And Now, Back to You — Chapter no 2

CHAPTER 2

DELILAH

Just keep smiling, I say to myself as I stare at the tiny red light on the camera. You’re almost there. A few more minutes. Just keep smiling.

Mark, our beleaguered and bearded cameraman, holds up his hand and counts down from five. When his thumb finally tucks in, the little light goes dark and I release my pent-up sigh, pushing my turtle helmet off my

forehead.

“You got it?”

He grunts, which is Mark for Yes, well done. Your finest broadcast yet.

I’m so proud of you. He communicates mainly in monosyllabic sounds, hand signals, and vaguely apathetic looks. I have to fill in a lot of the blanks with Mark, but it works for us. After three years of partnership, I’ve almost

cracked that hard exterior.

Almost.

“Great.” I try to shimmy out of the shell strapped to my back. It’s February in Baltimore, but the turtle costume is hot and the shell is heavy.

I’m sweating bullets underneath this thing. I have no idea where Keith—my boss, and apparent turtle aficionado—even found it.

The University of Maryland? Did he steal it from Testudo himself?

I unclip my helmet and glance at Mark. “Are we heading back to the station or does Keith want me to interview the turtle?”

I’m only half joking. My assignments have been steadily increasing in absurdity. Two weeks ago, Keith had me attend the Toilet Races at

Hampdenfest. Usually, I wouldn’t bat an eye at reporting on the Baltimore- beloved tradition—especially in my own neighborhood—but he had me sit on an actual toilet for the duration of the broadcast.

It was hard to smile that day.

I want to be taken seriously. It’s hard to be taken seriously when you’re sitting on toilets and wearing turtle shells.

Mark doesn’t look up from his phone, flicking across the screen with his thumb. I’m pretty sure I could be hit by a city bus and he wouldn’t notice.

For a cameraman, his attention span is very limited.

“Mark,” I try again. “Are we done?”

He nods, not bothering with eye contact. “Yeah. You’re due back at the station.”

I try to shimmy my other arm out of the turtle shell strap, but it’s twisted.

I turn, around and around, like a dog chasing her tail. “I know. The weather report is in, like, thirty minutes.”

“Not for that,” he says. “Leon is doing the weather this morning. Keith wants you in a meeting.”

I stop trying to chase my strap, my heart sinking like a stone. “But I always do the morning report.”

The weather is what I want to be reporting on. But somehow, I’ve landed in quirky feature hell instead. Toilets and turtles and an empty warehouse Keith said was a historical renovation but really turned out to just be a dumping site.

Mark finally looks up from his phone, his face twisted into something vaguely sympathetic. “Not today. Today I’m supposed to drop you off at Keith’s office as soon as we’re back. No excuses.”

I bristle. “What? Are you my chaperone? Am I a flight risk?”

“I’m not your chaperone, although—” Mark’s mouth turns up at the corners. “You did fail to show up to the staff meeting where we reviewed your Pimlico coverage.”

I sniff and avert my attention to the glistening water of the harbor. The sun is bright today, not a cloud in the sky.

“Yes, well, my car wouldn’t start.” I also didn’t feel the need to watch the footage of me slipping and face-planting in the mud at the racetrack thirteen times over. We rarely review footage of past features, but for some reason Keith demanded that the entire station gather to take a look at that specific coverage. He probably had the moment I slipped and fell live on air

recalibrated in slow motion and set to some ridiculous song. I bet it’s the screen saver on his computer. Me, at the racetrack in my sunshine yellow derby hat, covered in mud from my chin to my shins.

I don’t know when Keith started explicitly taking joy in watching me humiliate myself, but it’s been a slow slog through hell. I’m tired. I’m so tired of him scraping the bottom of the barrel and assigning me whatever he dregs up. I’ve reported while standing in the harbor next to a half- submerged shopping cart. I’ve reported live from Fort McHenry while wearing a colonial dress, two sizes too big. I’ve reported with an actual monkey on my head.

And while I’ve never had a problem looking ridiculous on camera, it’s starting to feel a little mean-spirited.

This was supposed to be my dream job, not my living nightmare.

“I’m really not doing the weather today?” I ask Mark again.

“Not today.” He pauses in his collection of camera equipment and squints up at me. “Sorry.”

God, it must be bad if Mark is saying sorry. He once whacked me in the head with a mic boom and told me it was good for my overall constitution.

