Page 82 of Love in Training
Whatever the reason, I start the day fired up, ready to field comments, questions, emails, and re-posts. But by the start of our mid-afternoon meeting, the story only has three likes and two anonymous comments. “This was well written,”which I could guess was from Lydia. And another I’ve decided not to give space in my brain.
“Caprice, can we chat?” Randall asks as my colleagues rise from their chairs.
I look around and nod, hanging back as the conference room empties, offering Brian a somewhat strained high five as he leaves. His piece about teachers needing side hustles to earn a living made the cover of the print edition and turned out to be the star feature. Even I have to admit it was earned.
Randall closes the door as the last person leaves and returns to his seat. “I didn’t want to discuss this in front of the entire staff.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. He doesn’t need to clarify what he means. “I’ve scrapped the final segment, and I’m back on the assignment desk. I think I’ll just focus on that for a while. If you have any events you want me to cover, just let me do it as a staff article.”
He frowns. “I don’t think I need to tell you every piece can’t be a hit.”
I close my laptop, sliding it off the table and into my bag. “No. But generally no one expects to follow up a big sensation with a total fail.”
“Vanderpool is a prestigious local figure. A lot of people were invested in his downfall. The stakes weren’t the same with this Schneider guy.”
“I mean, I would expect at leasthalfthe population would be invested in the safety of online dating, but what do I know?”
Randall sits forward, rubbing his temples. “Maybe the public is just fatigued on Unmatched.”
I curl my fists in my lap. I spent hours combing through police reports, speaking to app users, and researching Marisol’s ex, who, it turns out, is just as unsavory as she warned. He indisputably covered up for several predators, letting them hide behind multiple profiles and making victims work just to collect evidence. But it’s like our readers took one look at the headline and decided to keep scrolling.Zeroother publications have picked up the feature. And here I am again, questioning my journalistic skills and watching my career dwindle.
“How are the comments?” My boss asks. “Anything I should know about?”
“Oh, there’s only been one. But it pretty much says everything.” I unlock my phone and read him the message thatwas not Lydia. “If women don’t wanna get raped, they shouldn’t go on an app.”
Randall’s lip curls. “I’ll get that deleted.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I say we let it stand. The readers have spoken—there’s no story here. Women are only victims on days that end inY.”
“You haven’t had an email from Schneider himself?” he asks.
My stomach does an excruciating little twist, but I school my face. “Nothing, threatening or otherwise. Guess I missed the mark so badly even my main heckler doesn’t think it’s worth his time.”
“None?” Randall’s eyebrows confer on his forehead. “That seems... odd.”
I wave a dismissive hand, turning my bluster up to ten. “The guy’s probably just a coward. It’s easy to send a girl dick pics and deliver rape threats anonymously. A bit more uncomfortable once she’s told everyone who you are.”
I say this to the wall behind his left ear, aiming for stoicism, but probably landing somewhere closer to neurotic. Every other time I’ve written about Unmatched, this guy was quick to send me slime. Anything to unsettle and make me uncomfortable. Now I’ve written directly about him, and... nothing.
The silence is so much worse.
Randall purses his lips under his mustache, but finally rises from the table. “Maybe. Just don’t let down your guard.”
I laugh, pushing my chair back and rousing Rufus from where he’s snoring under the table. “Don’t worry. I have my four-legged security detail.”
Ugh. Another subject that feels like a minefield.
Rufus follows calmly on the way back to my desk. We haven’t seen Drew or been to his facility in a week, and I’m ready for a lifetime subscription to never seeing each other again. I will never forget his icy stare when I called him out about supportinghis brother. How he just stood there looking at me like I wasstillresponsible for Kyle’s choices.
I was so mad when I got home, I pulled up the piece I’d started writing after that awful scholarship ceremony. The one about Kyle that Randall’s been pushing for. The one I wasn’t sure I should write. It was a surprisingly decent first draft. I haven’t told Randall about it. I’m not sure I ever will. But I’ve been reading, researching, and fine-tuning it all week.
Somehow, the only thing I’ve managed to get right in the last five days is keeping Rufus entertained and happy. At work, he’s stayed busy under my desk with Kongs full of food. And as the weather has continued to warm, we’ve been doing obedience on lunch breaks and running every evening in the park. I even set up a makeshift agility course in my apartment. Which I’m grateful Drew will never see. But the dog seemed to appreciate it—leaping over a shoe rack from my closet, crawling through a tunnel made from a sheet draped over my barstools, walking up and across my decimated couch. I even cleared my coffee table so he could practice sitting and waiting five seconds.
If Rufus could have laughed at me, I’m sure he would have. But he hasn’t been pacing or crying, and he hasn’t stolen any of my shoes for several days. I even experimented with leaving him in his crate for a few minutes while I ran to the lobby to get the mail.
We both survived. And we did it without Drew.
After a soul-sucking few days replying to emails while researching kids’ activities and events for our family entertainment section, Rufus and I are ready for the weekend. My Friday evening plan is to take him for another run in the park, order takeout, and curl up on what’s left of my couch to binge Netflix all weekend.
