I should have foreseen this happening. Of course, David would be upset I let one of the biggest stories we’ve had fall through the cracks. All for a woman. A woman I can’t stop thinking about.

“Please don’t be angry at Alex,” Whitney says. “It’s my fault.”

“No,” I say, not willing to let her take the fall. “David, you’re right. I found out last night that Whitney is the one I’ve been looking for, and I didn’t report it because...” Because she’s the one I’ve been looking for in my personal life as well.

Emily’s hand rises to cover her mouth at my almost admission. She exchanges a look with David, who finally nods.

“I see.” David is clearly not happy with me, and I’m not sure what I can do to save face since he has every right to be angry. I put my personal life before the needs of the paper. Plain and simple.

“David, I’m sorry. I understand that what I did jeopardized my position at the paper.” He’ll no doubt have to tell Aria and Mr. Monohan about it. “I’ll accept any consequences you see fit, but please hear me out before you make any decisions.”

Whitney looks petrified in the seat next to me, so I place my hand on top of hers on the table, which draws Emily’s attention.

“Today, Whitney was brought in to the police station,” I begin. I explain the day’s events, pausing only when Caleb brings our drinks. “So you see, there’s a bigger story here. The reason behind the murals. And honestly, I think not coming forth with Whitney’s name gives the story more of an impact.”

David shakes his head. “Sorry, Alex, but if the police were involved, you can bet another paper will be covering this. I have no doubt Oliver Strauss will try to use it to save Priority News from going under.”

“Who?” Whitney asks.

“Oliver and his mother own and run Priority News,” I explain. “They’re running the paper into the ground.”

“After we all left,” Emily adds before taking a sip of her Amstel.

“You don’t want Oliver interviewing you,” I tell Whitney. “He’s ruthless and doesn’t care about anything but getting his story.”

“Great.” Whitney’s face pales.

“If this is going to come out, the best thing is to let Alex write the story,” David says, shocking both Whitney and me.

“You want me to write it?” After the way I withheld information? Why would he give me another shot at this?

David clears his throat. “I understand why you did what you did. Hell, I let this one move in with me after she dumped me.” He dips his head in Emily’s direction, and she sticks out her bottom lip.

“Poor baby.” Emily strokes his chest before adding, “I’m pretty sure it all worked out fine in the end.”

“The point is I get it. But you have to fix this, or Monohan will have your head.” David tips his empty glass in my direction before standing up. “Anyone else need a refill?”

I can’t believe he’s not walking out. “I’ll get it,” I tell him, but Emily stands up.

“I’ll go with him. You two stay here.” She looks back and forth between Whitney and me. “I’m sensing you need a minute to talk anyway.”

They head for the bar, and I shift in the booth to face Whitney. “What do you think? Do you want to tell your side of the story? It might help.”

She plays with the ring on her pinky finger. “It can’t hurt. I’m going to lose my job anyway.”

“We don’t know that yet.” I brush her hair behind her shoulder. “Let me write the story. I’ll give you final approval before I turn anything in to David.”

She bobs her head, looking defeated.

When Emily and David return with another round of drinks, David agrees to write the column if and only if I have that story in his inbox by noon tomorrow. That means cutting the night short so I can go home and write.

We say goodbye, and I drive Whitney back to her car, which is still in the school parking lot. I cut the engine and turn to face her. “I’ll call you in the morning when the article is ready to go. That way if you want me to add anything, I’ll have time to do so before I submit the story to David.”

She looks down at her phone, which she’s been typing on for the past ten minutes while we drove here from Last Call. “I wrote up some things I thought you should have for the article. I don’t know if it will help or not, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

I rattle off my email address so she can send me what she wrote. I’m afraid to try to kiss her goodnight. Her mood plummeted after talking to David and Emily. I settle for squeezing her hand, which is on her lap. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Thank you, Alex. You really are doing too much for me.”

Then why do I feel like it’s not enough at all?

* * *

After thinking I’d never get to sleep last night, I finally crashed around one in the morning. I knew I couldn’t write the article while everything was still so fresh on my mind. It would’ve been like rehashing an injury that was still raw. I needed time to let my thoughts settle so I could approach the article like a reporter and not a man who is seriously falling for a mystery artist he happened to stumble upon.

With my coffee in hand, I open my laptop and click on my email. The message from Whitney is right at the top. I open it and read:

Too many people don’t have the luxury to see the world the way an artist does. Thankfully, I’m not one of those people. I was raised by my mother after my father was killed by a drunk driver on Halloween night when I was only two years old. My mother was a free spirit. She saw beauty in everything she looked at. She loved to paint, and she put a paintbrush in my hand when I was three years old. Instead of teaching me my ABCs or how to write my name, she taught me brushstrokes. She taught me to capture the essence of an object in both watercolor and acrylic paints. My mother put fresh flowers on my father’s grave every week because she said flowers were the ultimate work of art, their only fault being that they die so soon. I guess in that way, they were like my father. Maybe that’s why she assimilated the two.

As I grew up, I noticed other people didn’t see the world the way my mother and I did. They passed by that beauty without so much as a second glance, never seeing it before it faded away or died like those flowers. So I started painting everything I saw. My room was littered with canvases. When it came time for me to go to college, I didn’t need to think about what my major would be. I knew. I wanted to teach others to see the world the way my mom had taught me. She was so proud when I told her that. And I’ll be forever grateful I got the chance to tell her, because the day I left for college, my mother had a massive stroke. By the time the paramedics called me, she’d passed.

