Big Chicas Don't Cry(20)

Of course.

Dropping to my hands and knees, I searched for my things so I could collect them. My favorite lipstick had rolled underneath my desk, so I crawled over to it. Thank God I’d picked slacks instead of a skirt that morning. I reached for the lipstick but froze when I heard Adrian’s voice from above.

“I’m telling you, Charlie. It’s like she’s pushing me on purpose. Ledes are Journalism 101. Read this, and then explain to me how I’m supposed to think of her as one of my star reporters.”

My gut knew he was talking about me. Then Charlie confirmed it.

“Look, Adrian. I’ve known Erica for two years and she’s a professional. There’s no way she’s purposefully doing anything to make your job harder. Maybe we three need to have a sit-down and figure out how you two can make this work.”

My blood boiled. Perhaps not literally. But the heat emanating from every nerve in my body convinced me that anger was burning me from the inside out.

“Fine,” Adrian grumped. “We’ll do it your way and talk it out. But if things don’t improve, then we’ll have to take this to Tom. You both brought me here to make the News-Press into an award-winning newspaper. And I can’t do that if you insist on keeping someone so . . . mediocre.”

I bit my lip to keep from screaming. Fortunately, someone called Adrian’s name, and I heard them both walk away. When I was sure they hadn’t moved to the front of my desk, I carefully crawled out and stood up. Hot tears wet my eyes, and I grabbed my purse and headed to the women’s restroom. I stared at the floor as I walked inside. No way did I want to meet anyone’s eyes. It was empty, so I locked myself into the last stall, buried my face in my hands, and allowed myself to cry like I had been wanting to cry ever since Greg walked out of my condo.

Sure, I’d shed a few tears since then. But a part of me had held back the real grief. Partly because my cousins hadn’t let me wallow and partly because I didn’t want to give Greg that kind of power over me.

Maybe I hadn’t been the most perfect girlfriend, but I’d worked hard to keep the relationship going. And what did I get in return? An ex-boyfriend.

Now, Adrian was basically treating me the same way. In all my adult life, I’d never been accused of being unprofessional. In fact, I prided myself on a strong work ethic and being a team player, goddammit. What I lacked in talent, I more than made up for in dedication.

So how fucking dare he call my best efforts “mediocre.”

Eventually, the tears stopped and the frustration morphed into indignation. Charlie had defended me, and that counted for something. I had proven myself to both him and Tom, and deep down I knew that they weren’t going to let Adrian get rid of me without a fight.

Perhaps I needed to look at the situation in a different way. I had been trying to give the jerk the benefit of the doubt because of his experience and his Pulitzer. But screw that. I knew I wasn’t the only reporter who had issues with how Adrian ran the newsroom. It was time to play offense.

By the time my phone rang from inside my purse, I had a plan to put Adrian in his place before he could put me out.

“I need a drink,” I said as soon as I answered. The ringtone had already told me it was my friend Deanna on the other end.

“Just tell me when and where, and I’ll tell Mr. Dawson in the other room that we need to reschedule his emergency appendectomy,” she said with a laugh.

Deanna was a surgical resident at the county hospital, and we both knew she’d never ditch a patient to go day drinking. “No, that’s okay. Go save Mr. Dawson’s life. We’ll just drink after Sunday’s game.” I didn’t add that I also planned to do some solo drinking tonight.

“That’s actually why I called. I wanted to make sure you were coming. I didn’t know if you’d be feeling soccer after . . . you know.”

I did, but I didn’t want talk about it. Instead, I forced a smile Deanna couldn’t see and answered, “I’ll be there.”

A group of us had been meeting up on Sunday mornings to play pick-up soccer games at a local park. It was a coed team, and Deanna was our goalie, her boyfriend Mark was our lead scorer, and I played defense. I’d missed last weekend’s game because I’d had to work and was itching to get back on the field.

Soccer was a big part of my life—had been ever since my dad put me on a team when I was just six. Since then, I’d played in countless youth organizations and traveling club tournaments and on my high school varsity team. But dreams of playing professionally ended my first year of college, when I tore my ACL in my second game.

Even after surgery and months of rehab, I still wasn’t at the same level I had been and knew I would need a plan B for life after college.

Hello, journalism.

“We’re playing at ten now, and it’s your turn to bring the waters,” Deanna said.

“Too bad we’re not playing tomorrow,” I mumbled as I leaned my head against the restroom stall door. “I have a lot of anger that I need to let out on some soccer balls.”

“The Pinche Asshole again?” My friends and cousins also now referred to Adrian by his nickname.

“Yep.”

“Sorry, Erica. Well, try not to let him get you down too much.”

“I know. At least I’m off for the next three days. I’m going to sleep, drink, and binge-watch everything on Netflix.”