Carried Away

Then again, my resolve has never really been tested before. Ben and everyone else I worked with didn’t know the Pizza Face kid whose mother left them for another woman. It was easy to convince them I was like everybody else when I didn’t have to change their mind of who I had been.

To that end, I can’t hide at the hotel forever.

The sidewalks of Main Street are crowded with locals and tourists. It’s a weekday so it’s not as bad as weekends and holidays, but busy nonetheless.

On the way to the offices of The Gazette, I decide to live dangerously and pop into a gourmet coffee shop and grab a latte. Running into someone, anyone, that knew me then and having to explain why I’m back is not something I want to do right now but I can’t live in fear either.

As I’m walking out, stepping onto the ice and snow slicked concrete, I almost crash, latte first, into someone entering.

“Whoops, sorry,” I automatically call out.

At first I don’t recognize her. The sexy razor sharp pink bob. The tiny diamond stud in her nose. The perfectly applied makeup. It’s all new. However, the smile and the laughter in her eyes is unmistakable.

“Gina?” I say, both surprised and happy to see her.

“Carrie? Oh my God, when did you get back?”

Throwing her arms around me, she hugs me tightly while I hold up the take-out cup to avoid spilling it all over her. The girl has not changed one bit.

“A few weeks ago.”

“It’s so good to see you. And I go by Regina these day. You know, since Imma business owner and a pillar of the community.”

I can’t stop grinning. It’s not just good to see her; it’s great. “Good for you. Which business?”

“Across the street,” she tells me, motioning to a stately, turn-of-the-century red brick building. “The bar.”

A brass sign hangs over the heavy wood and glass door. Queen, it reads.

“Wow. Nice place.”

“It’s a lot of work, but it’s mine.”

“You did good,” I say, taking it all in. I guess I wasn’t the only one with big aspirations.

Smiling, she tugs on my sleeve. “What about you?” Despite the smile, something in her expression tells me she knows.

“You know, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, cringing. “Enzo’s on Twitter a lot––probably too much. He told me.”

Gina’s older brother. “He’s a fan, I take it?”

He pert little nose scrunches and she nods. “Dallas all the way. You look great, by the way. All glowed up.”

“Speak for yourself.”

She’s lost some of the extra weight, but her curves are still there and her face is as pretty as ever. Especially her poreless skin; it’s the first thing I noticed about her when we met over a decade ago.

“I should get going. I have to open and let my crew in. Come by the bar sometime soon. I’ll make you a cocktail, and we can catch up.”

We part ways after I promise to come by and she hugs me again.

By the time I reach the offices of The Gazette my fingers are ice cold and my cheeks raw from the windchill. It’s April and still colder than Zelda’s heart.

I take my red knit hat off and make an attempt to fix my staticky hair. It’s down today. Jackie would approve. Then I push on the glass door and enter reception.

A young man, early twenties, slight in build and features, glances up from his computer screen. He has light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He checks me out and offers a genuine smile. “Can I help you?”

Time to dance.

At this point I can only hope they’re clueless about my scandalous behavior on Twitter. “Hi, I’m Carrie Anderson,” I say, stepping forward, I place the manila envelope on the counter. “I was hoping to speak to someone about possibly working here?”

His blank, deer-caught-in-the-headlights stare leads me to rush into my pitch. “I have a BA in Journalism from Arizona State. I––”

“We’re not hiring,” he interrupts with an apologetic smile. “But let me get Hal, our EIC. He might know of something.”

The little hope I churned up on my walk over here dwindles until I’m silently brooding. I can’t even get a job at the crappy local paper.

In the meantime, the young man picks up my resume and walks to the back of the two-room office, disappearing through an open doorway. A few minutes later he waves me in. He’s slim and tall, taller than Jake.

Sitting behind an ancient metal desk is a black man, thin, bald, in his late sixties is my guess, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and a short neat silver beard. He smiles warmly and I immediately get a good feeling about him.

“Have a seat please, Miss or is it Mrs. Anderson?”

I take him up on his invitation to sit and push my coat off. “Miss. But please call me Carrie.”