It takes the entire week, since we are working around story assignments and the Priority News crew clearing out, but we manage to have the new—old to some of us—office set up and ready by Friday afternoon.

Mr. Monohan stands in the middle of the newsroom and lets out a long breath. “Well, you all did it. We’ve officially reclaimed this space. And thanks to our staff writers, we managed to stay on top of breaking news stories.”

Not that there have been many this week. Other than the school board cutting the art program. Whitney cried in my arms Tuesday night. Even though she lost her job the day before the vote, I knew she’d take the news hard. I held her all night and watched her sleep. At least until she woke up at four in the morning inspired to paint. That’s when I left, so as not to distract her, and went back to my place. I feel like I’m spending more time at Whitney’s than my own apartment, not that I’m complaining.

Mr. Monohan is still talking even though I’m not paying much attention. I check my email and see David assigned me a new article. With how busy we’ve been, we decided to forgo meetings to assign stories. The editors are emailing them to us instead. Aria joked that Oliver Strauss’s spirit must be haunting this place since he hated meeting in person and preferred to email his staff. That got quite a few laughs and jokes about how the reason no one has seen him is because one of us secretly killed him. Writers have great imaginations. Personally, I’m glad I haven’t run into Oliver or his mother. I expected some backlash from my article, but I guess knowing he already has some restraining orders against him is making him keep a low profile. Maybe he’ll leave Priority all together. If he’s smart, he will. No one in this town will hire him after the way his reputation was dragged through the mud. My guess is he and his mother will move away and open a new paper under fake names. I don’t really care as long as I don’t have to deal with him anymore.

“Do you think she’ll be up for it?” David asks me, standing next to my desk with a file folder in his hand.

“Up for what?” I ask.

“The article,” David says. “Didn’t you read my email after you opened it?” He points to my screen, which is displaying the message I’ve yet to read.

“No, sorry. I zoned out for a minute.”

“More than a minute. Everything okay?” He sits down in the chair next to mine. We’ve opted for the same circular desk pattern, but there’s more room here since the space is much bigger, so David has to slide his chair over to talk to me in private.

“I was thinking about Oliver Strauss, actually. Have you heard what he’s up to now?”

“Well, his mother’s house is on the market, and rumor was he still lived with her.”

So they are moving. I nod. “Good.” I finally read his email, which couldn’t surprise me more. “Wait. I thought Whitney was going to be in Eliza’s department. Why do you want me to work with her on a news article?”

David’s gaze focuses on me. “Look, when you started here a few months ago, you needed to work with Emily to fine tune your delivery. Whitney’s first piece was great because it was personal to her. It had heart. The problem is, she’s busy getting ready for her art show, and that’s where her heart is right now. Eliza and I feel that if she is assigned a feature story, she may not cover it as well. News is more straightforward.”

“So you want me to show her the ropes. Help her with her delivery the way Emily helped me.” It’s not a question. I’m stating aloud what he left unsaid.

“You got it. Mr. Monohan thinks that letting her bounce between departments will get her more stories, too.” David taps the file folder against my shoulder as he stands up. “You know him. He’s always looking out for everyone.”

That’s Mr. Monohan all right. “Well, I guess I should call Whitney, and we should get a jump on the article.”

“Have fun,” David says with a knowing smile. “I do need the article by noon tomorrow though, so don’t have so much fun that you don’t get it written.”

I don’t mention that he and Emily have missed deadlines for their joint advice column for exactly that reason. Best not to bring it up when I know he’s pulled strings for me on more than one occasion. I grab my jacket from the back of my chair, pocket my phone, and head out.

The article is an easy one. We’re covering a water leak in the apartment complex on East Maple. Apparently the damage to a few apartments is severe. I call Whitney from the car on my way there.

“Sorry,” she says, picking up on the fourth ring. “I thought you were going to get kicked to voice mail. I had paint all over my hands and had to wash up before answering.”

“Finger painting?” I tease. “That’s a direction I wouldn’t have thought of going in.”

“Could you imagine me showing off finger paintings?” She laughs. “If I’d taught kindergarten, I might have been able to get away with it.” As soon as she mentions teaching, the smile in her voice completely disappears.

“You’re going to teach again. That’s the whole reason for the art show. We’ll make you some money, find a location for your art school, and then all your old students will come seeking you out.”

“You sound so sure of all of this. How?” she asks.

“Because I’m sure of you, Whitney.” I turn into the driveway and park outside her place. “I’m right out front,” I say.

She hangs up, and a moment later the front door opens. She’s a mess from painting. Her hair is disheveled, her clothes are splattered with paint, and she’s not wearing any shoes.

