Sabrina

Even though his face is bedraggled, the suit Bob Galloway wears looks like it cost a mint. The stitching aligns so elegantly across his shoulders that it must have been custom-made.

“Sabrina,” he says, extending his hand and shaking mine. “Thanks for coming by. I need to give you a kill fee.”

I flinch then swallow hard. “A kill fee?” I ask, in case there’s a chance I heard him wrong.

“It was a brilliant piece. One of the best stories I’ve read in years.” He gestures to the disheveled offices, sighing heavily. “But the publication is shutting down.”

Swaying, I brace myself against the wall. It’s as if the ground has fallen out from under me. “You’re shutting down?” I ask, because this makes zero sense.

“Like many other print publications, we don’t have enough ad dollars to survive.”

“But you had all those fat magazines full of ad pages.”

“Those were from last year.”

“What about the website?” I ask, grasping for the bow of a sinking boat.

“We didn’t move quickly enough to establish a presence, so others have beaten us there.” He clears his throat, looking around sheepishly at the emptying offices. “And we might have overspent in a few areas.”

In an instant, everything snaps into view. I see where the money went. It went to parties, to his suits, to these opulent offices they didn’t need. It went to paying exorbitant fees for articles.

“The story isn’t going to run anywhere?” I choke out.

“That’s why I wanted to call you in today.”

“You could have emailed me,” I point out gently.

Genteel till the end, he removes his wallet from his back pocket. “No. I couldn’t. I’m paying you the kill fee from my own pocket.”

Snapping open his billfold, he fishes out two crisp hundred-dollar bills, less than 5 percent of the finished fee, and hands them to me. “The piece was amazing. Brilliant. Fair. Thoughtful. Entertaining. Beautifully written. Everything I could want,” he says, and I beam, a ray of sunshine peeking through a cloudy sky. “I’m sorry we won’t have a home for it. But it’s yours to do what you want with. You could publish it on your own website. Maybe turn it into a book,” he suggests, and both ideas border on outlandish.

One, I don’t publish articles on my website, since I don’t have one. Two, it’s not a book.

Still, I did the work, so I take the money and thank him. “What are you going to do, sir?”

He shrugs happily. “I’m retiring. Sometimes you just have to get out of the business.”

I leave in a daze, my feet heavy, my heart leaden once more. I feel useless again. Used.

And confused.

Stepping into the elevator, it’s as if everything I knew about my business has been turned inside out. Bob Galloway was the exemplar of journalism. He was the man I admired. But even he couldn’t keep his ship afloat during trying times.

The elevator chugs downward as my insides churn. I didn’t expect to leave today with my original fee and a pending byline. I always knew I’d be leaving empty-handed.

But the part I’m struggling with is that I was fighting for a chance that was never going to materialize. The job here was smoke and mirrors. My actions were meaningless. I didn’t even need to confess my sins, since they had no bearing on the story after all.

When I reach the lobby, I take a deep breath and try to make sense of what to do next.

This is a twist I didn’t see coming, and even though I’m two hundred dollars richer, I’m walking out the door with more questions.

Where should I go next? What should I do? What sort of work should I pursue?

I’m tempted to head to the nearest coffee shop and fire off clip after clip to other editors. But before I do that, I reflect on last night.

On Flynn’s words outside Gramercy Park.

Let me be there for you.

Out on the street, I stare up at the looming skyscraper, the plucky heroine with the new job opportunity no more.

But as I furrow my brow, the wheels start turning. The dots connect. And I can see a way through.

I can see a whole new path.

Maybe the story was never pointless. Maybe the story was always meant to be my way to Flynn.

It’s a strange way for me to look at things. I’ve always been a practical woman. I’ve always been work-focused, seen things in the context of responsibility.

And yet, even if it was all for nothing, I believe what I went through was all for everything.

I believe it with my whole heart.

This job was never my future.

Because my future includes Flynn.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s something else that I can do. I don’t have to figure it out alone.

Yes, I have Courtney. Yes, I have Kevin, but now I have someone who is supposed to be by my side as I navigate what’s next. I do something that feels crazy, but completely right.

I call my boyfriend to see if he has a few minutes to chat.