“It’s fine.” I slip the fins off my hands and shove them under my arm.

“Hey, did Luna try that recipe I gave you?”

Mark’s whole face brightens at the mention of his daughter. “Yeah, you really saved the day with that, thanks. It worked great for her science experiment.” He scratches at his jaw. “Why did you have a recipe for slime lying around anyway?”

Because I was a nerd of a kid who turned into a nerd of an adult. “Do you not have slime recipes lying around?” Mark blinks. “Okay, well, your loss.”

I push my sleeve up and glance at my watch with a sigh. “We should probably get going, huh?”

Mark’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Yeah, we should.”

“Back to the station.”

“Back to the station,” he agrees, his entire being basically the dictionary definitions of confused and alarmed.

I bet he was prepared to toss me in the van and hightail it back, me kicking and screaming the entire time. But I don’t have the energy. I could fight Keith on the whole bullshit assignment thing, but I’ve never been much of a fighter.

I always thought if I just did a good job with the tasks assigned to me,

then I’d be able to climb the corporate ladder. But the corporate ladder has turned out to be a bottomless pit from which there is no escape, lorded over by a man with a severe superiority complex.

“Where did you park the van?” I ask.

Mark loops our stash of wires over his shoulder. “Down by the dolphin fountain.”

He’s watching me like I’m about to make a break for it. Like I’m going to sprint down a Baltimore side street in full turtle costume.

“Great. I’ll meet you there.”

“You better.”

The threat is unnecessary. The walk to the van is as uneventful as a walk through a busy downtown area in a turtle costume can be. Cars slow down and honk. A guy on a bicycle yells, “Fins up, bro!” as he speeds past.

Someone bellows, “AND NOW, BACK TO YOUUUUUU,” from one pier over, his hands cupped around his mouth. I laugh and wave cheerfully at the attention, a bit of my Keith-inspired dread slipping away.

I love this part. I love connecting with my community. I love making people smile. I love knowing that somewhere on the other side of the city, my grandpa is sitting in his favorite spot on his favorite couch, watching me on his television. No matter how silly the story, there’s always a part of me that hopes I’m brightening someone’s day.

I grew up in Baltimore, watching the news on a staticky television in my grandpa’s cramped living room. The live, local, and late-breaking has been the backdrop to every major event in my life. I’ve always wanted to be a part of that magic.

I just never thought it would be dressed as a turtle.

The news van is right where we left it, tucked between an out-of-service ice-cream truck and a dumpster. I finally manage to get the shell off my back and fling it inside, grabbing for the duffel I left just behind the passenger seat. I unzip it while muttering under my breath about slime recipes and Keith and turtles named Domino, all while wishing desperately that the ice-cream truck would slide open its doors and deliver me a strawberry sundae.

I rummage around in my bag. Two empty water bottles. A police scanner.

A flyer from a Christmas tree farm on the Eastern Shore and a postcard from some antiques shop in Annapolis. A compact, my favorite ruby red lipstick, and a brush with a broken handle.

Not a single sweater to be found. Or the navy blue slacks I could have sworn I packed last night.

“No,” I breathe, digging through the bag like a secret compartment might open up and reveal a wardrobe decision that isn’t a turtle suit. “No.”

Mark tosses his cord collection in next to my shell, then his camera case.

“Ready to go?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t find my clothes.”

His eyes flick down and up again. “Are you not . . . wearing clothes?”

I stop trying to turn my bag inside out. “This is a turtle suit, Mark.”

“And yet, there are pants.”

I stare down at my feet. My flipper-covered feet. “These are turtle pants.”

“I don’t see the difference, to be honest.”

“I don’t—” I huff, rolling my lips together. “You know what? Never mind. I need a change of clothes. Can we swing by my house on the way to the station?”

Mark gently pinches my bicep between his thumb and forefinger and guides me around to the front of the news van. He deposits me at the passenger-side door and pats the top of my head. Of course, my side is the dumpster side. “We don’t have time. You need to go to your meeting.”

“I am not going to this meeting dressed as a turtle, Mark!”

He rounds the front of the van. “I’m telling you, they don’t look like

turtle pants.”

“They have fins!”

“Is that what those are?” He jams his key into the ignition. The van rattles to life beneath us. “Huh.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You can drop me off at the station, but I am not going inside dressed like a turtle.”