Since then, I’ve been determined to share my mother’s views with everyone I meet. Most of all my students. I’ve watched teenagers who struggle with math and science excel at art. I’ve seen them change their view on the world around them after painting not just what they see but what they feel. When I discovered the school board wanted to cut the art program, I wept for those students. I wept for my mother. I wept for our future. What is this world if we can’t see the beauty in it? I knew I was wrong to paint those murals without permission from the business owners, but I felt compelled to do so anyway because I had to make people see what they were giving up. And I’d say it worked. For a brief few days, people were talking about art. They were seeing the beauty in everyday life, and they were stopping to appreciate it. So I can’t say I’m sorry for what I did. I’m not sorry for opening people’s eyes or bringing art back into their lives. What I am sorry for is the loss they’re going to feel when the school board cuts the art program Tuesday night. That’s what I’m sorry for.

I reread Whitney’s email several times, and then I forward it to David with a brief message.

David,

Aria said she wanted a profile on the artist. Well, here you go, straight from the artist’s mouth. I couldn’t have written this better. This is the real news we should print. The byline is all Whitney’s.

Alex

I hit “send” and smile to myself before changing for my morning run. I’m about to leave the apartment when my phone rings in my hand. I glance at the screen and see it’s David. I groan because it can’t be good that he’s calling me instead of emailing me back.

“Hey, David,” I answer.

“Mr. Monohan is requesting your presence in the newsroom today, Alex. You’re email has caused quite a stir around here. My advice is to bring donuts,” he adds before hanging up.

I look down at my running shorts and tank top. I’m tempted to change, but screw it. They’re calling me in on a Saturday, no doubt to fire me for not doing what they asked. Yes, Aria wanted a profile, but the piece I sent her doesn’t exactly fit the bill. I just couldn’t bring myself to report this story factually and without bias.

I call Whitney on my way to For the Record. Well, I should say on my way to Dunkin’ Donuts en route to For the Record. David wasn’t wrong to suggest donuts. My coworkers always soften their attitudes when food is involved.

“Good morning,” Whitney says, sounding a little better than she did when I left her last night.

“Hi. Thanks for the email you sent me. I’m going to try to get my boss to run it in the paper as is.”

“You are?” she sounds shocked. “I didn’t even proofread it.”

“That’s what editors are for,” I say, pulling into the long line in the drive-through.

“Are you sending me your article?” Her voice is full of nerves now.

“I didn’t write one.”

“Alex.” The one word packs quite the punch.

“I couldn’t. I’m too close to the story to be objective. That’s why I submitted your piece instead.” I hear what sounds like a paintbrush being dunked in water. “Are you painting?”

“Always on a Saturday morning.”

At least the situation hasn’t completely impeded on her routine. “Glad to hear it. Maybe I can convince Mr. Monohan to let you paint a mural on the side of For the Record.” Though since he only leases one office in the building, I doubt he’d be allowed to have a mural painted without getting it approved with the building owner first.

“You should just focus on not getting fired. One of us should keep a job.”

“Was that an attempt at a joke?” I ask, pulling up in line.

“A very bad one.”

I listen to the brushstrokes on the canvas. It’s actually really soothing. “I’d love to see you paint sometime. You know, when it’s not an act of vandalism,” I say, falling back into our usual banter.

She laughs. “That takes all the fun out of it.” She sighs dramatically. “But I guess that can be arranged. I live on the corner of Elm and Pine,” she says, even though we both know I already looked up her address. “It’s an old house that’s been converted into two apartments. I’m the door on the right.”

“Great. I’m heading into work at the moment. Actually, hang on a second.” I pull up to the window and order two-dozen assorted donuts. “Sorry, I’m at Dunkin’ Donuts. I’m about to head to the office.”

“Oh, you’re working today?”

“It wasn’t planned.”

“I see,” she says in a low voice. “Let me guess. You submitted my story and got called in for a meeting.”

“Something like that. How about lunch? I can pick something up and bring it over after I’m finished at the paper.” I pay for my order and place the two boxes on the passenger seat before pulling out of the parking lot.

“I’ll whip something up. Do you like spaghetti and meatballs?”

“Who doesn’t?” I say.

“I’ll see you later then. Oh, and Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“Try not to lose your job because of me. I’m not really picturing our next date being in the unemployment office.” She hangs up, and even though there’s a real possibility of that happening, I’m still smiling over the fact that she wants there to be another date.

I can hear the commotion in the office before the elevator doors open. And the fact that all conversation comes to an abrupt halt the second I step out of the elevator doesn’t ease my nerves any. I hold up the boxes of donuts. “Anyone hungry?”

David gives me a small smile and points to the conference room. I head in that direction, but Emily cuts me off. “Your girlfriend might have a future as a feature writer. You should talk to Eliza about bringing her on board.” She hands me an envelope. “This is for Whitney. I told Mr. M. he should pay her the standard fee for a freelance story.”

I stare at the envelope in my hand. “You’re kidding, right?”

She shakes her head. “Although, your paycheck might be thinner this week, considering you failed to turn in your story.” She smirks as she takes the two boxes of donuts out of my hand and brings them to the conference room.

Nate walks over to me because I’m not able to move at the moment since I have no idea what’s going on. “You better come with me,” he says. “There’s really no use putting this off.”

Putting what off? Am I being fired?