* * *
Hey, everyone!
I temporarily blocked Courtney from my page, so she can’t see this!
(Shhhh! Don’t tell her!)
I’m throwing her a surprise brunch party this weekend at The Savoy Bar near Pike Place Market.
3 p.m.
R.S.V.P. via my direct messages & don’t tell her anything about this!
See you there!
* * *
I reread the caption for several minutes, wondering if this new friend, Alonna, knew that Courtney hated surprises.
I doubted that had changed in the months since we’d last spoken, and I also knew better than to RSVP just to see her again. I was certain she’d told anyone willing to listen how we’d fallen apart, how our once-in-a-lifetime friendship had cracked at the seams.
Then again, I wanted to believe that her birthday comment was a sign that we could finally fix things between us. That maybe—just maybe, the promises we made during our senior year had been on her mind lately as much as they’d been on mine.
Does she remember?
Standing to my feet, I stepped into the hallway and weighed my options.
One: I fly to Seattle to surprise her at an event she’ll probably hate. Then I’ll ask if we can talk in private.
Two: I stay in town and wait until after the playoffs to send her a request for dinner.
As I walked toward the elevators, I heard a familiar sound.
“Sucks. Sucks. Sucks!”
What the hell?
Two camouflaged men—the guys who lived on the floor above me, suddenly moved from behind the hallway statue.
“Kyle Stanton sucks! Kyle Stanton sucks!” They screamed in unison. “Middle fingers up, he doesn’t care about us!”
Okay, fuck this. I’m going to Seattle.
Courtney: Now
Seattle, Washington
This is not your real life, Court. This is all a sucky simulation, and you’re going to wake up in thirty seconds.
“Order of five frosted bagels and two deluxe tai teas for a Courtney Johnson?” A high-pitched voice interrupted my thoughts, instantly drowning my hopes. “Is there a Courtney Johnson in here?”
“That’s me.” I grabbed the order and slipped out of the cafe, making my way back to The Fine Print Publishing.
Taking the elevator to the top floor, I walked into my boss’s office and bit my tongue before setting down the bag.
“Thank you so much for bringing that in for me, Courtney,” he said. “I’ve got a long day of work ahead of me, and I’m always in awe that you come into work so early. You’re like one of the interns.”
It’s honestly starting to feel that way … “Glad I could do you a quick favor, Mr. Bruce.”
“I’ve heard that your supervisor, Michael Router, is working on one hell of a piece. Aren’t you glad that you’re getting the opportunity to work under someone with that level of writing talent?”
“You mean that level of plagiarism?”
“Huh?” He raised his eyebrow. “What did you say?”
“I said, yes. It’s a total honor.” I forced a smile. “Am I good to leave now? I requested the afternoon off for my birthday.”
“Oh, of course.” He smiled. “You know, one day, with your level of work ethic, you could be the next Michael Router. You could be bringing the sports department tons of those.”
He pointed to the plaques that lined his left wall, and my blood began to boil.
“Goodbye, Mr. Bruce,” I said.
“Goodbye, Miss Johnson. Be sure to check to see if Michael needs anything before you leave, okay?”
I didn’t bother responding to that; I simply walked away.
To everyone who worked on this side of the building, Michael Router was the best thing to happen to sports journalism since the internet.
His words were universally revered, instantly read upon release, and highly sought after whenever it took him more than a month to publish his next “jaw-dropping masterpiece.” Even million-dollar athletes were in awe of how he wrote the long, in-depth profiles that graced the pages of Time, GQ, and Infinity magazines.
The problem was, he wasn’t the one really writing them.
It’d been sixteen months since I started here, and no one else knew that this self-proclaimed “best sports-journalist alive” asshat couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag.
I was the puppet master holding the strings, and he was the stuffed suit who danced below—taking all of the credit and lining his shelf with awards that belonged to me.
There was only one reason why I had yet to blow the whistle, but with each day that passed, I stepped closer to the edge.
Grabbing a coat from my cubicle, I pulled the phone from its pocket and noticed a text from my friend, Alonna.
* * *
Alonna: Birthday drinks at Savoy this afternoon? Your boyfriend said he’ll pay for it. Please say yes. Please say yes!
Me: Sure. I’ll go ahead and head there now. (Just because he’s a successful guy doesn’t mean he should have to pay for everything, Alonna.)
Alonna: Ha! Like hell it doesn’t. See you there.
* * *
I wrapped a scarf around my neck and made sure I had everything before heading outside. Then, taking the long way to Pike Place, I walked along the pier and stared at all of the things that I swore I once wanted.