Thirty minutes later, I am standing in the front lobby of YBAL News, dressed like a turtle.

“Woah,” Gianna says, stumbling to a stop halfway across the lobby, backing up with a mug of coffee in each hand. I know they’re both for her.

When she’s in research mode, she’s powered by caffeine and those little

packages of fruit snacks from Costco. The only time she leaves her desk is when she runs out. I must have caught her during a refresh cycle.

She tilts her head and squints at me, the pencil shoved through the middle of her enormous bun wobbling. Glossy auburn hair, gemstone eyes. Even going on what I’m sure is day three of not showering, she’s a stunner.

“Delilah?” she calls.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

She blinks furiously. “I thought I was hallucinating,” she mutters. “Why are you dressed like a turtle?”

“Not a hallucination.” Just a Keith-induced waking nightmare. “Please tell me you have something in the break room for me to change into.”

“Uh.” She glances down at her legs, then at mine. Where Gianna is petite and waiflike, I have a size fourteen set of hips and curvy legs. She drags her eyes back to mine with a wince. “I think I have an extra shirt in there. From the station-sponsored marathon a couple years ago?”

“Did you run that marathon?”

“No, but I like free T-shirts.” She brings one of the mugs to her mouth and takes a loud slurp. “What’s going on? You weren’t dressed like that

when I saw you this morning.”

“You didn’t see me this morning.”

Her forehead scrunches. “Yes, I did? We talked about the new happy hour spot you want to try. The one with the Tater Tots?”

“That was yesterday.”

Gianna blinks, surprised. “Really?”

I lean closer and sniff at her hair. She smells like the very bottom of a coffeepot. “When was the last time you showered?”

“Um . . .” She pauses, mentally calculating.

“And that answers my question.” I sigh. “Gianna, you need to take care of yourself.”

She lifts her shoulders and her two mugs with the same weak shrug. “I’m in the middle of this embezzlement thing and I want to get further along before I take a break.”

As the primary researcher for the news department, Gianna is usually in the middle of something. Last year when there was a mayoral scandal, she didn’t leave her cubicle for six straight days. I had to practically force-feed her chicken noodle soup and wrestle her into a change of clothes.

Working with Gianna is what I imagine having a toddler is like. A toddler

with a caffeine addiction and an absolutely foul mouth.

“All right.” I study her critically. “But consume something other than coffee. I have those—”

“Protein bars in the bottom drawer of your desk. I know.” Her hands occupied, she affectionately butts her forehead against my shoulder.

“Thanks for making sure I eat.”

Behind us, someone clears their throat. I turn halfway to find Mark staring at me expectantly, both of his dark eyebrows furrowed in a heavy line. He holds out his wrist and taps the face of his watch.

Gianna snorts. “Why is camera boy acting like your keeper?”

I sigh. “I have a meeting with Keith.”

Gianna’s attention snaps away from Mark and her face darkens. “Fuck

that guy.”

“Gi—”

“No, seriously. Fuck that guy. Is he why you’re wearing the turtle suit?

Do I need to key his car again?”

I wave my hands wildly and shush her. Thankfully, Mark has moved his intimidation routine to the other side of the lobby, standing and waiting by the door that leads to the back of the studio. I duck my head closer to Gianna. “Again?” I whisper.

An absolutely devious look twists her delicate features. “Yes,” she whispers back, her mouth hidden behind the rim of her mug. “Again.”

“Gianna.”

“I’ll tell you all the gory details as soon as this embezzlement case is done. I also shit in his—”

I clap my hand over her mouth. “We cannot discuss this in the lobby of our office, Gianna.”

She nods solemnly. “I’ll send you a memo.”

“Please don’t send me a memo. Go back to your desk. I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened.”

She starts to meander in the general direction of the door where Mark is stationed before turning around and creeping right back. “You need to talk to HR,” she says quietly, her eyes serious this time.

“I did, remember?”

It got me exactly nowhere. I worked up my courage to file a formal report only to be told by the head of HR that Keith’s behavior was typical newsroom bluster, whatever the hell that means. I was told, more or less, to

suck it up or find another job. That there was a long line of excited candidates behind me if I wanted to find a station that might be a better fit.

