Page 6 of The Business Trip

Keep your breathing steady, Jasmine, I told myself.Don’t look nervous.My hand went to the baseball cap on my head. It felt reassuring now, but I decided I would take it off when I walked down the jetway to the plane. That would be the moment the new, confident me was boarding, not the old, meek me. I wanted to present to the world a woman on a trip, flying with confidence and spark, a twinkle in her eye. A woman who fully knew herself and her place in the world, not the truth, awoman running from a tattered past that extended all the way to childhood.

Instead, I let the fantasies zip through my head. I could be going on a girls’ tripora business trip, depending on who I was talking to. I had already fooled the Uber driver and the double-eyeshadowed woman at the ticket counter.

But even as I tried to inject my body with self-confidence, seeds of doubt prickled at the corners. I was the stupid one of my mom’s three kids, the dumb waitress who needed a man to support her, a chick in her forties who had never really done anything in her life, never had a chance to be truly free, to get outside of Madison and experience life—real, vibrant, exciting, adventurous life.

I felt myself teetering between joy at getting away on my own terms, fear of the unknown, and depression over how little I had accomplished in my years. My hands felt cold, and I stuffed them into my jean pockets, wiggling my toes in my tennis shoes. My toes were chilled too.

Deciding I needed to take a walk, I pulled a premade sandwich from one of those grab-and-go coolers in the gift store, glancing briefly at theMADISONmugs, hats, and sweatshirts they sold and promising myself I would never return, ever.

There had been no other texts from Glenn. I pictured him at the job site—he was helping to tear out carpet and move furniture for a big corporation that had relocated its headquarters. He had to be there for about five hours and would then be home, expecting the steak dinner I’d told him I was making.

It was the start of my normal midweek break from the bar, which I had planned so that I could have at least two days before anyone at work questioned where I was. When I didn’t show up Friday, they would wonder—maybe get worried—but Anna would soon help my cause and buy me some time. Shewas the only one I trusted. Heck, she had even loaned me extra getaway money when I knew I didn’t have enough. She promised she would lie to protect my whereabouts, and I promised I would repay her the $500. Anna had smiled in a sympathetic way when I had asked her to help me figure out Uber the previous night. She patted my arm. “You know I have a couch you can crash on if you want for a few days. Are you leaving anytime soon?” she whispered.

“I don’t know yet,” I lied. Some things needed to remain secret. The flight and Denver were things I held close to my heart. I would tell her soon, once I was established and had a job with money to repay her. For now, it was enough that she knew I was going somewhere at some undetermined time in the future to escape Glenn.

Everyone at the bar was aware that he had a temper. He had been in several fights, and his previous girlfriend left him when he pushed her so hard against his pickup truck that she broke a rib. Months later, she took out a restraining order. Of course no one bothered to tell me any of this when I started working there. Maybe that’s because he also had a charming side, the side I first saw when he began walking me to my car at night. He could make the whole bar laugh, and he had a way of getting people to loosen up. I had seen him break up fights too. That was the enigma. His protective side and destructive side co-habitating. It was the unpredictability of the latter that finally broke me.

Now, as they called us to board, I was mere steps from full freedom. Letting my hand slip down into my fringed purse, I just wanted to touch the wad of cash that was wrapped in rubber bands. A lot of twenties, some fives and tens. Nothing larger than that. A year’s worth of escape money. Feeling it there comforted me. There was close to $2,000 even after paying forthe flight. Tightening my grip on both the handle of the rolling bag and my boarding pass, I pulled my elbow in to my side to keep my purse firmly in place. The line moved slowly ahead.

“Welcome,” the gate agent said as I handed her my boarding pass. She had no idea how that one word was like a salve to my soul.

Entering the jetway, I felt a rush of excitement. About halfway down the ramp, I took the baseball cap off, shook out my long blond hair, and put the cap in my purse. I was the new me.

CHAPTER 4Stephanie

The Day of the Flight

Coming out of Ambien sleep was never easy. Groaning, I shut my eyes again. The drug was trying hard to pull me back to slumber. Fighting it with all of my willpower, I fumbled for my phone.

