She needed to say what she came over here for. “You can’t use the video.”
“Two of the Courier’s employees, filmed on the paper’s premises. I told you to get visuals. I think I can use it.”
“Jack wasn’t a Courier employee when it was filmed and I don’t give my permission.” It wasn’t a strong argument. It would take more effort than she knew how to muster to remove that footage from the internet. It was public property now, but it wasn’t the way Jack would want to be remembered.
Phil checked her over. “Tougher than you look, Honeywell.”
“What exactly is tough meant to look like?” Like Jack’s source who’d acted to right a wrong, despite being afraid, like Phil’s booming porch dog bark, like Jack standing on a chair trying to help others make sense of what had happened to him. Surely tough came in a variety pack to account for all the ways life could beat you down and force you to get back up again. Sick, disadvantaged, disabled, minority, poor. Sometimes tough was fighting for justice, sometimes it was trying to live a bigger life, sometimes it was getting out of bed in the morning.
“Right now it looks like my most junior section editor ready to fight me for what she believes in.”
She’d take that.
“We won’t run the tape, but I still want the story.”
“I can’t write it without Jack.” And Jack’s last story for the Courier wasn’t going to be something he never wanted to do.
“Sure you can, you’re tough. You’ll find a way.” Her way would be to write the story with Artie Chan like they’d agreed and then sell it to Phil as his only option and double-dare him to fire her for it.
“Why, Phil?” He knew she wasn’t asking why he wanted the story.
“The work Jack does is complex, takes time, and it’s bitterly contested by the people accused. The Courier doesn’t have the budget for that anymore. There are only a handful of media companies that do. This wasn’t personal, and I agree with Jack and Spin and everyone here, it’s a sad day for journalism. And the timing fucking sucked. Just don’t you go telling anyone I said that.”
Courageous of him to admit that. “I kinda hate you right now.” And kind of respected him too.
Phil turned back to face the bottles lining the bar. “I kinda hate me too.”
But the man she loved was standing behind her frowning. She swiveled her stool and he put a hand to her shoulder and stopped her knees with his thigh. Had someone shown him the video?
He bent so he could whisper in her ear. “Is Madden bothering you?”
She brought her hand to his face. “Not anymore.”
“I’m sorry about the video. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
She stood and he was so close she was pressed against him. “I’m not.” He shook his head. She drew a heart over his heart and ran an arrow thought it. “Jack loves Derelie.” And he’d declared it for all to see.
He caught her hand in his. “Jack should’ve asked if Derelie wanted that kind of attention. Jack knows better.”
“Jack had other things on his mind.”
He kissed the back of her hand. “Still.”
“Still want to get drunk?”
A quick headshake. “I’d like to find a back exit and leave quickly without a fuss.”
There was no back entrance and they didn’t get out of there quickly, and there was a fuss. Too many people who wanted to wish Jack well, to laugh about the video and pledge to stay in touch. He spent a few minutes with Phil and they shook hands. The contents of his box—mostly books, no stapler—went in her gym bag, and eventually they made it out to the sidewalk.
The city was breathing easier now, less people around, traffic moving freely. Derelie answered a text from Mom, one of dozens clogging her inbox, with a yes, that did happen, and a promise to call later, and then she took Jack’s hand as they walked home and tried to be what he needed when he’d lost the thing that he cared about the most.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jack got drunk on slowly heating rage and a cold six-pack on his own couch, staring at the TV and not seeing it. Derelie hung in there with him, but Martha had a better sense of his mood and cleared out, going to the bedroom and not reappearing.
Holding back his anger and taking the high road in public had seemed like the smart thing to do, but he was all out of fucks about appearances now. When Derelie quit on him and went to bed, he stayed where he was, hot discomfort in his body, jangled thoughts that wouldn’t line up in any direction but shot off down contradictory side alleys.
He’d get a new job quickly. He wouldn’t find a role anything like what he’d had. They didn’t exist anymore. The Courier would give him sterling recommendations. Being fired by the Courier would scare anyone else off employing him. Particularly if he was trailing legal trouble. He was going to need more beer, more everything alcoholic and more cigarette papers. Everything would be fine because this was a watershed moment. He’d look back and realize it was a jumping off point for something better, like a shift to television. What was this crap he was watching, some superhero shit? Superheroes didn’t wear capes, they were average people like Henri Costa.