I suppose that’s the worst of it. I don’t want another station. I want this one. Working here has always been my dream. Ever since I was a little girl, watching my grandpa watch the local news every day at 7 a.m. and 4 p.m. I wanted to be the one the world woke up to. The one kids saw when they got home from school. I have always wanted to be the meteorologist for YBAL, Baltimore’s News Station. My grandpa’s favorite news program.

So I’ve sucked it up. And I’ve made the best of it. But I’m starting to crumble beneath the pressure of Keith’s malicious attention.

Maybe I should start looking for another job.

I squeeze her arm. “We’ll talk later. Go back to embezzlement.”

“What about Ava Monroe?”

“What about her?”

“Have you thought about approaching her with what’s going on?”

I snort. “I’m not going to approach the president of Emory

Communications, Gianna.”

“Why not?”

“Because she has bigger things to deal with than newsroom squabbling. I don’t need to tattle. I’m fine.” I refuse to go over Keith’s head with this.

What would I even say? That he’s being mean to me? No. The potential blowback far outweighs the possible improvement. I don’t need things with Keith getting worse.

“Okay, but we’re coming back to this. I’m not going to forget,” she warns.

“I know you won’t.” Her mind is like a neatly organized file cabinet, armed with explosives. She gives me one last heavy look before she wanders back across the lobby. Mark’s attention sticks to her like glue, his hand moving to prop the door open above her head. She slides past him, tipping her face up toward his. For a second it almost looks like she’s going to smile, but then she bares all her teeth, hissing a loud sound from between them.

Mark jumps, flinching back into the doorframe as she glides past with a cackle.

I snort as I follow, rushing to make it through the door.

“How can one so small be so terrifying?” he asks, his eyes distant, color high on his cheeks.

“We may never know.” I pat his shoulder. “Listen, you don’t have to march me to Keith’s office. I can manage my way there just fine.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I don’t like being on babysitting duty, you know.

This isn’t fun for me either.”

“I get it,” I agree. “We both have better things to do with our time.”

“Yeah. We do.” He watches me, considering. I’m so close I can taste it.

“You’ll go to his office? Straight there? I don’t want to hear about it later.”

“Did he threaten your favorite camera or something?” I make a tiny cross over my heart. “I’ll go straight there.”

“Good. I’ll see you later, then.”

“See you—”

He’s already gone, buried in the labyrinth of the newsroom. I watch his dark hair disappear behind the sports desk.

“Later,” I finish with a sigh.

I bite my bottom lip and eyeball the distance between Keith’s office and the supply closet. There are some extra fundraiser T-shirts in there. I’d much rather be in one of those than in a poorly ventilated costume. I make it two steps in that direction before a hand stacked with shiny gold rings loops around my elbow.

“Delilah.” Simone Leeds, one of the anchors, gives me a tight smile.

Shiny hair with a shiny personality to match, Simone always looks like she stepped off the runway and landed in the newsroom. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Keith is looking for you.”

God, this man. Has he told everyone in the newsroom that I need to report to his office like some wayward school student?

I glare at the closed door of his office. “On a scale from one to ten—”

“What’s his level of obnoxious today?” Simone smirks. “A solid eight.”

Her eyes flick down my body, then back up. “This is a new look for you.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Standing next to tall, pretty Simone, I feel even more like an idiot.

“It’s not a bad look,” she rushes to add.

I tip my head back and groan at the ceiling.

“It’s just an interesting one.” She drags me forward, closer to Keith’s door. “C’mon. You know if you keep him waiting, it’ll only be worse for you.”

That’s the thing, though. It’s only ever worse for me. It seems like Keith

hoards all his animosity and personality issues for me specifically. I’m the one paying the price, and I don’t even know the crime I committed.

“You know we’re all rooting for you,” Simone whispers. “Don’t let him push you around.”

Yes, well, it would be nice if everyone rooted for me a little more publicly. I usually have to bear my humiliations alone. Everyone is too scared of Keith—or maybe too scared of becoming the new punching bag— to say anything.

Simone squeezes my shoulder and leaves me in front of Keith’s door. I stare at the shiny wood, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. Keith is the only one in the entire office granted the privilege of a door. I raise my hand to knock, wincing at the sleeve of my turtle suit.

“Enter,” a voice calls from inside.

I crack open the door and poke my head in. “You wanted to see me?”

Keith frowns at me from behind his desk, his face pinched. He always manages to look like he has a lemon stuck in his mouth, his ruddy cheeks sucked slightly in, his bottom lip pouted slightly out.

