Maricela strode in chatting with her assistant and took the seat at the head of the table. I cast my eyes downward. I wasn’t mad at Maricela—I knew why she’d asked me to step back, and I understood that it was the right decision from her vantage point—but I wasn’t ready to meet her eye knowing I was back at square one. Only this time, I wasn’t getting another chance.
“Good morning, everyone. It’s that time again. I’d like to hear ideas.” Hands sprang up around the table.
Maricela tapped her collarbone and her chin at good and bad pitches as the meeting progressed as it always did. I sketched in my journal, noting the pieces I’d been asked to assist with—a new line of gourmet dog foods, planning for retirement when you’re just starting out, and a profile of a young up-and-coming politician. I drew a series of cubes in the margins while someone from HR discussed a change in reimbursement and expense accounts.
I wonder what Wes is doing today. I’d deleted his number from my phone and his Chat App ID from my contacts, but it didn’t matter—I knew them by heart. For a few days, I’d opened the FitMi app. Logging exercise had become a habit, like drinking water or taking the stairs—like the workout didn’t count if I didn’t track it, but every time I did, I clicked on the mailbox icon, and my heart dipped at the empty inbox. I deleted the account, taking away the temptation, taking away the daily reminders we weren’t talking.
“Finally, an update.” Maricela’s words snapped me out of my own thoughts, but I felt twenty pairs of eyes on me the moment the words left Maricela’s mouth. “You’re all familiar with Claire and Britta’s excellent work, and I’m sure you’ve heard, or think you’ve heard, about the circumstances leading to its end. We won’t rehash that here; however, I want to say one thing about the ethics of our work that I believe is critical for everyone in this room to hear.”
I tensed my shoulders and hazarded a look in her direction. She’s going to tell everyone not to sleep with sources. Yep, got the memo.
“I trust each of you to bring stories and information to light. Living one’s best life is a trendy saying, but it’s a philosophy I live by, and that means acting according to one’s own moral compass.”
If I stare at these doodles hard enough, can I block out her voice?
“Claire should be commended for her work revealing the issues with the HottrYou platform in the way she did. That is the decision-making I want from this team. She showed prowess in investigating the story and conviction in bringing it to light.
“I will support you when you’re acting in the best interest of our readers, especially when it comes to health and safety.” She turned to Claire, whose expression warmed. She was trying to maintain her cool exterior, but Claire was proud. Maricela addressed the group again. “I’ve offered Claire a permanent place writing features for our health and fitness section.”
Applause sprang up from around the room. I willed the tears pricking the back of my eyes to still and joined everyone else in congratulating Claire. She got the job. I couldn’t say that was unfair. Her work exposing HottrYou was arguably excellent—I wouldn’t make the argument in her favor, but I didn’t need to. She’d been thorough in her research and compelling in her writing, and she’d won. This personal and public humiliation was what I deserved.
I was gathering my doodle-covered notes to shuffle out at the end of the meeting when Maricela called me over.
“Britta. Can you hang back for a minute?”
Being in this room reminded of me the pitch for Body FTW back in February. As I walked to join her at the head of the table, I noted my body and how it felt to move in this room. My back was straighter.
“Welcome back. I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m okay,” I said, noticing how my hand looked against the smooth tabletop. I’d skipped getting a manicure to join Helen for an advanced hip-hop dance class the day before, and my polish was chipped, and the condensation from the water bottle that had replaced my morning coffee had left a small puddle near my pinky finger. I smiled to myself, taking in all the changes at once, and repeated my answer, but meeting her eye this time. “I’m okay.”
“The post you wrote while you were out,” she began, gesturing to her tablet.
I gulped and bit my tongue. I’d been banned from posting, but whoever was supposed to cut my access to our social media never did. I searched her expression, but it was the same professionally serene one she always wore. They didn’t take it down, but probably by the time they noticed, it had too much traction already. Did I get myself fired over this post?