Page 14 of Off the Record

That’s fair. He must have a reason, whatever it is. I’m not going to look my gift horse in the mouth anymore. Nodding, I glance at the window behind him to the puffy clouds gathering over Nashville.

There’s a knock at the door behind me, and I turn to leave, giving Kyla and her perfect, luscious blonde hair the room. She sends me an irritatingly bright smile, which I ignore. She is sleek Office Barbie, and I’m feeling more like a Bratz doll that a child has taken a hairbrush to after a swim in the bathtub. I can hear the animation in her voice as I walk to my desk. It grates like nails on a chalkboard. She’s so pompous toward me, thinking she’s won, but she’s the one who ended up with cheating scum. How does she not realize that if Leo will do something like that once, it’s possible he’ll do it again?

Simone shoots wide eyes at me when I pass her desk. “What was that about?”

I’m tempted to tell her the truth—Hudson saw Leo cornering me and felt I needed an excuse to escape. She’ll read into that, so I go with the other truth. “New direction. I have to find something else to write about.”

She cringes. Her advice column is totally safe and a major draw for readership, so I’m not worried about her place in the company and neither is she. I wish I had something equally interesting in mind, but again, my brain is a blank slab of nothingness.

“What are you going to focus on?” she asks.

I put my things down and open my computer, groaning. “No idea.”

The restof the work week passes likeGroundhog Day: utter repetition. I come up with an interesting idea, write out the bare bones, send it to Hudson, and get shot down. By the time Friday rolls around, I’m so far away from two finished articles, I should start packing up my desk now.

Sun up to sun down, I’ve done nothing but work, brainstorm, return to the drawing board. Because of my nightly trips to my favorite dinner place, Hattie B’s, I know so much about the woman behind the counter, I could do an article onher. Really, people should be more patient with the person at the register. It’s not her fault the kitchen forgot your coleslaw.

By noon, I’ve scrapped six more ideas, and despite Hudson’s dismissal of Civil War pieces, I’m ready to do a deep dive on the Battle of Franklin and turn it in anyway.

Hudson

What do you have for me today?

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

I pull up a private Slack and send Simone a message.

Paisley McConkie: Start planning my going-away cake now. I’ll take chocolate on chocolate, please.

Simone Blake: Vanilla on chocolate is where it’s at. But we don’t need to worry about that, because you’re a much better writer than Stan. There’s no way they’ll keep him and cut you.

Paisley McConkie: Except neither of my articles are finished. I literally have nothing to turn in for next week’s edition.

Besides, Stan is a great writer. He’d been up for company awards multiple years in a row. I hear the sound of Simone’s wheels as she pushes her chair across the floor to reach me. “Nothing?”

“He keeps shooting them down,” I whisper. “The band at Whiskey Sage, the docent from the Hall of Fame, Jerry’s uncle who used to be Kenny Chesney’s agent. Nothing’s good enough for Hudson.”

“Maybe you’re thinking too big.” Her brown eyes widen. “Maybe you should go micro, not macro.”

“Small?”

“Yes. Write what interestsyou, and it’ll bleed through the page.”

It might be worth a shot, but again, my brain is soup. I have no ideas. I’ve filled my head with so much research this week I actually feel my reaction times slowing.

“Stop overthinking, Paisley,” she says. “Just write.”

“The only story in my head right now is about the woman who’s rung me up at Hattie B’s all week.”

“Then write that.”

I puff up my cheeks and blow out a breath. Nashville Hot Chicken is an institution all its own. That’s not a completely insane idea, right? It’s pretty dang micro.

“Okay, I’ll try.”

She gives a nod of approval and rolls away. I open a new document, clear my head, and put my hands on the keyboard. Nothing else has worked, so this is a last-ditch effort at retaining my job.

Here goes nothing.

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