“We have a meeting,” he says. “And you’re late.”

“I didn’t see anything on my calendar,” I offer. “Mark let me know about it after our shoot.”

His bushy eyebrows are two angry caterpillars on his forehead. “Oh? Do I need to put things on your calendar now? Run it by your secretary?” He snorts. “You’ve wasted enough of our time. Let’s get started.”

“Maybe an introduction first,” suggests another voice. A woman with sleek dark hair stands gracefully from the meeting table in the middle of Keith’s office. She offers me a kind, if not slightly strained, smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Delilah. My name is Maggie Lin. I oversee the radio station across the street.”

If Keith looks like the remnants of a science experiment gone wrong, this woman looks like one gone right. Everything about her screams: put

together.

She extends her hand.

I stare at it, my fin-less fingers gripping the edge of the door. I think I’m starting to get hives from the turtle suit.

“Um,” I say. “Hi.”

She slowly lowers her hand, her smile faltering.

“Delilah,” Keith bites out.

“Sorry, I just—” I hike my thumb over my shoulder, laughing nervously.

“I was hoping to stop by the break room before we get started. I think I have an extra change of clothes in my locker.”

“We don’t have time for another one of your catastrophes, Delilah. Get in here.”

My cheeks burn hot. I try to find the backbone Gianna is always encouraging me to have, but it’s hard when my past mistakes are continuously trotted out like a prized show pony.

I’m more than a little accident-prone. I’m clumsy on my best day. My grandpa liked to joke when I was growing up that I must have angered a particularly vengeful spirit. My luck is atrocious. Whatever is worse than atrocious. Maybe I stepped on every crack in the sidewalk as a child. Or walked under a thousand ladders. Because if something can go wrong, it’s almost a guarantee it will.

The turtle suit. The mud pit at the Preakness. During a potluck last year, I made chocolate pudding for one of the crime desk guys only to slip in the parking lot and dump half of it on myself.

So, no. I don’t want to step into this room with this perfect woman and my impertinent boss for a meeting I’m not prepared for while I’m dressed in a turtle suit. I don’t. There’s only so much humiliation a person can withstand, and I’d like to be taken seriously. For once.

I take a bracing breath. “I’m going to go to the break room,” I say, slowly and clearly. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes and we can get started.”

I turn quickly, hoping to make my escape before Keith can launch any more cutting remarks my way, hell-bent on standing my ground. But I don’t account for the person quickly rushing toward me in the opposite direction, equally determined to get to wherever they’re going.

It happens in slow motion. I get a glimpse of a blue checkered shirt and try to jerk left, but he does too. Our bodies slam together and we tip sideways, my hip slamming into a meticulously polished case of awards.

Keith’s second-place television station softball tournament trophy wedges itself against my rib cage and I squeak, reaching for something to steady myself. Except the only thing I have to steady myself with is a surprisingly strong, blue-check-clad arm.

Coffee spills, something snaps, and then I’m on my back against cold linoleum, gasping for breath, pinned to the floor.

A low groan rumbles against my neck and a puff of warm air brushes

over my throat. The man currently plastered to my front bites out a low sigh that sounds suspiciously like my name.

Coffee spreads around us in a slow bleed. It seeps through my suit and warms my skin. I try to breathe around the hot, pricking sensation.

The man above me pushes up on his elbows.

He looks different without his glasses, but I’d recognize that stubborn set of his jaw anywhere. Jackson Clark. The tight-ass from the radio station across the street. He’s flattened me bodily to the floor outside Keith’s office.

The same guy who has been leaving me weird notes on the window of my car for almost two years has decided to resort to violence.

Recognition makes his blue eyes flash darker.

“Of course,” he says, his mouth in a flat line and his hand tangled in my hair. “It’s you.”

AIDEN VALENTINE: You’re listening to Baltimore’s home for easy listening, 101.6 LITE FM.

AIDEN VALENTINE: Now with traffic and weather together, here’s Jackson Clark.

[pause]

AIDEN VALENTINE: [clears throat] Here is Jackson Clark.

JACKSON CLARK: Oh, right.

JACKSON CLARK: [nervous laughter] Here I am.

AIDEN VALENTINE: With traffic and weather together.

JACKSON CLARK: Yes. I am here to report the weather. And the traffic. Both of them. Together.