I get out of the car and walk up the three front steps to meet her. “Are you sure you weren’t finger painting? It seems like you were really getting into your art.”

She looks down at herself, and her cheeks redden. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m such a mess.” She steps back to let me in.

“I think you look beautiful,” I say, kissing her cheek as I walk past her into the house.

She shuts the door and leans against it. “You’re either really sweet or all that time on the computer is affecting your eyesight.”

“Can we go with both?” I ask, placing my hands on her waist.

She nods and then kisses me. “So, what brings you by?”

“An article.”

Her face falls. “I haven’t heard from Eliza yet. I was really hoping to have a story by now.”

I raise her chin with my index finger. “You do. Eliza and David decided to have you team up with me on an article. To help you get the hang of things. Mr. Monohan is thinking you could make more money if you covered more than just feature stories.”

“Why is he going out of his way for me?”

“That’s just him. I can’t say I’ve ever met an employer like him before. He likes to keep his employees happy. We do have a few staff writers who are leaving for various reasons, too. One is moving and another is retiring. Bringing you on board is helping the paper as well as you.”

She looks at her clothes again. “I should go change. I’m assuming we’re on a deadline.”

“Always,” I say. I motion to her art room. “Do you mind if I take a look at what you’ve been working on while you get cleaned up?”

“Not at all. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back down in a few.” She heads upstairs, jogging up them in the most adorable way. I can’t resist watching the way she bounces up the stairs or the way her yoga pants hug her ass.

Once she’s out of sight, I go to the art room. There are several canvases all around the room. Most are of flowers or various objects; I’m guessing things she had in the house—a vase, a dolphin figurine, a crystal. Then I come to the one that’s currently on the easel. This one is different. It’s an extreme close-up of a person, showing nothing but the eyes, nose, and mouth. The eyes are a very dark shade of brown. The warmth in them is so realistic it gives me chills. The nose is slightly angled, giving the impression that the person isn’t facing the artist squarely, but rather looking at her from a slight turn of the head. And the mouth is parted, not quite a smile, but definitely meant to imply happiness. I step closer and look at the eyes again. Something keeps drawing my attention there. I lean closer still and notice there’s something painted in the eye. A reflection. I look around for something to see the image better, but I don’t find anything, so I take out my phone and snap a close-up of one eye. Then I click on the picture and zoom in as far as it will go.

“It’s me,” Whitney says behind me.

I turn around to face her. Her eyes are blue, so I know she’s not talking about the painting itself. I’m convinced that’s a man’s face anyway.

“The reflection in the eyes,” she says. “I’m surprised you noticed it.”

“How did you paint that?” It’s so small. I can’t imagine how she could pull this off, or even why she wanted to if she didn’t think people would notice.”

“It’s not easy. I’ve been working on it for a week and a half now.”

“I thought it would take even longer than that,” I say, still amazed by her talent. “What made you want to include the reflection?”

“I call it ‘Self Portrait.’” She holds up a finger. “Wait here.” She disappears for a moment and comes back with a magnifying glass. Then she walks around the easel, grabs this arm-like metal bar, and bends it around the front of the canvas. She places the magnifying glass on the end of the metal bar and positions it directly on top of the left eye. “Now look.”

I do. There she is, but she’s not the way I expected her to look. Her hair isn’t a messy bun. There are no paint smudges on her cheeks. She looks perfectly done up and beautiful.

“You’re probably wondering why I chose to paint myself this way.”

I turn to face her. “How? Beautiful? You’re always beautiful.” I motion to her current appearance. “You look fantastic in dress clothes, but you also look every bit as amazing in your comfy art clothes. I just wonder why you didn’t paint yourself the way you look when you’re in front of this easel.” I point to the painting. “The man in the painting is staring back at you while you paint him, but the reflection of you in his eye isn’t what he’s seeing.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks. She steps toward me. “The man is you, Alex. And from what you said about the way I looked in my art clothes, I think I painted myself exactly how you see me.”

She’s right. She’s beautiful to me no matter what.

“I want to buy it,” I say.

She laughs. “It isn’t finished yet.”

“Then I want to buy it when it’s finished.”

“Alex, I’m not letting you pay for it. I’ll give it to you as a gift, but you can’t pay me.”

She needs the money right now, and this painting is too good to keep for myself without her being paid for it. “Okay, then sell it at the art show. You can always paint another one for me at a later date.”

“Planning to stick around for a while?” she asks with a smile.

Yes. And I also plan to buy this painting. This exact one. Even if I have to get someone else to pretend to buy it for me. I don’t want to lie to Whitney, but if she won’t let me pay for it outright, then she’s not giving me much of a choice. One little white lie shouldn’t be that big of a deal, right?