The Last Guy

“Chas-say McQueen.”

“I gotta go.”

He’s across the room faster than I expected he’d move. Maybe his hangover isn’t as uproarious as mine? I haven’t budged, and he’s scooped up his shoes, hand on the doorknob when he pauses.

“Uh . . . about last night. I—”

“You don’t have to say a thing.” I hold up both hands like he’s got a gun on me. “Shots. Lots of shots. Big mistake. Huge. What happens in the apartment stays in the apartment.”

Something passes across his face I don’t understand. Confusion? Disappointment? Regret? His forehead creases as he studies me, then he nods, a short, brusque nod.

“I’ll see you at work.”

With that he’s out the door, and I collapse on the spot with a moan. “Oh, God! Now I really do need to die.”

Rebecca

VICKY IS WAITING for me when I arrive at the station at three. I’m usually in by nine, but I was vomiting in my toilet at nine.

“I spent the whole night thinking about this,” she says, following me as I walk.

I’m in the newsroom with my sunglasses still on. I’ve managed my headache with several ibuprofen, but the harsh fluorescent lighting isn’t doing my puffy eyes any favors—another mark against me in Marv’s book.

I nod.

“Marv is a spineless bastard. He should have fought for you,” she continues. “But . . . if you’re weekend executive producer, just think of the power we could have . . . over story selection, guest interviews—”

“I’m not interested in production. My contract as a reporter isn’t up until December thirty-first.”

“It’s late September.” She’s looking at me with those clear blue eyes. “Just think about it,” she says, before striding down the hall.

She has a point. If we want to make a change in the priorities of this city, one of the best ways to do it is take over the highest rated news station in town. Still, I thought I’d be doing it from behind the anchor desk.

Glancing down at my tight skirt, I think about how I should have gotten up and gone for a jog this morning. The mild nausea is back at the very thought. Exhaling a sigh, I start up the hall when Cade emerges from his office, and our eyes meet. Lightning strikes my already clenched stomach, and I take a step back. His perfect lips tighten into a thin line, and his eyes dart away as he heads into Marv’s office.

Oh, God . . . I force myself to start breathing again. Going to my desk, I shake my mouse to wake my computer. The screen pops up, and I look over my schedule for the day. Continued coverage of Planetary Princess . . . No, I shake my head. I just can’t.

Snatching up my phone, I punch Vicky’s number. She answers on the first ring.

“You’ve come to your senses?” I can tell by her tone she’s annoyed with me.

“I think I’ve got a stomach bug.” It’s true. I’m a coward. “I’ve got to go home. Savannah can take day two of Planetary Princess.”

“Savannah’s covering the wastewater treatment plant.”

“She’ll owe me one.”

I hang up, thinking about the perky twelve-year-old reporter Marv hired over the summer. Okay, she’s twenty-three. Still, Vicky’s been giving her shit stories (literally) in the name of “paying her dues.” The truth is I’m the one getting shat on. With her size zero waist and perky little breasts, Savannah will be in the weekly anchor’s chair, the very top spot next to Cade, by year’s end. Another jolt of nausea wrecks my beleaguered stomach, and I make a straight line to the door.

Chas is home when I arrive, curled up on the couch eating popcorn and watching Wendy Williams. Wendy Williams has a show.

“What are you doing home?” Her legs pop out and she trots over to me.

I drop my purse on the floor where I stand. My roommate’s eyes flicker from my sunglass-covered face to my purse on the floor and back.

“Come sit on the couch with me. Wendy’s debuting her Janet Jackson poncho.”

“Uhhh . . .” I moan, following my bestie to the couch.

“Did you wear my black Kim K satin robe?”

I drop on the couch and flop over on my side, burying my face in the faux-mink throw pillow.

“I don’t mind,” Chas continues. “I just need to know if you spunked it up. That is dry clean only.”

“Nooo . . .” My face still in the pillow.

“What’s wrong, sugarplum?” I feel Chas’s long hand stroking my side. “Chris the astronaut couldn’t get it up? Girl, y’all were throwing them back last night. I’m surprised you’re moving.”

Another wince and a moan into the pillow.

“If you’re not going to start speaking English, I’m taking Wendy off mute.”

I turn my face so my mouth is uncovered. “He got it up,” I say in a mournful tone. “Several times.”

“Yes, he did!” She’s shouting and clapping like she just won Drag Race. “That’s my girl! You go!”

I pull the faux-cashmere throw off the back of the couch and over my head. “Please stop screaming. I’m about to die.”

“You know when my aunt LouVerne worked at the Libby glass plant in Little Rock, she got totally wasted one night and slept with both her bosses at the same time—”

“Cade is not my boss. He’s the asshole sports-director.”

“He didn’t seem like an asshole to me!” Chas is too excited about this. “Anyway, Aunt LouVerne ended up pregnant and had no idea which one was the father.”

I confess, I’m piqued. “What happened?”

“She took my advice and went with the one who wasn’t in her ass, of course!” she laughs. “And they were married twenty years.”

My face crinkles. “I can’t believe she told you that. How old were you?”

“Oh, honey, don’t do that with your face. Marv won’t even want you in production with that puss.”

Slapping the pillow, I sit up. “I don’t want to work in production! I want my own show!”

“Toddlers and Tiaras!” Chas calls, one hand cupped beside her mouth. “Someone’s missing from the set!”

“I’m sorry,” I sigh and collapse on the comforting pillow. “It’s hard to accept when your dreams are over.”

The room falls quiet. Wendy is on our enormous television twirling in her poncho. I want to make an Urban Sombrero joke, but I’m not really in the mood to laugh. What I really need is a good long cry.

When Chas speaks again, her voice is softly serious. “Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”

“What?” My voice is sad as I trace my finger along the lines of the faux mink.

“If your dream is to have a show, you need to pursue it. You need to take the steps to make it happen.”

“It’s too late.” I’m not pouting. I’m simply stating the facts. “Marv thinks I’m too old, too fat, and I don’t want to move to another station.”

My phone starts to buzz, and I lift it. It’s the station. I don’t want to talk to Vicky or Marv, so I send it to voicemail.

“I’m going to lie down. I’m not feeling so well.”

“I’ve got a show tonight at the Tick Tock, so I’ll be late again. Will you be all right recovering alone?”