
My job is my life –I’m the definition of a workaholic – and I pride myself on my work ethic. I can’t help the anxiety coursing through me about how my tardiness will look to my new boss. I’ve heard he can be a real ballbuster, and I only have one chance to make an excellent first impression.
I hurry down the hall towards his office, double-checking the sign on the door before entering and seeing Vince Rosenburg, my new editor, sitting behind his desk. His glasses sit low on his nose, and he glances at me above the rim without ever moving his head up.
“Paige O’Malley.” He glances at the clock on the wall across from him. “I was wondering when you were going to make your way into work.”
I try to hide my subtle wince, but Vince is as shrewd as they come – a sign of a seasoned reporter and editor – and I can tell by the slight arch of his brow that he caught it.
“Have a seat. Let’s talk about assignments.”
“Yes, sir. I apologize for being late.” I don’t make excuses, since I don’t have a good one, and I know it won’t matter to him anyway. But I figure he’ll respect the apology.
He may respect it, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. “So, remind me what you did at the Gazette again?”
He and I both know that he is well aware of my work at the Gazette. I wouldn’t be sitting in front of him if he didn’t know my qualifications, but I’m guessing he’s making me jump through extra hoops for whatever reason, most likely my tardiness. I decide it’s best to play along.
“I’ve done a little bit of everything. The Gazette was great about allowing reporters to cover every area of the paper before selecting which section to focus on. My favorite assignments were the features and local news. My portfolio included several of my recent pieces.”
He pulls out my portfolio from under a stack of papers on the corner of his desk. “Yes, I took a look at it. I noticed you did some sports writing as well.”
“Yes, but I didn’t feel very qualified to cover sports – I’m not a huge sports fan,” I confess.
“Interesting, because your coverage of some of those games was extremely well written, especially the football games. I also enjoyed your personal profile piece on the mayor. I’d be curious to see you tie the two areas together.”
“I’m not sure I follow you…”
He leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his slightly protruding belly. “There’s a lot of talk that the Los Angeles Wolves could go all the way to the Super Bowl this year. The team is better than ever, especially now that it’s led by the best quarterback in the NFL. Do you know anything about Jack Fuller?”
My heart plummets to my stomach. That’s such a loaded question, but there’s no way he could possibly know my history with Jack. Of course, I knew Jack was in LA, but I didn’t think our paths would ever cross. There are over three million people in Los Angeles.
I’m sitting here trying to figure out how I can diplomatically get out of this assignment if my boss is going where I think he’s going. I can’t see Jack again. I’m not ready. I don’t know how I’ll ever be ready, not after how things ended.
“Um, I don’t know too much. Like I said before, sports coverage wasn’t my forte. I was mainly a features and local news writer. The only thing I’ve ever heard about him is that he never gives any personal interviews.”
That is a blatant lie. I’ve followed Jack’s career ever since college. Social media and news outlets were my only source of information, but it was enough to break my heart every time I found myself in a weak moment of checking on him.
“Exactly!” My boss leans forward excitedly. “I want you to be the reporter that gets a personal interview. You did incredible work on your human-interest pieces, and you have sports in your background – even if it’s not strong, it doesn’t matter – the focus will be on Jack – his private life. He never gives anybody more than he has to at those damn press conferences. It’d be one hell of a story if we could get him to talk to us.”
“Why me? Surely there have to be other reporters more qualified…”
“You don’t want it? Half my reporters would die for this opportunity. Jack Fuller is hot right now. I want coverage on him while people still care. Why wouldn’t you take this opportunity?”
He looks at me curiously, and I squirm in my seat. He’s right. It would be an incredible opportunity to get the star quarterback of the local NFL team, and the NFL’s hottest quarterback, to give a personal interview – something he’s never done before. But I just don’t know if my heart could handle being that close to him.
“I’m sorry, sir, I just don’t think I’m the right person for this piece. But I’d be happy to do another assignment. In fact, I have several ideas about some stories that would be...”
He cuts me off. “Maybe I wasn’t clear. I’m putting you on sports. I hired you for a specific reason.”
My eyes widen, “Excuse me?”
He stands and walks around his desk, leaning on the front in a classic move of power intimidation. “I did a little digging into your past, specifically the fact that you went to high school with Jack. You must know each other.”
My chest constricts as though there’s no oxygen in the room.
He continues, “Getting a personal interview – the first of its kind out of this guy – would set this paper apart from all the other news affiliates that have tried. Most quarterbacks love the limelight, but not Fuller. I want to be the paper that gets that interview out of him before someone else manages to do it.” He gives me a stern look. “You will take this assignment, or you’ll be sent back to San Francisco – if they’ll even take you back. You know how quickly those positions get snatched up.”
I can’t lose this job. Working for a major paper like the Chronicle has been my dream since college. Jack has taken enough from me – I won’t let him take this, too.
“I’ll do it.”
My boss gives me a condescending smirk, “I knew you’d change your mind.”
It’s been nine years since I’ve seen or talked to Jack Fuller. The last time I saw him was when he walked away from me at Chicago’s O’Hare airport when we were 17. He broke up with me via text once he got home.
Jack had been my best friend for most of my life before we started dating at 16. He was my first love – and, if I’m being honest, my only love. The memory of him has impacted every relationship I’ve had since. No other guy quite measured up. It didn’t matter how angry or hurt I’d been by how easily Jack seemed to let me go; I still compared every guy I dated to him.
Did their touch ignite me like Jack’s did?
Could they read the emotions as they flitted across my face as well as Jack could?
Would I miss them if they weren’t around like I still missed Jack?
The answer was always an emphatic no.
