Page 2 of Out of Luck in the Outback

“Then?”

I groan a little and drop my head. “Then I moved straight to Chicago and haven’t had time to leave except when I visited my sisters in New York and Seattle. Am I fired?”

“You work for a travel magazine.”

“I realize that, sir. It’s on my radar to get out, but I moved, and Chicago apartment rent isn’t conducive to saving for a big trip to Europe or South America. I have a roommate ad going, and I’m trying to find someone that isn’t psycho, but have you met half of the people under forty in Chicago?” I ask. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I lean forward. “I’m scared of most of them. One wanted me to join his throuple, and I had to look up what that was.”

“Did you ever think the reason you may be having problems meeting deadlines is because you’re spending so much time on research and have no real travel experience?”

“Research is part of this job. I can’t go every place I write about. We don’t have that kind of budget. We have freelancers for the big stories.”

“Yes, but it’s the little nuances,” he says, putting his thumb and index finger together to make an inch symbol. “There are little things about how people move through the world that can only be learned while traveling. How to pack for certain activities and climates. Where people like to go. How do people decide where they’ll eat? The anticipation and how travel flows. These are things only people who have left their couch and their own comfortable cities know. You need to know these things before you can write a compelling piece.”

“Are you saying my work isn’t compelling?”

He taps on his laptop and flips the screen around so I can see it. “This is your article on Quebec.”

I read the first few lines, grimacing like I always do when I read my own work. “Is it bad?”

“No,” he drawls, and I sigh with relief. “It’s just not good.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes, there absolutely is. You need to make this good. You give us the bare minimum here, Ava. There’s no emotion. Nothing that shows me you like Quebec or would even like to go there. You pulled this information off Google and got the pictures from the photography department or some stock photos.” He taps his chest a few times. “I want an article with heart. Make mewantto go somewhere. No more book reports. Make me fall in love with a place with only your words.”

I blow out a breath, moving strands of my long, blond hair that fell out of my bun, pencils be damned. “I can’t afford it right now.”

“I know. That’s why I’m sending you on a trip and expensing the flight and a couple nights in a hotel. I want a full report.”

I shake my head like I’m clearing cobwebs from my eyes. He opens another drawer, grabs a file, and shuts the drawer with a bang while I remain silent, waiting to hear where in the world I’ll be sent on assignment. Knowing my luck and the magazine’s non-freelancer budget, I mentally prepare myself for Detroit.

“Ever been to Australia?”

My eyes widen, and I lean forward in my chair as Mr. Gosnell taps at his computer and shares the Qantas airlines screen with me. “Excuse me, sir. I thought I just heard you say Australia. Did you mean the country, or is there an Australia, Indiana I don’t know about?”

He laughs and picks up the phone. “Carol,” he says into the receiver. He gives me a quick smile, and I’m too shocked to return it. “I’m sending Ava Calvert on an assignment. Get her something decent for two nights in Sydney to start.”

Carol, our travel reservation agent for the office, must ask a few clarifying questions that Mr. Gosnell answers in a clipped tone, but I’m too busy processing my assignment.

Australia.

It’s somewhere I can go where I have to use the passport I’ve had for seven years but have never used. In fact, I’ve never been out of the country at all. The irony and sheer hilarity of a travel writer at a major player in the travel magazine industry having never traveled outside of her home country isn’t lost on me, and my stomach squeezes with something between a laugh and feeling like I’m going to throw up.

Do I have to go by myself?

Mr. Gosnell hangs up the phone and nods. “She’s got a bed and breakfast reservation for you next week. Will that work for you?”

“Uh, I uh,” I stammer. My mouth won’t form words.

Mr. Gosnell notices and folds his arms over his wide chest. “Are you nervous about actually traveling?”

Waving my hand in front of my face, I shake my head. Look cool, dammit! “Nah. I’m fine. What’s the writing assignment?”

“Spontaneous Australia on a shoestring.”

Shoestring I understand. “Spontaneous, sir?”

“Yep,” he says, holding up his hands like he’s a film director planning a shot. “Picture it, Ava. You in Australia with no plans. No set itinerary. But wherever you go or whatever restaurant or club you stumble into, you have a budget.”

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