Page 6 of The One Before

“I’ve been working the front desk since Cooper was a kid.” Her palms touch and she smiles. “His father would be so proud with how he’s turned out.”

“Care to show me his office?” I ask, making my voice airy and light. I don’t want to appear rude, but I’m not used to encountering strangers who know so much about Coop’s life.

Misty leads me to the back corner and knocks on a door. There’s a glass window overseeing the workspace. The blinds bounce upward, revealing my handsome fiancé. He’s holding a cell phone to his ear. When he sees me, he motions for me to enter.

“I’ll be up front,” Misty says, closing the door as she leaves.

Coop’s still on the phone. I look around the room, which reminds me of my own editor’s office back at theChronicle. Three bookcases behind his desk are filled with style guides probably not touched in years. Two chairs are positioned in front of his desk. I sit in one. After a few minutes, he puts the phone down and releases a big breath. He walks over to me and kisses my lips.

“This is a nice surprise,” he says. He sits in his chair and spins in my direction. “Bored at the house, huh?”

“A little.” More than a little. I’ve never lacked obligations and responsibilities and meetings of my own to attend. I’m not used to living life on the sidelines. “I have other motives for being here, though.”

“Oh?”

“Lunch,” I say, holding up a Tupperware container of sandwiches. “It should be about that time, right? I thought I could steal you for an hour.”

Coop walks from behind the desk. He places one hand on my shoulder, using the other to twirl a strand of hair. I don’t flinch, like I did when Misty was pawing at me. I welcome his touch. “I wish I could, but I have a Kiwanis luncheon I have to attend. It starts in a half hour and I can’t get out of it.”

“Oh.” I rack my brain, trying to remember what a Kiwanis is. “Well, maybe after?”

“My calendar is filled up. I’m still struggling to find my footing here. Maybe sometime next week?”

It’s not like Whisper Falls has a lot of breaking news. In Atlanta, Cooper and I covered all types of stories. Crime and coercion and politics. TheGazettemainly focuses on community, unless something extraordinary happens. He’s the face of the paper, the face of Whisper Falls.

“Okay. It’s not like I’ll have plans.”

“Don’t be like that,” Coop says, pulling me into a hug. “Give this place a chance. It’s never going to be as exciting as Atlanta, I’ll admit that, but you’ll find your place.”

“I know.” The words sound like a lie, even to me.

“Thanks for the sandwich. Maybe we can plan lunch sometime next week. You still need to try out Nectar.”

“Yeah, that would be nice,” I say, backing toward the door.

“Don’t take off right away,” Coop says. “Let me tour you around the office.”

“Maybe next time.” I don’t feel like being introduced as Coop’s fiancée to a dozen different people. I pat my stomach. “Hunger calls.”

As I make my way to the front door, I soak up the room around me. The controlled chaos of people talking on phones, typing to meet deadlines and skimming Facebook feeds. Everyone working in their own productive bubble on either side of a cubicle. It’s like a miniature version of the newsroom at theAtlanta Chronicle. Looking back, it was a humdrum I never knew I would one day miss.

I wasn’t expecting to get fired. In fact, I was eyeing a promotion. One of our key staff writers had snagged a position on the west coast, and his vacant desk was like a glowing neon sign making the entire newsroom salivate. Everyone wanted his job, but very few were in the running. I was one of those few. That’s why when I sniffed out a promising story, I chased it.

Bernard Wright had already been in the Atlanta news for weeks. He was a fancy restaurateur in the area known for making millions by turning abandoned shacks into 5-star dining establishments. His restaurants attracted national reviews, and one was even featured as the set for some reality cooking show. In recent weeks, however, Wright wasn’t in the news for being a businessman. His face was plastered across every publication because a handful of female employees had alleged sexual misconduct against him.

One of his former employees reached out to me. ‘Chrissy’. That wasn’t her real name, but it was the alias I used in my article. She told me how she’d started working for Bernard Wright during the summer between her sophomore and junior years of college. It started as a part-time gig, until she realized she raked in more money serving steamed lobster and chilled shrimp than she ever would in elementary education, her chosen study track.

By the time ‘Chrissy’ was meant to resume her fall classes, she had dropped out, and Wright hand-selected her to work in one of his new restaurants downtown. Her income increased even more. She wasn’t just a server; Wright gave her managerial tasks, which meant she often worked late nights checking inventory. She said Wright was flirtatious with her at first, but friendly. Like the father of a friend, always respecting the boundaries between them.

As the months passed, his behavior became more aggressive. He’d put his hands on her hips and whisper in her ear, his lips touching her skin and making her freeze. She told me Wright eventually made a pass at her, then another. Until one night, she was too scared and intimidated to protest his advances. She thought their arrangement was exclusive, until she heard about the lawsuit being brought against him by other employees. The other women’s stories inspired her, reminded her she wasn’t alone and gave her the strength to speak. That’s why she reached out to me.

We had several interviews; each time she revealed more details about her relationship with Wright, a man already labeled as a monster in the regional media. Understandably, she wasn’t ready to open up right away. As she divulged more details during our conversations, I felt sick. When I was alone, I cried. I hated hearing the first-hand details of what another woman had endured under the heavy fist of male authority. But more than anything, I was proud of ‘Chrissy’ for coming forward with her story, and I felt honored she’d entrusted me with telling it.

Her vivid account of working alongside Bernard Wright was meant to be the feature that landed me the new title I desperately wanted. It was like my entire future was unfurling before me: the wedding with Coop and the prestigious promotion with the higher paycheck.

I had never been more wrong.

Five

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