Page 58 of Love in Training
Rufus tilts his head, wagging his tail slightly.
I hold it in front of his face, look him in the eye and say, “Nota bone.”
To his credit, the look the dog gives me is a polite rebuttal.
I cover my face with my hand. “Fuck!”
After tossing away the remains of the only reliable dick in my life, and arguably one of my last remaining sources of stress relief, I fire off a text to Drew Forbes, giving exactly zero fucks about what hour of the morning it is.
Meet in the park tomorrow. 5:30p.m.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
This week,the cover of theMile High Observeris a highly recognizable photo of local Green Industries CEO Colin Vanderpool with the Unmatched logo—a white letterUencircled by a gold wedding ring—superimposed over his fleshy face. Beneath that, the headline reads:
Unmatched Scandal: The Downfall of a Denver Philanthropist
I have to sit down when I find the print issue waiting for me on my desk. Randall didn’t tell me I’d have the front page. A slight thrill runs under my skin, and I force myself to take a slow breath through my nose. I did this—I exposed Colin Vanderpool’s wicked deeds. The whole time he was donating hospital wings and attending charity benefits, he wasalsodeveloping an app designed specifically to help himself and other guys fuck around on their spouses.
His wife wanted to nail him for it, and I helped her do it. These are the consequences, fucker. I stare at his smug face, my mind buzzing, waiting for the satisfaction to sink in.
“Nice work,” a voice says behind me.
I startle so hard, Rufus comes out from under my desk growling, but quickly wags his tail, looking between Randall and me, confused.
“You currently have the most-clicked article on theObserverwebsite.” My boss chuckles. “Not that anyone’s surprised.”
“Thanks,” I say, though my voice comes out too small. Apologetic.
I hate it.
My boss kneels to pet Rufus, then says in a low voice, “You nailed the bad guy. But if anyone sends you garbage you’re worried about, forward it straight to me.”
I let out a low, grateful breath. Maybe I’m obvious, but I’m also glad I don’t have to explain. “Thanks, Randall.”
I wasn’t brave enough to take my phone out of Do Not Disturb when I woke up this morning, and I’m still afraid now. But after my editor heads back to his office and a few coworkers have stopped by to congratulate me on the cover feature, the office falls into its normal, bustling rhythm. This may be as safe as I’m going to get.
I glance down at the animal staring out from under my desk, and I swear his gaze is almost reassuring. So I take a breath and unlock my phone. Immediately, my screen fills with an onslaught of notifications. The headline from my own news organization. Some text messages from colleagues here and at other publications. An encouraging note from Lydia. A slew of social media alerts and emails. No voicemail.
I exhale. Inhale. Continue basic breathing.
Wednesday, March 18, 20__, 7:46 AM
From:[email protected]
Subject: Re: Going To Print
Ms. Phipps,
You have exceeded my expectations. As usual, you write beautifully and sensitively, and while I was surprised at the angle you took with the article, I can’t help feeling flattered by a feature I was sure I’d have to brace myself to read. Thank you for that, and for exposing my husband as the manipulative philanderer he’s always been. I am already out of town, holing up in one of our vacation homes while my lawyer serves up divorce papers.
Thank you for your generous portrayal.
Margaret Vanderpool
