“Um,” I say after a second, “do you have advice about the whole I might get sued thing?”
“Hell no.” She leans back. “Maybe you should talk to another journalist. I have advice for dating and prom, but not this. Getting advice from someone who has gone through it can help. Because, for real, I just don’t have any suggestions.”
But that gives me an idea. I reach for my phone and open up my contacts list. Monique’s number is on my “Favorites” list.
@JosieTheJournalist: help i think i’m dying
Monique’s apartment isn’t like Marius’s. There isn’t a cute café around the corner or a doorman in the lobby. She lives in Harlem in an apartment the size of a shoebox, but it’s cozy, and there are Lena Horne posters that make me smile.
Monique has a curly Afro, one that looks like it should be a wig because every curl is so perfect. She’s a little plump and has a big smile. As soon as she pulls me in for a hug, I’m reminded just how much I love her.
When I called to ask if I could hang out at her place to finish a story, I think she could tell I was a mess. I still am, even though I’ve gotten myself set up at her desk and have opened all my writing on my laptop. Something about the change of setting helps. This isn’t the place I’ve spent hours daydreaming about Marius.
I can’t stop replaying the last time I spoke to him, the way his face crumpled and he immediately closed himself off to me.
All this time, I’ve been freaked out about speaking to survivors of sexual assault the correct way. I didn’t want to imply I didn’t believe them or make them relive things any longer than necessary. But I didn’t even try with Marius. I didn’t even think something like this could’ve happened to him.
Once Alice and I got settled at Monique’s, I switched back over to the profile, but it’s not like writing it is any easier; I’m pretty sure I’ve written only a few lines in two hours. I groan.
“Josie?” Monique says. “It sounds like you need to take a break.”
Alice looks over from her spot on the couch. The two of them have spent the last few hours pretending to watch Living Single while secretly watching me.
“I can’t take a break,” I say. “I need this done, Monique. It’s due today and I only have two hundred words.”
I run a hand over my eyes. They’re burning. Usually, I don’t mind this feeling. It comes after I’ve spent the entire night writing something amazing or reading the best book ever. That’s definitely not the case now.
“Hey.” She places a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to meet her fierce gaze. “Deep Focus wouldn’t have given you this project if they didn’t think you could do it. The only person who doesn’t believe in yourself is you, and honestly, I think it’s the saddest thing.”
I force a breath through my nose. Before I started this, I was nervous but definitely thought I could do it. That was before I realized what I’d be getting myself into. Monique doesn’t even know about the investigation.
“It’s not about thinking I can’t do it,” I say. I don’t know if that’s true or not. “I just—I feel like I’m doing it all wrong. Have you ever gotten too close to a subject? I’ve never spent this much time with one. It’s always been fast for me.”
Monique studies my face. It’s almost like she knows what happened without my saying it. I feel like Black ladies always know what I’m talking about, even when I don’t come right out and explicitly say it.
“I don’t think it’s possible to ever be completely objective,” Monique says slowly. “We should always try to, but I don’t think it can happen. There’s something that pulls you to the story in the first place. And the best stories are the ones where the writers really care.”
“I always care,” I say. “But sometimes I think it’s too much and it doesn’t even help. I just care and care and don’t know what to do with it.”
“I don’t know, Josie,” she says. “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. You can’t take on all of the responsibilities of the world. We can’t control everything. You can only control your own actions. That’s where you start.”
I stare down at my hands. The best I can do for Marius is write the profile he deserves. I know this isn’t any way to make up for what I said. I signed up to write a profile before anything happened, and that’s what I’m going to do.
So I write.
It’s not clean at first. I write out everything—the way Marius looks when he smiles and talks about acting, how he can’t dance, the way he watches people when they speak. He’s kind and talented and smart. He deserves everything that’s happening for him right now and none of what Lennox did to him.
I have to go through and edit it, clear out the parts that sound like a love letter. People reading this will be able to tell I like him. Profiles sound like that sometimes, though. It’ll be fine.
When I’m finished, I take a moment to close my eyes, leaning back in my chair. I did it. It’s actually done. For a second, I wonder if I should ask Monique to read it, but then I remember Ms. Jacobson said her editors would work on it. I pull up her email address, trying not to stare too hard at the words Deep Focus in her address. Then I hit send.
“There,” I say. I sound like I’ve just climbed a