After gathering my press credentials, I head out to my car to go to the stadium. Vince wants me to start working on this immediately. My breathing gets heavier the closer I get to my car. My chest is tight – my airways feel constricted. Oh, God. Not now. A fucking panic attack, seriously?! Come on body, I need you to work with me here. I need to be strong, not weak.
I quickly press speed dial for my best friend, Gina. Gina Rodrigo is a features writer for the Gazette. We met in college and stayed close. She was actually the one who helped me get my job in San Francisco – I’d been working at a small paper near Chicago but needed a change of scenery. I missed the west coast, and Gina knew it. She’s confident and fierce – a total force to be reckoned with. Gina says it comes from the fact that she’s from a huge Puerto Rican family where she learned to be loud if she wanted her opinions to be heard.
Gina would be able to talk me down from my panic attack. This wasn’t the first one she’d seen me have, and she knew all about my history with Jack.
Freshman Year of College
I burst through the door of our dorm room, my lungs on fire from my sprint to get here before I completely melted down. When I make my inelegant entrance, Gina, who was sitting at her desk, shoots out of her chair and comes straight to me.
“Are you having another one?” The worry is clear in her tone.
I nod my head, no longer able to speak as I attempt to suck air into my lungs. I never used to have panic attacks. I’m not sure what exactly triggered them, but for the past year, I’ve had several. The first time I had one was the summer before my senior year in high school. I had been hanging out with my friend Claire and her boyfriend at the time. I was fine one second and struggling to breathe the next. It was terrifying and overwhelming. My parents made me go to the doctor, who informed me it was likely due to stress, but without knowing the exact trigger, they could continue to happen.
They did.
Although the most I’ve ever had in such a small stretch of time have all happened while I’ve been dating Steve. I figure that must mean something.
“Ok, Paige, come here. Try to slow your breathing if you can.” With an adeptness and efficiency that I both admire and appreciate in this moment when I feel overwhelmed and useless, Gina walks me over to my bed and helps me sit against the corner where the wall meets the bed frame. She sits snuggly on the open side of me and wraps her arms around me, squeezing tightly. Gina makes calming noises and attempts to distract me by talking about her mundane classes.
Finally, I feel the tension that had been holding my body hostage ease. Gina rubs circles on my calf while I keep my knees tucked under my chin. I can finally take a full breath, and the relief is enormous. I hate how weak panic attacks make me feel.
“I think I’m ok now,” I whisper.
“What happened?”
“Steve.”
“Ugh, what did he do now?”
“He got all pissed off and said that he feels like I’m not invested in our relationship. He said it always seems like I’m holding back.”
“Are you?”
“Maybe,” I sigh.
A weighted silence fills the air, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
“You never talk about him,” she says softly.
I turn to her. “Who, Steve? I talk about him all the time.”
She turns to me, “Not Steve. The guy who broke your heart.”
I inhale sharply before diverting my gaze to my hands in my lap. “How do you know someone broke my heart?”
She gives me a skeptical look. “Come on. Give me more credit than that. You are very tight-lipped about past relationships, and I’ve caught you looking at that photo album on your phone that you set to private. Who’s the guy in those photos?”
I take a steadying breath as I prepare to tell my closest friend about the boy who broke my heart.
“His name is Jack.”
“Go on.”
I tell her everything, the words spewing out of my mouth like they’ve been desperate for release for years. They probably have. I never talk about Jack. It took me months to pull myself together after he cowardly broke up with me as if what we had meant nothing. When I finally get all the words out, I feel a lightness in my body that I haven’t felt in years. The residual pressure on my chest after my panic attack is now completely gone. I feel lighter than air, and I realize that maybe the pressure of keeping my memories of Jack all to myself might be the underlying cause of my panic attacks.
My panic attacks have only ever been caused by relationship stress, never work. Gina has talked or held me through several since we became friends during our freshman year of college. She’ll be able to help me get through this. She picks up on the third ring.
“Hey, girl, how’s sunny SoCal?”
I cut right to the chase because I’m now officially struggling to breathe, “My editor assigned me to interview Jack.”
“Oh shit.” Her tone is hushed and serious. “Are you ok? What the hell am I asking? Of course, you’re not ok. You’re freaking out right now, aren’t you?”
I make an affirmative sound. Words are hard right now.
“Ok. Deep breaths. Paige, you can handle this. You’re not that 17-year-old girl anymore. You’re a kick-ass writer for the LA freaking Chronicle! Go out and show that man what he missed out on! You’re smoking hot, girl. Show up and let that man see what he could’ve had. He’ll regret the day he let you go, I guaran-fucking-tee it.”
I take a deep breath. My heart is still pounding due to the strain on my body from the panic attack, but at least I’m starting to breathe a little easier.
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I can do this. It’s no big deal.” I attempt to sound nonchalant.
“Well, I mean, it’s kinda a big deal…”
I cut her off, “Gina!”
“But,” she emphasizes the word, “you’re going to rock the interview.”
“Except for the fact that he’s notorious for not doing personal interviews. Why would he talk to me? Because we dated for like a second nine years ago? That’s ridiculous.”
“First of all, you dated for almost a year, not a second, and you were best friends for over ten years before that. He’d be crazy not to talk to you.”
“Gina, I love and appreciate your optimism, but if Jack wanted to talk to me, he had plenty of time to do so.”
And that’s the heart of my problem. I desperately want to talk to Jack. I’ve always felt like he was the one that got away, like we could’ve had this amazing future if I hadn’t moved to Chicago. But he’s never made any attempt to get a hold of me in all this time. Silence is louder than any words could ever be.
With that thought permeating my consciousness, I get in my car, take another deep, calming breath and drive to the stadium.