Page 3 of Light of Day
Sorry, Heather texted Gabby.
Oddly, she got no response. Gabby was always on her phone. Maybe she was too pissed off to answer.
Since Heather hated driving in Boston, she usually took public transportation to work—it was only four stops on the Red Line. As always, while the train jerked and screeched along its tracks, she scanned through today’sBoston Globe—the physical version. She loved thinking about how the page had been laid out, the decisions that had gone into the headlines and subheads.
Every time a job opened up at the newspaper, she applied—along with hundreds of other people, no doubt. So far, she’d never even been called in for an interview. How was she supposed to compete against all the brilliant Ivy League graduates out there? She was just a kid from Maine, the first in her family to go to college, the first to leave Sea Smoke Island.
In the station, a man slouched against the tiled wall, a cardboard sign propped against his knees.Homeless.Please and Thank You, it said. Appreciating his politeness, Heather dug in her pocket for cash, which she basically carried for this purpose only. She dropped a five into his nearly empty coffee can and smiled at him. Sure, he’d probably use it for liquor. But the man could have been her father.
Literally.
She hadn’t seen her father in so long she probably wouldn’t recognize him. He too would probably spend all his money on alcohol. Her friends teased her about it, but she was incapable of ignoring anyone on the street begging for money. Her heart always overruled her head.It could be my dad. The one time she’d walked on by, it had haunted her so much that she’d run out of a meeting to correct her error.
By the time Heather reached the downtown high-rise whereBoiling Pointwas produced, Gabby still hadn’t answered her last text. This was a serious cold shoulder.
Okay, I’ll think about it. Sheesh,she texted.
Gabby didn’t answer.
Her boss waved at her from the door of the conference room. Beyond its glass walls, the entire team had gathered around a platter of pastries, like gazelles at an oasis in the desert.
Pastries. Never a good sign. Mindy ordered fruit plates and brownies for celebrations, bagels for regular morning meetings, and pastries for delivering bad news. The budget situation must be even more dire than she’d feared.
She checked her phone one last time before she slipped into the conference room. Still no response from Gabby.
Maybe she’d have to go to Sea Smoke Island just to find out why Gabby wanted her there so badly.
2
The news hit like a bombshell.Canceled. The last episode ofBoiling Pointwould air tonight. The staff would all be paid for another three months, as required by their contracts. Mindy promised to write everyone a glowing recommendation. And that was it.Take a pastry on your way out. You’re welcome to leave as soon as you’ve finished whatever you have pending. Please and thank you.
That echo of the homeless man’s cardboard sign didn’t do anything to improve Heather’s mood. Maybe she’d be the one begging in the subway station soon. Her rent was nearly two thousand dollars a month—a crazy indulgence just so she didn’t have to share an apartment.
Panicked thoughts chased each other through her brain—get a roommate? Break her lease? Beg Tim to come back and split the rent with her? Follow up on the “help wanted” sign at the 7-Eleven down the street?
A hand on her arm made her startle. Mindy gestured for Heather to stay back instead of leaving with the others. “I’m sorry, Heather. I really am. On the bright side, you don’t have to spend your weekend working on the budget.”
Heather made some kind of grimace that—she hoped—vaguely resembled a smile. “I feel like we’re giving up too soon. Can’t we shop the show somewhere else? Netflix? Didn’t they pick upSesame Street?”
Mindy wore her usual uniform of a tailored blazer over a silk tee, along with jeans and spiked heels. “The show’s dead, sweetie.” Although her lips formed a smile, it didn’t reach anywhere else on her face. “I know you’re a scrapper, that’s why I hired you. You fight ’til you drop. ButBoiling Point is done. There’s a lawsuit, a very litigious billionaire, and…I’m sorry, but it’s over.”
Heather slumped into a chair and slowly bonked her forehead on the table. Her dream felt like an omen now. “Here goes the house into the ocean,” she murmured.
“What?”
“Nothing. Sorry. I’m…processing.”
“Here’s another bright side.” Mindy spun Heather’s chair so they faced each other. “This is an opportunity for you. I have some contacts in New York I can call on. And by New York, I mean,” she mouthed the words, “The New Yorker.”Everyone knew Heather revered that publication beyond all others. “I know you’ve always wanted to do more ‘serious’ journalism.”
Heather could hear those silent scare quotes perfectly well. “I loved this job.”
“No, you didn’t. Why would you? It’s textbook toxic work environment. So much yelling, on and off the air.” She pulled her vape from her blazer pocket and took a quick inhale. “It’s hell on the cortisol levels. Come on, let’s get out of here. They want us all out of the building by close of business today.”
“That’s cold!”
Mindy shrugged and offered her hand and tugged Heather to her feet. A flash of her dream came back—the girl tugging at her hand.
Heather followed Mindy numbly out of the conference room. All she wanted was to curl up under her desk and cry for a bit, then call Gabby to rant about the fucked-up-ness of the world.
