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Of course.
I answered the phone, not needing to look at the caller I.D.
I already knew it could’ve only been one person.
“Guess who’s getting divorced?!” my boss, Anthony, asked with a sing-song tone. “Seriously! Guess! You’ll never be able to!”
“Why do you sound so happy about it, Anthony?” I sighed. “Isn’t divorce usually a pretty harsh thing to go through? Especially if there are kids involved?”
“Oh, boo-hoo!” He scoffed. “Rich people getting a divorce? It’s not even real to them, Sam. Having to split time between their mansions and condos? Who cares?"
"Again, the kids—”
“Anyway, it’s that pop girl! Wendi Z. The one whose album just went platinum,” Anthony interrupted me, just like he always did. “And that football player. The one who just signed that zillion-dollar deal?”
He let out a cruel laugh before he went on. “God. They were just doing that interview where they were talking about going to therapy and finally figuring it all out. All that money and they still can’t keep it together. Can you believe it?”
“Is there a reason you’re telling me about this, Anthony?”
“Duh. Because I want you to do a piece on high profile divorces!” He laughed again. “And since you’ve done a bunch of interviews with these people before, you can definitely get some good intel. Probably get some good soundbites, too.”
“Are you saying you seriously want me to interview these people? About one of the toughest times of their lives?” My eyes went wide with shock. “Why? Just so we can run a celebrity gossip piece about it?”
“Now, you’re getting it.” Anthony let out a thoughtful hum. “And try to get it to me before you’re back from your retreat, all right? And don’t act like you don’t have Wi-Fi up there because I know you don’t go anywhere without Wi-Fi.”
“Anthony, look, I don’t think—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be checking my inbox for it. Have fun at Yellowstone! Or wherever the hell you are.”
“Anthony, seriously—”
Before I could finish my response, he’d already hung up the phone.
“Was that your boss?” Damon guessed, his expression filling with concern.
“Yep. It was.” Every bit of relaxation exited my body, replaced with an all-too-familiar anxiety.
“So, you work in journalism?” he quietly asked. “It sounded like you’re going to be interviewing people?”
“Journalism.” I let out a harsh laugh as I shook my head. “No. I wouldn’t call what I do journalism.”
“What would you call it, then?”
“I’d call it what it is. Celebrity gossip,” I replied. “That’s what I do with my life in the city. I spend all my time putting together the pieces of other people’s lives just to put them on display, so they can then be picked apart by social media and blog sites. The worst part is that I actually love talking to people about their art, what makes them tick. I…”
My words trailed off, as I looked over at Damon. “Sorry. You didn’t ask to hear my sob story. Let me put my small violin away.”
“Actually, I’d love to hear it,” he replied. “I’ve never met anyone who worked with celebrities before.”
“Oh. In that case…,” I cleared my throat, before I went on, “like I was saying, I love talking to people about their art. I always wanted to be one of those artist profilers, the ones people talk to when they’re ready to get deep, ready to get real about what makes them tick.”
I sighed before I finished with my thoughts. “Instead, I’m stuck either doing puff pieces or hit pieces. It’s like… a cycle I’m trapped in or something.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Damon’s tone was sympathetic. “It’s hard, wanting something different but not quite knowing how to get there.”
“Thanks.” I let out a sigh of relief. “I was worried you were going to think I was an asshole or something—”
“You spend a lot of time worried about what other people are going to think of you, huh?”
