No.
I wake up the next morning to find that two-letter word in my Twitter DM inbox.
No. Just like that.
I suppose I should feel grateful that Duke bothered replying to my clumsy tweet, not to mention he took the time to follow me in order to, you know, slide into my DMs.
Except that I’m not grateful. In fact, I’m annoyed. He may be a professional hockey player, but I’m one step away from being a no-name journalist for the rest of my life. I need something big.
I need an interview with Duke Harrison.
Clambering out of bed, I drag my body into the kitchen and turn on the coffee machine. Then, I sit my butt down on my bar stool and stare at the message again for the umpteenth time this morning.
No.
It would be so easy to accept defeat. To slink back to The Tribune’s office and wallow in my self-pity as I quote other journalists with far more expansive pedigrees for the rest of my life.
Or . . . I can take a risk.
I pull my phone toward me. Stare down at it. And then, before allowing myself to rethink my decision, I begin to type. I hit send.
I’m not sure if you remember me. I met you the other day at TeaLicious for the bachelorette party?
The coffee beeps its timely arrival and I pour myself a mug of the hot brew. I’ll need a stop by Dunkins’ on the way to work this morning if I ever want to function like a normal human being. It’s part of my regular routine. A routine I love. If only I could bring my career up to par.
As if working on similar brainwaves, my phone chimes with an incoming message and I launch myself at it.
“Breathe, Charlie,” I order myself, “breathe.”
He’s responded.
Thank you, Jesus.
Cautiously, I tap in my cell phone’s password, flick my finger to the right to bring up the Twitter page and—
I remember you. The answer is still no.
What. The. Hell.
I gulp down some coffee, only to belatedly realize that it is scalding hot. “Crap!” I shout at my empty apartment, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to soothe the sudden throbbing.
And then I’m back at my cell phone because what type of answer is that? Is he even capable of writing complex sentences?
It’s a syntax travesty, I tell you.
May I ask why not? I tap out. Hit send. Make a silent prayer to the hockey gods to be on my side today.
His answer arrives in seconds. No.
My teeth clench. Is it because I called you overrated?
Thanks for the reminder. Now the answer is definitely a no.
The deepening urge to hurl my phone across the room has me actually going so far as to lift my arm and aim for the window.
“Get a hold of yourself,” I mutter. “You’re a professional journalist.”
That’s right. I may work for a dead-beat publication with a circulation of perhaps 1,000—per year—but that doesn’t mean I don’t hold any leverage in this situation. I stare at the last message he’s sent me. I type something out and then delete it.
Ultimately, I go for the pathetic route. Five questions. You can answer here on Twitter.
Not interested.
Three questions. I’ll throw in dinner.
Realizing that he could interpret that as an invitation for a date, I quickly send off another message: What I mean is, I’ll give you a gift card for dinner. Dinner does not include me.
My cheeks heat at the flirtatious undertone, but it’s too late to retract the words now. I quickly glance at the clock above the stove. I need to get ready for work. Only, I’m glued to my barstool.
Glued to the possibility that Duke Harrison might answer me back.
He does, and I can practically hear his husky baritone reverberate through the words. That’s too bad. Dinner with you sounds more interesting . . .
I wait impatiently.
More interesting than . . . what? More interesting than conducting an interview? More interesting than undergoing a prostrate exam? There are endless possibilities, and I’m dying to know exactly what he means by that cryptic message.
Before I even have the chance to formulate a response, I receive another message: But the answer to your request is still no. Have a good day, Charlie.
Damn it.
I drain the rest of my now lukewarm coffee and stand up. This isn’t over. As I start pulling my clothes off to take a shower, I call Casey. I don’t care that it’s seven in the morning. This is important. Plus, she’s called me at this time of day more than once when I’ve had to pick her up from a one-night-stand’s house.
In comparison, my phone call is tame.
She answers on the third ring, her voice raspy with sleep. “What do you want, woman?”
“He said no.” I turn the shower on and stare at myself in the mirror as the water heats up. I look crazy. My already curly hair is turning more voluminous with the steam from the shower, and my blue eyes are dark with anticipation. On the ice, my teammates often called me “Crazy Charlie” because of my impulsiveness in the sport.
I was methodical to a point. Then, impulse drove me, both on the ice and off.
“Who said no?” Casey asks. Her voice sounds muffled, like she’s driven her face into her pillow in an effort to ignore me.
“Duke Harrison. He DM’ed me on Twitter.”
“Are you really that surprised?”
“Well, no. But that doesn’t mean that this can’t actually happen. We can get this interview.”
“You mean that you can get this interview. I’m flying on your coattails, girl.”
It frustrates me, just slightly, when Casey says stuff like this. I recognize that I’m ambitious, sometimes to a fault, but it often feels like I’m the only who gives a damn at The Tribune.
I shake off the Negative Nancy vibes, swiping a palm over the mirror as it begins to fog up. “I need Gwen. She was with him the other day.”
“Don’t we hate her?”
“Yes,” I say with a shrug that she can’t see. “There’s no way around it. I could reach out through the contact form again but what would that do? My email would end up in the trash folder and he’s already told me no personally.”
She heaves a great, beleaguered sigh. “Maybe you should take this as a sign that he doesn’t actually want to do the interview?”
I toe off my fuzzy slippers. “I know that he doesn’t want to.”
“Then why are we still pursuing this?”
Sticking my hand into the shower, I test the temperature. Lukewarm, as per usual. My apartment isn’t exactly fitted with the latest indoor plumbing. I’m just grateful that the previous property owners tore out the original shared bathroom in the hallway from the 1930s, and installed personal ones in each apartment.
“Because, Casey,” I say firmly, “this is what real journalists do. They chase down their leads. They get it done.”
“There’s a difference between journalists and tabloid reporters. One does a lot more stalking.”
“I’m not stalking the man.” He’s more attractive than I originally thought, yes, but I’m not one to set myself up for failure on a romantic level.
Going for a guy like Duke Harrison would be the worst decision I could ever make in my life.
“I’m calling for a double date,” I finally say. “Think about it. Gwen’s clearly wanting to date the guy. He, on the other hand, seems to want anything but that. It’s a dirty move, I know, but I think that I can swing it. Gwen would never pass up the opportunity to lord it over me that her date is a professional hockey player. Subtlety is not in her biology. ”
“Some would say it’s not in yours either,” Casey injects wryly, and the foggy mirror reflects my pained grimace.
“This could be a game-changer, Casey. This time next year we could be sitting in a fantabulous office at The Globe, and laughing over all the miserable time we’ve spent holed up where we are now.”
We fall silent and I imagine that we are both thinking of our office at The Tribune. It’s a wreck. The paint is peeling on the walls, and there is an unidentifiable red stain on the carpet that has been there since I was hired three years ago. I don’t know what it is, but my sneaking suspicion is that someone committed murder in there and we’re all under surveillance.
Just a theory, of course.
Casey draws my attention back to our conversation when she says, “Okay, matter of importance. Who’re you going to ask to be your date?”
I hold my gaze in the mirror. And then, in the most serious voice I can manage, I say, “Your twin.”
