Page 141 of And Now, Back to You

Headfirst. Over the side of a dock.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “It’s good.”

Gianna’s eyebrows bunch together in confusion. It’s the start of her research look, and I don’t have the time for fifty additional questions and a data set right now. Keith is expecting me in his office—I glance at the clock, crap—in three minutes. I squeeze her hands one more time and stand, grabbing for my notepad at the corner of my desk.

“Okay, I’ve got to run before Keith figures out new and creative means of torturing me. There are protein bars in the bottom drawer for you and—I’m really happy for you, Gianna.”

It makes sense, in a weird way. Gianna’s complete lack of censorship paired with Mark’s reservation. Two opposite ends of a seesaw, balancing each other out.

I’m still mentally sorting through all the information Gianna dropped into my lap when I finally skid into Keith’s office.

“Sorry,” I apologize quickly, slipping into the seat across from his desk. I have no reason to be, but I’m nervous for this meeting. It’s been hanging over my head since we got back. It’s not like Keith to let things go or make them easier, and he’s been decidedly hands-off. I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I think it might be about to.

Keith doesn’t bother turning away from his computer while I wait patiently. He’s playing solitaire and losing. Badly. I clear my throat. “I got caught up in a meeting with—”

“I don’t particularly care,” he cuts me off, sounding bored. He minimizes his game and turns with a sigh. He flicks his hand at the open door. “Shut that, please.”

Apprehension prickles along the back of my neck, but I do as he says, standing and slowly walking to the door. On the other side of the newsroom, Gianna is watching me with her arms crossed over her chest. He’s up to something, she said at my cubicle, I just don’t know what. Her face is the last thing I see before I quietly shut the door, the noise on the other side immediately muffled.

Keith leans back in his chair, his hands folded over his chest. He eyes me critically and it feels like stepping into an oil slick. His attention clings to me, and not in a good way. “How would you say your time in the mountains went?”

I remain standing. “Fine.”

I’m afraid to be too effusive. I don’t want to set myself up for whatever trap he’s laying.

He hums. “You had a little trouble, didn’t you? Following the rules. Listening to my orders.”

Him and his orders. It takes every iota of control in my body to not roll my eyes. “I think constructive discourse in the workplace is healthy,” I say.

You once had me report from a toilet, I add in my head. I think your orders are a bunch of shit. Literally.

“Right, well. The reason I called you in here is because Ava Monroe reached out. She followed along with your weather report, and she had some thoughts.”

He pulls a sheet of paper out from beneath his keyboard, flattening it against his desk. My heart leaps to my throat, and I try not to let myself catastrophize. “Good thoughts?” I ask.

Keith makes a noncommittal sound.

“She was happy with the numbers you pulled in and shared that you have a bright future in feature work.” He finally looks up at me, tapping his thumb against his desk. “I agreed with her.”

I hesitate. “Okay?”

The things he’s saying are objectively good things, but Keith has always had trouble with praise that’s aimed in my direction. No way he listened to ownership wax poetic about me without a reaction.

He nods. “It’s under that feedback and recommendation that, effective today, I’ll be moving you to community outreach.”

If there were crickets in this office, they’d be chirping.

“Community outreach,” I repeat slowly. “What does that mean?”

“After today’s broadcast, you’ll formally report to Mindy in the features department.”

That sentence hits me like a physical blow, one word at a time.

Formally.

Move.

Under.