Nodding repeatedly, I wave my hand dismissively before grabbing my coffee cup and making a beeline for the breakroom. Acting plays a small part in being a journalist, if only as an exercise in composure. People are less inclined to give you what you need if you seem too eager. At the same time, too much confidence can cause a similar issue—dissuading trust.
It’s a balance and consistent exercise in composure until you reach the level where your name is more valuable and you have enough accolades as a journalist to be sought after, like Oprah, Diane Sawyer, or Stella Emerson Crowne.
Leaving college wet behind the ears as the daughter of one of the most highly respected editors in journalism, I have a lot to prove to myself and those in my field. Even though I write under my mother’s maiden name as Natalie Hearst, my work for anyone in the field will always be synonymous with Nate Butler and his well-established and credible paper. I have so much to live up to, considering my father took the magazine from an ad-dependent paper to a next-level publication. And when he retires, which he insists will be sooner rather than later, it’s up to me to help maintain its integrity.
Though I grew up in the newsroom, Dad’s never pressured me to take it on but is responsible for so much of my love for the written word. Like Dad, my favorite news to report consists mainly of human-interest stories. His own writing journey began with a touching story during a time stamp no one ever forgets—9/11.
Challenged with dyslexia, he pressed on and figured out a way to work around it and carry out his dream to run a newspaper—which is more than admirable. My father is my hero and has been since I was young enough to recognize it. So it was only natural I spent my childhood sitting next to his desk, imitating his every move, typing on one of his old laptops before I could speak. Thanks to Mom, Dad has a dozen or so pride-filled videos of me doing just that to prove it.
My character traits and love for journalism aren’t the only things I inherited from him. My strawberry blonde hair and indigo-colored eyes make our relationship unmistakable when we’re within feet of each other and even when we’re not.
Additionally, Dad has shared so much of himself with me that I know I could recite the milestones in his life in chronological order without much thought. Maybe that’s why I’m so rattled because apparently, there are gaps in his history I was purposely not made privy to. The sudden shift of viewing my dad as a twenty-plus man in love rather than my Little League coach has me reeling.
Of course, my parents had histories before they met and married. Of course, there are parts of their lives they don’t share with their daughter—secrets they plan on taking to their graves—but there’s just something about this particular secret that isn’t settling well with me. At all.
“Natalie?” Alex, our sports columnist prompts, staring up at me from his desk. Empty coffee cup in hand, I gape back at him, confused as to how I ended up lurking above him. “Can I help you with something?”
“J-just wanted to see if you wanted some coffee?” I mumble in shit excuse, lifting my mug as though he’s never seen one.
“It’s after two,” he says curtly, just as confused by the gesture as I am. “I don’t drink coffee after two.”
“Okay.” I bob my head, eyes again on the office now feet away, just as Dad hangs up the phone and starts to make his way toward us. Guilt and panic mix, prompting me to flee before he can reach me with his probing eyes. By the time flight kicks in, he’s already striding toward me, seemingly as confused as Alex.
“What’s up?” Dad asks as he joins me at Alex’s desk.
“Kid was just asking me if I wanted some coffee.”
“You can fetch your own, asshole,” Dad snarks, giving me a wink.
“Well, as everyone knows,” Alex fires back, “I don’t drink coffee after two.”
“No one knows, Alex,” Dad taunts dryly, “nor cares.”
“I want no special treatment,” I remind him. “I have no issue getting coffee.”
“Well, you don’t have to play gopher or clean toilets. You’ve paid those dues already. This is a family-owned business, so there should be advantages to being a Butler, even if you write under Hearst.”
I nod, not in agreement, but because I’m staring at him with an altered perception while trying to forget what I just read, the gnawing in my gut constant.
He loved Stella. He really loved her. It was so evident.
An image of my smiling mother, riding next to me on Daisy, her favorite Haflinger, flashes through my mind as new pain sears through my chest.