Page 81 of The Southern Submission

I smile and kiss him before taking the purse he holds out. “Thank you,” I say simply, taking his help and letting him do the little things he likes so much that mean he’s caring for me.

The Atlanta Free Press office is in a high-rise building downtown, the metal and glass structure intimidating as I walk behind John Buckman himself after signing my contract to join the staff as a reporter. My hand was shaking so badly I’m sure my signature is illegible, but it’s the thought that counts.

The reality hit me while I was sitting in John’s office that I’m finally achieving the dreams I put off years ago and thought I’d never have because of my failures and the part Archer played in fucking with me—both in grad school and most recently by hacking the Haute List and exposing me. But I’m as much to blame for my situation in life as any outside force, and I’m owning both of those situations. Archer wouldn’t have been able to manipulate me if I hadn’t been willing to write the article he gave me the information for, or expose me if I hadn’t created an anonymous gossip site in the first place. I’m especially grateful for second and third chances as I look around the bullpen area full of cubicles and desks with busy people. It’s such a shift from the mediocre and uninterested staff at theGazette, where writing was a job, not a passion. Here, you can feel the intensity, the drive, that fuels each person.

“You’ll start out here with the rest of our staff reporters. It’s not fancy, but it’ll give you a spot to write and grow with the team,” John says, pointing at an empty cubicle.

A tall, curvy, goddess of a woman with chestnut hair slicked back into a high ponytail pops up on the other side of the cubicle. She eyes me for a moment before grinning and walking around the half wall with her hand extended.

“Hey, I’m Lilah Williams, sports,” she says as I take her hand. Her handshake is firm and she looks me directly in the eyes. She’s all powerful energy and tenacity. No wonder she’s writing for the sports section. She’ll be able to handle the egos of the professional athletes in our city and get through the male-dominated segment of journalism without crumbling. It’s an interesting contrast to her perfect, red-painted pout and cat eyeliner that’s sharp enough to cut a man. She’s a truefemme fatale. A smokeshow.

“Ainsley Montgomery,” I say, not sure what else to add.

“Ainsley will be covering the business beat as well as entertainment and lifestyle on occasion, if she’ll deem us worthy of her critical eye,” John supplies.

Lilah laughs. “I’ve heard about you and was an avid reader of the Haute List before I knew you were behind it. You’re an amazing writer. You’re going to be an asset to our team. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

“Actually, Lilah, can you show Ainsley around a bit more? I have a one o’clock meeting near Buckhead. I need to head out now or I’ll be stuck in traffic for an hour.”

Lilah nods and salutes John. “Of course. I give a better tour anyway. I’ll show her where the best coffee shops within a four-block radius are, which cafés willcave and give her day-old pastries for free if she tells them she’s a poor reporter, and all the best after-work drinks places.”

“Could you at least start with the building and pretend to work, please?” John says with patient exasperation, like he’s used to Lilah’s humor and flippant ways.

Lilah crosses her arms over a generous chest that’s covered by an Atlanta Condors football T-shirt tucked into wide-leg jeans and pristine white high-top sneakers. “Just leave, John. I’m fully capable of giving her a tour.”

I like Lilah’s assertive attitude. I can see us becoming work friends and maybe even real friends.

“Welcome to the team, Ainsley. I know I speak for everyone when I say we’re looking forward to having you on staff.” John shakes my hand and leaves, his meeting now his priority.

Lilah cranes her neck and watches him go, then unfolds her arms and beams at me. “Halle-freaking-lujah! I’m so happy to have another woman my age on staff. Everyone else is over thirty, which isn’t bad, but I’ve needed a work buddy without kids and an ex-husband to complain about,” she says, motioning for me to follow her as she starts power-walking past the cubicles in the bullpen. “This is where we work, blah blah. That’s the supply closet you’ll want to raid to steal pens and notebooks,” she says, pointing to a door on the left. “That’s the gross bathroom. Don’t use it. Mike from legal eats gas station burritos every day and takes a massive shit around eleven that ruins it for everyone. Give yourself extra time to make it to the bathroom that’s a slightly longer walk.”

