Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [8]
Plus, divorce means the same income supporting two households. Dr. Turner didn’t bother doing that math when he was telling me I should leave.
I was getting by. For a long time, I was getting by.
At least this weekend is our weekend. No explaining, no anxious pacing as we all hold our breath to see if Mallory will call and cancel. We can just pop some popcorn and watch a movie in front of the fire.
Men in suits spill out of the elevator, and all of us in the press corps, such as it is, straighten in our chairs.
Canned quotes about a new scholarship. The radio reporter asks, “What is the funding source?”
The suit behind the mic says, “Dr. Henry Turner’s foundation.”
My digital recorder clatters out of my hand, breaking off the battery door. It still seems to be running, which is fortunate because I can’t even hear what they’re saying. My own father, mocking my press conference task, and he’s the one behind it all along. This means I’m not even supposed to be covering this; I can’t write about my own dad. I’ll end up typing up my notes and giving it to someone else, to be under some other byline, or maybe no byline, just “Herald Staff Writers.”
He’s not at the press conference, because he’s not interested in the limelight. At least, that’s what he’ll tell whichever of my colleagues gets to call and interview him about this. Then he’ll say something about the importance of education for underprivileged youth.
I note that the scholarships are for science and math. Fields he respects.
The press conference breaks up, and that’s when I catch the quizzical glances thrown my way from the other reporters. Gus, from the radio station, sidles up. “Dude, I’m surprised you’re here.”
“I didn’t know. Aaron just threw this release at me this morning.”
I show it to Gus, who scowls at it. “Oh, that’s old, they put that out on Monday. There was a fresh one this morning that told all about it, your dad and everything.”
Jesus, Aaron. I fantasize about shoving one of his cowboy boots down his throat, pointy toe first.
Gus nods. “I know, dude. Sucks.” He waves and walks off, his recorder bouncing along next to him.
I flip open my phone to check messages. A voice mail and three texts, all from Casey. Dammit, what now? The texts say, Call home and then Where r u? and Call ASAP.
The voice mail is similar. Casey telling me to call the minute I get the message.
I text back: What? Busy here.
I keep telling Casey she doesn’t need to consult me about everything. If we’re getting married, she has to learn to handle it herself when Dylan forgets his saxophone at home or Angel wants permission to go to a friend’s house.
I drive back to the office, weighing how angry I can be with Aaron for the old press release. I decide I can be pretty fucking well mad because what’s he going to do, fire me? We can barely run the paper with the staff we have now. Obviously.
And then, my dad. Good God.
At the office, I want to smash my watch on the desk, though it’s not my watch’s fault that so much of the morning has been wasted. Henning e-mailed me a great quote for the morning’s story, too: “Maybe now the city council can leave behind the sandbox-level bickering and make progress on the tough issues facing us today.” Won’t make the paper now.
I managed to restrain myself from forcing Aaron to swallow his own boot, but I did curse freely when I explained the press conference problem. He told me to type up my notes and he’d get Kate to finish the story, as long as I finished getting quotes for Kate’s holiday shopping feature.
“There, happy now?” Aaron had snapped.
“Ecstatic.” Even better than a press conference. Interviewing store managers about holiday shopping! Hurrah! Enough to make me jealous of the intern covering the shooting. I never got to cover