Page 19 of Girls Will Be Girls
“Working.”
“Here?”I clarify.
“Yep.”
He stands up from his stool, a half-drunk beer in hand, lifts his duffel off the ground, and starts walking toward me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He stalls for a second. “I was going to sit next to you, rather than shouting across the bar.”
I take him in. “You swear you’re not some serial killer with an elaborate plan to make me trust you and then kill me?”
“You saying you trust me already?” He sits on the stool next to me. “That’s nice.”
I give him a pointed look.
He laughs. “No, I promise. This is just one hell of a coincidence, and gotta say, I’m not mad.” He grins.
He swings forward in his chair, and his knee brushes mine.
“This is too weird to be a coincidence.” I shake my head, ignoring the spark that just went through me.
“Areyoustalkingme?” He asks.
I stick him with another glare.
“Fate?” He smirks.
“Why are you here?” I repeat again.
“Told you, I’m working.”
“On what?”
“I’m writing a feature on one of the Democratic candidates. She’s the leading underdog and is touring the area, trying to garner some early support, swing the state.”
I nod, satisfied he’s probably telling the truth.
“Who’s the candidate?” I ask.
“Senator Diana Flores.”
“Oh yeah, I like her,” I say.
He nods. “Me too.”
After a beat, I continue. “Who’s the feature for?”
“Washington Post.”
“Wow.” I blurt.
He’s a political journalist. A big-time, very serious journalist. It’s a strange combo of feelings: impressed and disappointed.
I used to be in an equally big-time job. In financial journalism. I know how seriously these guys take their work. How proud people are when you land those roles. My parents were, at least in their own way.
Finance was the area of journalism I was expected to go into. My dad has written multiple books on economics, and my brother works on Wall Street — with the whole big screens, people shouting in blue jackets, cocaine for lunch. Even my mom is an accountant, so it wasn’t even considered an option to not find my place in the same sphere.