The first duty I had every day was to see who might have texted me to say they were calling in sick. It was a rare day when no one had. Between lingering bouts of COVID, normal colds and flus, mental health days, and people who I suspected were lying just to get a free day, we had a lot of sick calls. The business we had all chosen was not an easy one. There was heightened stress making sure we didn’t get beat by the other TV stations in the city, and extra pressure to triple-check that everything we put on the air was fair and factual.

I took a look at Teams messages and turned my attention to emails. In a news station, you can get hundreds of emails each day, maybe even thousands, story pitches and press releases and statements from politicians and internal notes from reporters and producers and viewer feedback. It was a never-ending seaof things to look through. Scrolling my overnight and early-morning emails, I dismissed 90 percent of them as unimportant but flagged some to respond to later.

My bladder was urgently calling me out of bed, so I put the phone down and attended to business, washing up and putting on some work clothes that would also be OK for the plane: a stretchy pair of yoga-type pants that looked like work pants, low boots that were comfortable to walk in, and a baggy but professional sweater with a cowl neck.

My work makeup was next. I would take a full shower the next day. Today was my “day two” hair anyway, and I liked how it flattened just a bit after a night of sleep. I chose a pair of simple fake-pearl earrings that went with anything. Amazon always had a wide selection of fakes.

Making coffee and a quick breakfast, I turned on our morning newscast, standing by the kitchen counter assessing our show. The anchors really didn’t like each other much in real life. They did a good job of faking it most days on the air, but I felt like there were times when I could see one side-eyeing the other or even borderline rolling their eyes. It was on my to-do list for the next week to check in with each of them to see how things were going, and maybe to give them a little kick in the pants. They might need a stern reminder that viewers want to like the people they’re watching on TV, especially in the morning.

Throwing back the coffee, I rinsed the cup and put it in the dishwasher. Next came Fred’s breakfast, and I was ready to leave for the TV station by just after eight. The morning meeting for managers started at 8:30. Luckily, I lived ten minutes away. Stopping at the thermostat, I turned it down to 62 to save some money on heat. Just as I was grabbing my light blue Kate Spade purse off its hook, Fred came lumbering down the stairs.

“Freddie, my favorite beast.” I knelt down to scoop him up. “Will you miss me? I will miss you. I’ll see you soon.”

Kissing the extra soft spot on the top of his head, I plopped him next to his bowl and left through the attached garage door.

The day was cold but sunny, good for flying. Traffic in Madison was nearly nonexistent, and my view on the way to work was a mix of suburban houses, mature oak trees, and upscale strip malls, nearly all of them having a Starbucks and a Panera.

I always flipped between NPR and our local talk radio station in the morning to make sure I had a handle on the news of the day. This time there was coverage of an earthquake in Egypt and a strike at a local construction company. I made a note to assign a reporter to the strike story and pulled into the parking lot at the TV station.

The effects of the Ambien were still there as I turned off the car. Sleeping drugs were weird. Sometimes I woke up feeling sharp and completely rested; other days I would be moving in slow motion or swimming underwater. This was somewhere in between. I shook my head to clear it before going in, vowing to grab a second cup of coffee. I would try to catch some sleep on the plane. I would need plenty of energy later.

As I got out of the car, I looked at my longtime workplace. Something about those big satellite dishes and the call letters on the side of the building with the CBS eyeball still got me jazzed after all of these years. One of my former bosses used to say that television had the biggest megaphone of anyone, and I believed it to be true. We had a power and a responsibility, neither of which I took lightly. I had fallen in love with TV when my dad would watch the evening news. The names of that era—Diane Sawyer, Barbara Walters, Peter Jennings—still had meaning to me.

“Good morning, Steph!” our receptionist called as I walkedinto the main lobby. Bernie had been there for over twenty-five years and was as happy as ever every single day.

“Good morning, Bernie! How are you?” I started to key my way into the secondary door that led to the newsroom.

“Great. I hear you’re flying somewherefaaancytoday. Have a safe trip!”

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