Page 8 of Live for Me

My best friend studied me for a few moments, and once he was satisfied, he nodded. “Alright.” He refocused his attention on my dinner, lifting the box again, and flicking the lid back.

I was silent for a moment, knowing if I didn’t say anything, he would eat it like the bear he is. “Hey, Dave?”

“Yeah?”

“Put my fucking lasagna down or Harris gets to pick out the flowers for your funeral,” I ordered.

Dave grinned and gave me an evil laugh, making a show of it like he was going to run off with my food. I shook my head, trying to keep the fear at bay. I knew he wouldn’t do that. When he was done with his game, he returned my dinner back to the fridge, chuckling a bit as he asked, “What’s your deal with not sharing food, babe?”

He knew the answer to that. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like talking anymore. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option as the shrill sound of my phone filled my ears, reminding me of the dreaded deadline I was on.

Dave glared at my phone vibrating on the table. “That your boss again?”

I nodded, picking it up. “Yeah, do you mind…” I trailed off, looking into the living room and leaving the rest of the suggestion in the air. Dave took the hint and once he was out of earshot, I put the phone to my ear.

“This is Abbie,” I answered evenly, bracing for the verbal beating I was about to receive.

“You’re late,” my boss, Mr. Grimsy, bit off, his words sharp.

“I know that, sir,” I said, not bothering to apologize. He wouldn’t accept it. “It will be in your inbox by midnight.”

“That’s all you got for me, Spears?” he quipped. “No excuses?”

“None that would be good enough for you, sir,” I said, returning my attention to the article I’d been drafting for the last hour. I should have been done with it, but the words weren’t sitting right and I’d scrapped the last four paragraphs. This was one of my many front page news pieces, and I needed to get it right.

My boss scoffed, and I could practically see him rolling his eyes as he stood up from his desk. “Humor me.”

“I needed another source. The secondary one I interviewed earlier this week didn’t pan out,” I explained, reading over the last paragraph I’d written. The feeling was there now. The words were doing their job.

“What do you mean ‘fell through’?”

“As in, the lead I was given was wrong. If we were to send this to print, it would lead to disaster. A child was murdered, sir. I’m going to make sure the story contains nothing but the truth.” My words came out firmer than I intended, heat rising in my cheeks. I was passionate about my job, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to publish a lie to sell newspapers. I wasn’t that kind of a journalist and I never would be, despite how the news industry as a whole was run.

Mr. Grimsy, a man who’d been at the Denver Tribune for over three decades, had started out just like me. Then, over the course of his career, he was given more money and power. Those two things were his only focus now. He could care less about the truth, but I’d done everything in my power to get the creative freedom he bestowed upon me two years ago.

He grunted, mumbling something under his breath. “Get it done.”

The line went dead, and I felt a bit of tension release from my shoulders. I rolled my neck, desperately wanting to let down my hair, pour myself a glass of wine, and forget this shitty week. Sighing, I got back to work, looking at my notepad as my fingers flew across the keyboard. I didn’t bothering calling for Dave. I needed to get this done.

This was the second article I’d been late on within the last month.

I was slipping.

That couldn’t happen.

It wouldn’t happen.

Thirty minutes flew by, and Dave came back into the kitchen, showered and changed.

“I peeked in your studio the first night I was here,” he admitted, breaking my concentration. My eyes flicked up to meet his over my laptop screen, and he gave me a soft smile. “You working a new piece?”

Aside from being a journalist, I was also a painter. I’d fallen in love with writing when I was young, using the back pages of my school notebooks to create my own world I would get lost in. Then, when I was in middle school, I’d fallen in love with painting when my art teacher, Ms. Carissa, taught me the basics. We never had the money to buy the supplies for painting, though, so until college, I did all my painting in the school art room. It was just a hobby until it wasn’t.

I sell about three to four paintings a year through my online gallery. Despite my pieces’ success, I still focused on journalism. It was my first dream, after all.

Clearing my throat, I answered him. “It’s a commission piece.”

Dave’s brows rose. “A commission piece? Holy shit. That’s big, Abbie.”

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