Page 59 of We Can Do
“Come in.” Her voice carries that particular tone I’ve learned to recognize—professionally neutral with an undercurrent of something harder.
I step into the office, closing the door behind me with careful precision. “Sorry I’m late.” The words tumble out as I face her across the imposing desk. “My friend was in the hospital this morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her lips, already pressed into a thin line, turn downward as she looks up from her computer screen. The frown deepens the lines around her mouth, making her look older, sterner.
“Thank you. She’ll be okay. It just delayed me.” I shift my weight, waiting for her to wave it off, to move on to whatever assignment she has for me.
Instead, she gestures at the chair across from her desk with slow deliberation. “Have a seat. We need to discuss your review of Rye Again.”
“Oh. Okay.” The leather chair creaks slightly as I lower myself into it, my mind spinning into overdrive.
This isn’t what I expected. When Elaine’s email arrived yesterday requesting a morning meeting, I hadn’t thought twice about it. She’s old school through and through, the kind of editor who believes real business happens face to face, not through screens. Even simple project assignments become formal affairs in her office, her steady gaze boring into you as she explains exactly what she expects.
I assumed today would bring another restaurant to review, another ice cream shop to critique. The Rye Again review hadn’t run on its scheduled day, but that happens all the time. Space issues, breaking news, a dozen reasons why reviews get bumped. It’s never been a problem before.
But the expression on Elaine’s face—stern, disappointed, almost angry—tells me this is something entirely different.
She clears her throat, the sound sharp in the quiet office. “You didn’t tell me that you already knew Noah Reynolds.”
“I...” The words stick in my throat as I scramble for the right response. How do I explain without explaining too much? “You mean when I went to Rye Again the first time? I knew him in passing.”
Without a word, Elaine rotates her laptop to face me. My stomach plummets as I stare at the screen. There it is—my review of Street Cucina from three years ago, every harsh word I wrote about Noah’s New York restaurant displayed in damning black and white. The headline alone makes me want to sink through the floor: “Street Cucina Serves Up Disappointment.”
This doesn’t make sense. I haven’t done anything wrong, not technically. Yet dread spreads through my chest like spilled ink, dark and expanding.
“You reviewed his old place in New York.” She states it as fact, not question, her tone flat and final.
“Yes,” I say slowly, drawing out the word while my mind races. “I did. And I didn’t know he now owns Rye Again, but—is there something wrong with that? I didn’t realize?—”
“Typically, there wouldn’t be. However, given the other circumstances surrounding the review, we do have an issue.”
The lump forming in my throat makes it hard to swallow. I want to ask what she means, need to know exactly what she knows, but I can’t risk revealing anything she hasn’t already discovered. Whatever she doesn’t know about Noah and me needs to stay that way.
She folds her hands on the desk, fingers interlaced like she’s praying for patience. “I saw you leaving the apartment above Rye Again the other morning. Before the bakery was open.”
My blood turns to ice water in my veins. The morning she’s talking about—I know exactly which one. Noah’s shirt hanging loose on my frame, my shoes in my hand as I tried to sneak out quietly. I never imagined anyone would see me, certainly not Elaine.
I struggle to keep my voice steady, to choose each word with surgical precision. “I didn’t realize there was a rule about us dating the subjects of our reviews.”
“There’s not, but it doesn’t have to be spelled out. There’s journalistic integrity.”
The words land like a physical blow. My face burns with heat that has nothing to do with my earlier sprint. She might as well have reached across the desk and slapped me.
“Even if you don’t have a personal relationship with the owner of Rye Again, the fact that you wrote such a glowing review of it is suspicious.”
“Rye Again is great.” The defense bursts out before I can stop it. “It deserves a wonderful review.”
“If I had known you had reviewed his previous establishment, Alexis, I would have assigned someone else to theRye Again review. A scathing review of one of his restaurants followed by a glowing review of the next makes it look like you’re trying to amend the first one.”
“I—I didn’t know it was his bakery,” I tell her again, hearing how weak it sounds even as the words leave my mouth.
“You could have told me once you found out, and I would have switched projects between you and another reviewer.”
My jaw drops, actually drops, as the truth of her words hits me. She’s right. Completely, undeniably right. The moment I walked into Rye Again and saw Noah’s face, I should have called Elaine. Should have explained the situation, asked to be reassigned. It would have been the ethical thing to do, the professional thing to do.
And it never even crossed my mind.
What kind of journalist does that make me?
