Page 99 of The Trade

Garrett, ever the diligent worker, merely shrugs. “I’m finishing up some editing for our next issue.”

“In the middle of the night on a Saturday?”

“I work best at night,” he grumbles, “Not that it’s any of your business. Why areyouhere?”

I bristle at his question. “Is that any ofyourbusiness?”

His eyes flicker down to my tear-streaked face. “You’re crying in my newsroom, Jade,” he points out bluntly. “I think you’ve made it my business.”

I swipe at the fresh tears staining my cheeks, my face heating under his gaze. “It just—it seemed like a good spot to come and think,” I admit, sounding pathetic even to my own ears.

“Think about what?”

I rub my forehead. “If this is going to be an interrogation ... then I’m just gonna leave.”

“No, it’s fine.” He shoots me a strange look, then, “Stay. I won’t ask you any more questions.”

“Good, then.”

“Good.” His footsteps are heavy, following a deliberate step-by-step pattern as he trails over to his desk and takes a seat. He pulls a notebook from a mismatched stack, rifling through papers and jotting down notes.

“So, do you like ... live here or something?” I ask, desperately needing to keep the conversation going, distracting myself from the reality of the situation.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “Oh, so you can ask me questions?”

“You’re not the one crying.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, I don’t live here. But I do live nearby, just off University Ave.”

“Oh,” I say, not sure where I’m going with this conversation. It’s either small talk or a complete breakdown. I choose the former. “Those seem nice.”

“They are.”

“Do you—are you in a studio, or ...”

“No, I live in a one-bedroom.”

“Very cozy.”

He tosses the notebook onto his desk, giving me his full attention. “Jade, did you need somewhere to stay tonight?”

I hesitate, then sigh, a slight nod of my head serving as my confession. “If you’re offering.”

A corner of his lip quirks up in a half-smile. “I thought you hated me.”

“Oh, God, am I really that obvious?”

His brow lifts as he poses the question, “So, you do hate me?”

“I don’t ... hate you,” I stammer. “It’s just, I think you’re kind of a little bit ... sexist. But maybe we should wait on this conversation.”

“I’m not gonna make you sleep on the streets just because you called me sexist.”

Crossing my arms, I give him a defiant look. “I wouldn’t be sleeping on the streets regardless.”

“Fine,” he says, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “Enlighten me anyway. Why do you think I’m sexist?”

“Uh, because you are,” I snap back, frustration coloring my words. “You continuously refuse to let me write about football, always passing those pieces to the male reporters under the guise of them having ‘more experience.’ And Liam’s articles?” I let out a huff of disbelief. “They’re subpar at best.”

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