For the Record (Record #3)(9)

“But . . .”

“Can we go without the buts, Massey? I’ve kind of had a stressful weekend. I’d like to get back to some semblance of normal in my life.”

“But . . . do you think you’ll ever get back to normal?”

Well, that depended on the definition of normal. Maybe the change with Brady would become her new normal. She could live with that.

“I don’t even know what normal is,” she finally admitted. She hadn’t thought it was normal to be dating someone and always thinking of someone else. She hadn’t thought it was normal to hide her relationship or her feelings. She hadn’t thought it was normal to be miserable to give up someone she cared for. If those were normal, it would be better to try something out of the ordinary.

“Well, in case you weren’t aware,” Massey said, her voice still skeptical and cautious, “dating a congressman as a rising political journalist is not normal.”

Liz laughed, hoping to lighten the mood. “That I did know.”

“No, seriously.”

“I know,” Liz said, sobering. “I know there’s a fine line. But everything negative I wrote about Brady was before we started dating. And I’m not going to write about him now. I can just supervise.”

“Liz . . .” Massey said awkwardly, staring at the floor.

“What?” she asked.

“Um . . . about that.”

“About what?”

“I’m really sorry. I hate to do this. I know you’re so dedicated to the newspaper.”

Liz’s heart pounded. “Do what?”

“I think you should leave the paper,” she blurted out.

“What?” Liz gasped. She felt the blood drain out of her face. This was her world.

“It looks bad for us to have our editor in the news. It puts a stain on the newspaper as a whole. You have to understand.”

“You’re kicking me out?”

“No, well, I can’t do that,” Massey said sheepishly. “I just . . . I mean, we hope that you’ll step down without us having to speak with anyone. I mean we only have two months to graduation. It would just be a temporary leave of absence.”

“A temporary leave of absence,” Liz said hollowly. “Temporary in that in a couple months I’m graduating and never coming back to the paper.”

“It’s best for everyone.”

Everyone but Liz. She was sure of that. How could it be better for her not to be at the newspaper?

“You can’t be serious.” But Massey sure looked serious.

“It wasn’t an easy decision.”

“An easy decision for who?” Liz snapped, her anger bubbling up. “As far as I’m concerned this is only a simple decision for you. Get rid of the problem and, let me guess—you become editor?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Massey said defensively.

“I’m sure, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“You left me in charge as editor while you were sick. It’s an easy transition for me to just continue to do the work.”

“That would make sense, Massey, if I hadn’t slaved for years here to be the editor! You want to come in and take all of that away from me?”

“I’m not taking all of that away from you,” Massey said. “I’m telling you that it’s not feasible for you to continue to work for the paper when this is on the front page.” She grabbed a newspaper off of the desk and slapped it into Liz’s hands.

Liz glanced down and swallowed hard. A picture of her was on the front page. The headline read, “Congressman Maxwell Affair with UNC Reporter Confirmed.” Liz tried to steady herself as she read through the article. It was pretty cut-and-dried—straight out of the information Hayden and Calleigh had written as well as from the press conference. Still, seeing it like that on the cover made her feel nauseated. She had gotten herself worked up about the other papers last night, but this was so much worse. This was her paper.

Her eyes drifted to the byline. Massey Davis.

“You wrote this?”

Liz knew somewhere in her logical subconscious that if things were reversed she would have done the same thing. She would have written the article and published it. She would have done it without blinking. But it still hurt knowing that her friend had done it to her.

“I’m sorry,” Massey said softly. She actually did sound sincere. “Someone had to write it. No one really wanted to. We like you, Liz. We all liked you as editor. But we couldn’t ignore this. The paper would have looked like it was biased, trying to protect its own and all that.”

“Yeah, because that’s really so bad.”

“You know what I mean. We’re supposed to be objective. You were news. And on campus, you’re kind of big news,” Massey told her.

Liz tossed the paper back onto the desk without finishing reading. “I guess I am now.”

“You would have done the same thing.”

“Irrelevant,” Liz said, crossing her arms. “You’re kicking me off of the paper, Massey. This is my life. This is everything I’ve worked for.”

“I know,” Massey said helplessly. “If things calm down maybe you can still come back.”