EMMA
I smooth out my jeans and tie my hair up in a high ponytail to get it out of my face. I've been summoned to the editor's office, but I'm wearing my "thinking clothes" and I look a mess. I tap on Phil's door frame hesitantly. "You wanted to see me, boss?" He gestures for me to come in, so I sit in the chair by his desk while he types furiously. Hopefully those aren't comments on my latest draft. He has high standards, and I want to improve my writing, but it's still hard to get a file back that's more red ink than black.
Phil stops typing, sighs, and leans back in his chair. "Emma. I need you to do something for me."
"Sure, Phil. Anything for the Post!"
He sighs again. "Davis quit and, frankly, I'm screwed. I need you to cover an art opening."
Art? I frown. "Hm. Well, Phil, you know I don't really know anything about art…"
He waves a hand, dismissing this concern. "I'm emailing you all the press release stuff. You can pick up lingo, highlights, whatever from the PR people. Thatcher Stag is debuting some series of glass botanicals in the conservatory. It's supposed to be hot shit. We need to cover it." He looks at me over his monitor, face stern. "Consider it an advertorial--think positive copy, Cheswick. Ben will go photograph the event. You just need to interview the artist, get some quotes about his process and his vision for our city. Blah, blah. You realize I'm giving you permission to write a puff piece here, Cheswick."
My frown deepens. This job as a general reporter at the Pittsburgh Post is a dream for me. Only because I pushed myself so hard in college did I have a strong enough portfolio to land a job here at all, and then I got promoted to reporter. For the past six months I've been writing whatever Phil tells me to write, whether that's meant interviewing city council or watching kids race robots around the science center. But art? I'm not an artsy gal.
"Davis really quit? Can we just expand our coverage of local science initiatives?"
"Emma, we've got investors. Surely you've noticed that we have an arts and culture section? I'm assuming you read every issue cover to cover?" I blush. He smiles. "You will write me 2,000 words on Thatcher Stag's glass show, and you will submit your copy by end of work day tomorrow." I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up his hand. "Go home, change into something more presentable, and be at the conservatory by 5."
He throws me my press credentials and a parking pass he knows I don't need, because I don't drive. Fifteen years of uncontrolled seizures took away that opportunity, I think, letting myself feel angry for just a moment before I shake it off. I've been healthy for over four years. I'm in a good place now. I pick at the medical alert bracelet on my wrist as I head back to my cubicle and grab my things from my desk.
I walk the few short blocks home, thankful as always that I got a job in such a walkable neighborhood. I cut through the park, trying to plan out questions to ask an artist about his work. God, I really know nothing about art. I smile despite it all when I reach my apartment. I'm able to afford the first floor of an airy duplex on the north side of the city, where I got a good deal by promising to help the landlord write ads for her vacant apartments. Now she doesn't have any vacancies, and I've got cheap rent in an amazing space. The beautiful brick building was lovingly restored with gorgeous woodwork, wide plank hardwood floors throughout, and large windows that let in tons of sunlight. I put two huge planters of lavender and sage on my stoop, since they do so well in the direct sun, and the place looks inviting. Like a real adult lives here. I am an independent adult, and I'm doing great, I remind myself. It still takes me by surprise sometimes.
My parents won't even come visit. They insist this neighborhood is "unsuitable" and I can tell they disapprove of my job as a reporter. I'm sure they'd be much happier if I had pursued political science like my perfect sister Veronica. I shake my head, trying not to think too much about my parents, and investigate my wardrobe options.
I ordinarily wear all black when I'm working, but it's a hot day and Phil didn't specify whether the exhibit would be indoors or out. I settle on black slacks with a lightweight grey top with a boatneck cut and 3/4 sleeves. It's a bit more snug than my typical reporting getup, but I remind myself that just because something fits doesn't mean it's inappropriate. My mother's rules about modesty and proper dress always baffled me. I spent years with her cramming me into pencil skirts and "respectable nude pumps." I cringe just thinking about it as I slide my feet into my favorite flats.
Since college, I've relied on my friend Nicole to coach me through most decisions that don't involve pearls and formal dinners. If Nicole said this top was ok for work, it must be true. She's working for a tech startup, but always looks like she could be featured in our Lifestyles section in the Post.
When I arrive at the venue, my breath catches. The gardens are so lush, so serene. I can't believe I haven't come here since I was a kid. I giggle, imagining my mother here for a fancy hat party, and I flash my press pass at the entrance. As I walk up the main stairs, I almost trip while staring up at the glass chandelier. Brilliant curls of glass in green, blue, and yellow intertwine, catching the light of the glass dome entryway. When the automatic doors slide open to reveal the exhibit, I am thrilled by the floral scent, the dazzling green plants, and the fiery shoots of glass I see peeking out from among the leaves. Maybe this won't be so bad of an assignment.
Spotting someone wearing a lanyard, I step into his path. "Excuse me," I say. "I'm Emma Cheswick from the Pittsburgh Post. I'm here to talk to Thatcher Stag. Would you be able to point him out to me?"
The man grins. He waggles his eyebrows, which seems strange to me, and he yells across the room toward a long-haired man squatting by an orange piece of glass. "Yo, Thatch. This chick is here to talk to you." My face twists in confused anger at this misrepresentation, but before I can elaborate, the strange guy brushes past and the man who must be Thatcher walks over.
He's wearing stained jeans that hang from his hips in such a way that I can see he has a perfect, round ass. His ripped t-shirt barely hides the black ink twined around his muscular arms. Shit, he's hot. Remember, he's a subject. Not a conquest. Thatcher leans on a column and crosses his arms, smiling at me. "The show opens in about an hour, sweetheart, but we've probably got time for a decent conversation."
Is he hitting on me? I hold out a hand for a shake. "Emma Cheswick. Pittsburgh Post. I'm actually--"
"Emma. I like that. Follow me and we can talk back in one of the offices." He winks, and walks in front of me, holding back a palm frond for me as we head through a side door in the conservatory. "So how'd you get in early, Emma? The ladies usually come find me after the show…"
I'm feeling less and less interested in this guy the more he talks. "I just waved my press pass. It hadn't occurred to me to look for you afterward. I guess that makes sense--what the hell??"
Thatcher spins me around so my back presses against a wall in the hall. Boxing me in with both arms, he leans in close. He smells like sweat and fire. And he definitely is hitting on me. I stiffen. "What, baby? You shy about being in the hallway?" He raises a hand to, I think, stroke my cheek, but I duck out from under his arm.
"You know what? I can get what I need from the conservatory PR people. Have a good show, Mr. Stag." I rush back out the door and into the atrium before he can formulate a response.