Page 25 of Love in Training
Finally, after making a circuit of my entire studio, he hops up on the ruined couch.
“Hey—” I start to yell, but he circles twice, then curls up facing me. I frown. “Fine. Since you already murdered it,” I saywith a curled lip. “But don’t think you’ll be getting anywhere near a new one.”
When he doesn’t get up or do anything other than watch me for a whole minute, I open my laptop. I’ve lost way too much of my weekend to this whole situation.
I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on nearly a day’s worth of emails. I’m used to keeping one ear to the ground on weekends, but since I’m stuck on the assignment desk, I’m not just monitoring my email, but the generalObserverinbox and all of our social media. About ninety percent of it is ignorable—complaints about our coverage of the primary elections, opinions from readers on a piece Adrienne did on women in education, a request that we expose Mafia influence over businesses in Commerce City, and a hot tip that aliens have infiltrated the student body at Littleton High School.
I follow up on a couple of messages about a shooting near Five Points and layoffs at a warehouse in Aurora. Then I spot a new email from “Mrs. R.”
Saturday, March 13, 20__, 4:02 PM
From:[email protected]
Subject: Re: A Proposal
Ms. Phipps,
I originally reached out because of your discerning coverage of the Unmatched app last year. You have a talent for calling out malfeasance without unnecessary sensationalism, which I appreciate.
I would still like to offer you an exclusive opportunity to extend your coverage and further expose those behind the app. I promise this story will be worth your while. But if I don’t hear from you by Monday, I will have to take it elsewhere. Please let me know your decision. This is a secure number where I can be reached: 303-555-4462.
Cheers,
Mrs. R.
I look over at the dog asleep on what’s left of my couch, like a hyena sated after eating its fill. Next to me on the counter are the remains of my Louboutins—a college graduation gift from my mom and the literal only pair of shoes I own that didn’t come from Poshmark or DSW. My savings account was already dwindling before I acquired my new “pet,” but when I add up the replacement costs, in addition to my rent and other living expenses, my palms start to sweat.
At that moment, my credit card statement slides into my inbox like a sucker punch, reminding me of the two hundred and fifty dollars I spent last month that I didn’t have. Baby gifts for Lydia. A care package for my brother. A bridesmaid dress for my cousin’s wedding. I was planning to pay it all off over a couple of months, but add new bedding and furniture, and I’ll be lucky to do it in six.
I get up and walk to the windows, soaking up my luxurious view. Moving in here was a stretch a year ago. Until then, I’d been living in a garden-level two-bedroom with a roommate on Capitol Hill. It smelled musty and we had mice, but the rent allowed me to pay down my student loans and even save a little. Then my roommate took a job in Minnesota, and it was either find someone else to share the lease or splurge to get my own studio.
At that time, my career still felt like it was building momentum. I’d received recognition for a piece about artists forming a collective downtown. Shortly after that, I’d earned a nod from the Colorado Press Club for a series I did on cyclist safety in the wake of several high-profile accidents. When I started writing about the locally based cheating app Unmatched, the public response was so overwhelming, it seemed like the story that was going to level up my career.
Until I received my first threat.
The article about the dating app shows what a bitch you are. I know where you live, pretty girl.
I swallow hard, pulling myself away from the mountain view and wandering back to my computer. When I was little, I’d carry around my mom’s legal pad, “interviewing” my dolls, aspiring to become some mashup of Oprah and maybe Katie Couric. Except, I soon realized, I didn’t enjoy being on camera. So when I got to high school and discovered a talent writing for the school paper, I leaned into that. I channeled Ida B. Wells, doing internships at our local newspaper, honing my ability to find stories that mattered, intent on my dreams making a difference.
At no point did I dream of being called an ignorant whore. That I deserve to be raped. Or hope to receive messages that I should be hanging in a tree.
My mom always encouraged me to pursue journalism, even while warning me it was a tough career for women. Her intentions were good, but I doubt she had any idea.
Still, news is what Ido. And much as I like to idealize life as a barista, I doubt I’ll ever stop looking for the next story to write. The next issue to shed light on. I just wish I could figure out how to reveal the truth without fearing for my safety... or worrying about next month’s rent.
My stomach does a nervous flip as I click from my credit card statement back to the email from the Unmatched tipster lady. Ilower my head to the counter briefly, hoping my brother forgives me.
Hoping I can forgive myself.
Then I reach over and pick up my phone. A woman answers after the second ring.
“Hello, Ms. Phipps?”
My hands are now shaking, but I pick up my pen. “Um, yes. I’m looking for Mrs. R?”
By the time I hang up, the dog has started whining again behind me. God forbid I be allowed to pretend he isn’t there. He started up around five o’clock, but I was still on the phone, frantically filling my notepad, so I dumped food in his dish, hoping that would shut him up until I finished. He licked the bowl clean, then climbed back up on the used-to-be-a couch and settled down, thank goodness. But at some point, he got back up and started pacing. And then the squeaking started. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and that sound is already like nails on a chalkboard.
