Page 11 of A Ticking Time Boss

I type my reply as I walk through the long hallway on my floor.

Audrey: I told you to only do one-and-a-half pumps. Did you put two? It ruins it if you put two.

Carter: Do you think I have time to measure out a half-pump?

Audrey: You have time to text me, so yes.

Carter: Touché.

Over the past weeks, our texting has grown from tentative hellos to a frenzy of banter. Never about anything serious, and rarely about our own lives.

But we have differing opinions on almost everything.

I sit down at my desk in the open landscape, and while my computer turns on, I send him another one.

Audrey: You know, I still don’t know what you do for a living. Is that weird?

Carter: I’ve told you. I rescue women from bad blind dates.

Audrey: No, you said that’s your hobby. Not so good at remembering all your lies, are you?

Carter: It’s the number-one problem for superheroes, actually. Trouble keeping up with multiple identities. Leads to a lot of early retirements.

I grin down at my phone. He never says what I expect him to say. Always thinks of something different, something unexpected, doesn’t like the way I take my coffee, disagreed with my choice of date location last weekend.

We haven’t seen each other again since the bad date.

I don’t know if I want to, either. This, our texting friendship, is… perfect. Exactly what I need.

Someone to shake me out of my rut. Exposure therapy.

“You look happy,” a voice says to my left. “Too happy. Do you remember what story you’re supposed to be working on?”

I turn toward Declan. He’s my deskmate and he’s always, always, in the newsroom early. He looks over at me with a vaguely disapproving frown, his round glasses low on his nose.

Like me, Declan is a junior reporter. He carries a leather satchel to work and yesterday he rocked a sweater vest. I think he fancies himself a journalist in the ’40s, but I hope to one day win a Pulitzer, so Lord knows we both have journalistic dreams.

“I remember,” I tell him. “How’s your piece coming along?”

He pushes his glasses up. “Great. I’m going out after lunch to interview members of the church.”

“They agreed to your request?”

He hesitates, but then he turns his chin up. “They will.”

I smile at his resolve and set about opening my email inbox. I start the day by reading through all the official memos from the editor-in-chief and from the executive team.

Today’s is short. It mentions the acquisition of The New York Globe by Acture Capital. It’s a hands-off venture capital firm. The announcement is phrased in pretty terms, but I read it with a sinking pit of despair.

Print media is being sold to investor funds, one after one, and we all know how the worst of them treat newspapers. They lay off employees, rack up subscription prices, and bleed the company into bankruptcy.

Declan breaks through my mid-morning read-through. “Booker read through the draft of the Johnson article you helped with yesterday.”

“She did?!”

He nods, but he looks pleased with himself. “Yes.”

“Did you see her read it?”

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