“Come on,” she says, tugging at my arm. “Let’s talk inside.”
It’s a café like the one I first went to with Marius. That feels like it was weeks ago, even though it was only one. Penny picks a comfy-looking seat near the fireplace—why is there a fireplace in Atlanta?—and I sit in the green armchair next to her.
“So,” I say before she can change the subject, “are you okay?”
“I guess so.” She shrugs. There’s a smile on her face, but this one is clearly fake. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Your text got me thinking, and now I have an idea.”
I raise a brow. We’re in a public place, which means either she’s confident talking about this in public or she wants to make sure I don’t freak out.
“An idea?” I say. “Like, for my Marius profile? Or…for a role you want?”
“No, no.” She waves a hand. “I thought I could help you write something.”
“Oh.” I hesitate. “I didn’t know you liked to write.”
“That’s—not the point,” she says, shaking her head. “I want you to write something about him. About everything he’s done. I want to ruin him.”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out but a croak. Penny breaks into laughter. She’s inches away from my face, like she’s staring into my head, analyzing every thought to gauge my response.
Good thing she can’t actually read my brain. Because what the fuck?
I want to do something to help, but this is completely ridiculous. This is a job for an actual journalist. This is a job for someone with decades of experience and talent and sources. I barely know how to write a profile.
“Penny.” I shake my head. “That’s— Oh my God. It’s—”
“Don’t say no.” She rests her hand on mine. “Please don’t say no.”
“I just don’t get it.” My throat is dry. “It’s a great idea. Really. I think it’s so important, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. I just don’t think I’m the right person to write about this. It’s not my story, you know?”
“But it is,” Penny says. “Not exactly, but you know what it’s like.”
I bite my lip. She makes it sound so simple.
“I could find people for you to interview,” she continues. “People I’ve talked to.”
“You’re closer to them. Why don’t you just interview them?”
“Even if I do, I can’t write,” she says. “Not like you can. I’ve read your work. You’re talented, Josie.”
Normally I tell people age doesn’t matter. I don’t mention mine in any of my pitches because I want people to look at my work instead of how old I am. But this feels like something out of my league. It’s too important to mess up.
“Yeah, but I’ve only ever written soft stuff before,” I try again. “What if I do this all wrong?”
“I don’t know if there’s a right way to write something like this. I can’t—” Her voice breaks. It makes me go rigid. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching people worship him like he’s some sort of saint. I can’t.”
I immediately squeeze her hand, surprising myself. She squeezes back.
“Please,” she says. “Just tell me you’ll think about it.”
I stare down at our hands. Maybe I have anxiety because I always think about everything, always try to make sure everyone else is okay. It freaks me out. I never thought of it as a good thing. I still don’t think it’s a good thing. But maybe it’s just a magnified part of me. The caring, so big, so amplified, that it becomes too much for me.
Can I use it to help someone else?
“Fine.” I clear my throat. “I’ll think about it.”
@JosieTheJournalist: have you ever met someone who is absolutely beautiful??? someone whose face just makes it a little harder for you to breathe for a second because you’re in awe?? pls end this
Somehow, I’m supposed to interview Marius after that conversation. He’s coming up to my room for us to talk. I don’t know why I ever thought it would be a good idea.
“Okay,” I say after letting him into the room. “This is awkward.”
Alice isn’t here, which means it’s just the two of us.
Alone.
In my hotel room.
“It doesn’t have to be.” Marius plops down on the edge of my bed, bouncing only a little. “Not every silence has to be awkward.”
So far, I’ve been taking notes about where we are when we speak—in a restaurant, at a clothing store, in a café—but writing that he’s in my hotel room feels kind of shady. God, I’m so stupid for suggesting this. Hopefully it doesn’t end in some journalistic scandal that finishes my career before it’s had the chance to really start.
“Do you mind if I have something out of this?”
I blink. Marius is standing in front of the mini fridge. I want to tell him not to take anything, but when I get closer, I see there are already things missing. There’s supposed to be four of everything—soda, mostly—but only two bottles of beer are left. Alice must’ve taken the others.
It’s wild. I was only gone a few hours with Penny. I wonder if Alice and the intern gang started a party here and moved it somewhere else. I’m not surprised; I’m pretty sure that’s what she does at her new sorority. Still, I’m pissed. Who does she expect to pay for this? Yeah, the magazine covered the room and told me to save receipts to be reimbursed, but I don’t think that includes extras. I don’t want them to think I’m taking advantage.
“Go ahead,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. Screw it. If Alice can raid the fridge, so can I. I reach for a small bottle filled with dark wine.
“Uh.” He blinks, holding a can of Coke. “Are you allowed to drink that?”
“My sister’s nineteen and she helped herself,” I say, grabbing a glass from the counter. They’re for water, but I don’t care. “So I guess that sort of stuff doesn’t count here. And