“Can you slow down? My legs are shorter than yours.” I’m nearly jogging in my heels to keep up with her pace. Fuck being short. This sucks. It occurs to me that Payton always matches my pace, never making me stretch to keep up with him. I’ve never noticed that before, but it’s just another wayhe’s been quietly considerate of me from the beginning. I love that stupid man.

“Oh, shit, sorry, I’m not used to anyone dressing up in the office. John’s super lax about the dress code, so feel free to wear sneakers and dress casually whenever you want. If you have a high-profile subject coming in for an interview or you’re going to cover some big story, keep a blazer and heels in your car. That’s what I do.” She slows her strides and I’m able to stay by her side. I swipe my hair behind my ear, taking measured breaths.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Two years. I was in Seattle before this but moved home to be closer to my parents when my mom was diagnosed with MS. I grew up in Athens, so not too far away. My parents are still there.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your mom. MS sucks.” Damn, that’s intense and so sad to see a loved one deteriorate to a disease like multiple sclerosis.

She shrugs, dismissing my comment, and points at a doorway. “That’s the break room. Mark your food but expect it to disappear anyway. We have an office lunch thief and I’ve narrowed it down to Tammy from advertising or Cheryl from finance. Both of them are shady as hell and would absolutely steal your yogurt or eat your takeout. They even play pickleball together. What the fuck even is that? A stupid hybrid sport for lunch thieves who can't play real sports is what it is.” She scrunches up her perfectly manicured brows and shakes her head, clearly disliking these women and their activities. “The nice bathrooms are just around the corner and have multiple stalls, so we don’t have to share with the men. We can cry in peace when we need to if the patriarchy becomes too oppressive before we remember heads up,tits up, let's fuck shit up, because we rule the world, anyway.”

“Sounds like my kind of bathroom,” I deadpan.

She laughs as she whips around and starts marching us back the way we came. “That covers it for the office. Let’s get out of here and I’ll show you my favorite place to grab a coffee and breakfast sandwich. They make their own biscuits that are incredible and melt in your mouth. You can build your own sandwich, so it’s fun to change up what you put on it.”

“Yes, I need coffee. My adrenaline’s dumped now that the anxiety has worn off and I’m dragging.” I was too anxious and amped up to stop for a coffee like Payton suggested before coming to the Free Press.

We walk a few blocks from the office to Hestia’s, a cute café that smells divine and is incredibly welcoming. The exposed brick walls and worn, wide plank wood floors are rustic, but the pink and white striped counter topped with gleaming white marble, the small tables and groups of pink chairs, and the pink accents everywhere are luxe and girly.

“This isn’t really a place I imagined you would like from the very brief introduction I’ve had. I guess I need to slow my assumptions,” I tell Lilah as she looks through the glass of the pastry case, checking out the sandwiches and desserts.

“Don’t let my big attitude and job as a sports reporter fool you. I’m girly and love to indulge in the finest female things. If you ever want to go for a mani and pedi after work, I have the best place nearby.” She wiggles her fingers, showing off her long, almond-shaped nails that are red and white with black designs and even sport the Condors’s logo painted on a few. She’s fully committed to the team, it seems.

“Noted.” I laugh, looking at my short, natural nails that I don’t bother to do much more than file semi-regularly. I’ve never made much money as a reporter, so I carefullybudget my funds, and getting my nails done wasn’t a splurge I wanted to make. Obviously, Lilah has different priorities, judging by the complicated design she’s chosen and the really nice sneakers she’s wearing. I shouldn’t judge or assume I know anything about another person’s finances, so I stop.

We order our coffee and biscuits, find a table in a corner, and sit with our food. I take in a breath, knowing it’s about to be awkward like a first date where you have to learn about someone while eating, when Lilah speaks.

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