The Last Guy

“Safety isn’t just my priority, it’s also the priority of Tommy Thompson Pre-Owned Vehicles—oh!” I bounce off Tommy, who’s standing with his feet spread and both hands on his hips like it’s a barn raising. “Excuse me,” I mutter.

“CUT!” Terence, Tommy’s neighbor or brother-in-law or cousin or I forget what, shouts like he’s Martin Scorsese. “Back to the top.”

“Gotta keep those eyes open, Miss Fieldstone!” Tommy’s voice is like my grandpa’s, and he lifts a meaty paw like he might pinch my cheek.

I swear to God, if he touches my face . . .

Taking a step toward the car, I bat a shiny gold balloon away from my head. “Maybe I should move toward the car? Hold my hand out like this?” I do a sweeping Price is Right motion toward the vehicle.

“I like it!” Terence calls from behind the camera. He’s a skinny guy shaped like a Coke bottle. “Let’s shoot it!”

I barely have time to get to my starting point before the red light switches on. Naturally, the wind kicks up to full-blast as soon as I start to walk.

“Safety isn’t just my priority, it’s also the priority of—shit!” The tornado of balloons twists around my arm, tangling in my bracelet. They’re around my waist. One bounces off my nose.

“CUT!” Terence yells, skinny shoulders falling. “Can’t use that!”

“Now, Miss Fieldstone, we’d like to run this during family hours,” Tommy laughs.

At least he has a good attitude. I’m ready to throw in the towel.

“Right . . .” I manage to untangle myself from the balloon ribbons. “How about I just stand beside you?”

“Great idea! We can act like we’re having a regular ol’ conversation.”

“That’ll give them something to watch.” I’m fighting to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“I know!” Terence’s skinny head pops out from behind the camera. His bushy brows are clenched. “Rebecca, how about you loosen your top button? You know . . . make it more interesting for the boys at home?”

“NO,” I snap.

Tommy lets out a loud laugh, I assume to gloss over his cousin’s bone-headed suggestion. Terence is back behind the lens.

“From the top!” he yells, and I take my place at my stocky employer’s side.

“I hate doing commercials!” My yell is muffled by the throw pillow. I can’t even say Thank God it’s Friday, because I have to be back out there tomorrow.

I’m lying on my stomach in our living room after a mind-numbing fifty takes, and Chas stalks from the kitchen holding a pitcher of pink liquid.

“You’re making more money than you’ve made in your life!” She emphasizes the words as she nudges my legs. “Have a drink.”

I sit up, pulling them under my butt and reaching for the flared martini glass. “But it’s not what I love. It’s not what I want to do.”

“You’re not speaking to what you love and what you want to do.”

My stomach cramps, and the ever-looming tears try to cloud my vision. “Stop!” I hold up one hand. “Do not say his name.”

Chas’s eyebrows rise and she shakes her head before sipping her Cosmo. My mind trips back to the night after it all came crashing down. That horrible night after that horrible morning when I’d arrived to see Savannah celebrating her new job . . .

After breaking up with Cade, I’d gone home to my apartment and cried until my head felt like it was going to explode and my nose was a snotty mess. I’d finally fallen asleep from exhaustion, and when I woke, it was nearly eleven—the perfect time to go back to the studio and finish cleaning out my desk.

I’d been so shell-shocked by what had happened and crushed by Cade’s involvement, I could barely see for fighting the tears. I was not going to cry in front of them. Now I had to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind.

“I was hoping you’d come back.” Vicky had met me in the hall. Of course, she’d still be at work. “I wanted to talk to you, and you aren’t answering your phone.”

“I turned it off.” My body was numb, and I continued to my desk without even lifting my eyes. “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“I’m sorry, Becks.” She followed me to the small area I’d managed to strip of most of my personal things earlier, in spite of my insides spiraling. “I had no idea the board would take Savannah seriously.”

Something about her tone made me snap. “You didn’t think the board would listen to Marv? You didn’t think they’d go with whatever their news director recommended?” I hadn’t meant to shout, but my emotions were all over the place. “Nobody even objected.”

“You’re right.” She’d nodded and looked down. “I let you down.”

“You never talked to Liz, did you?”

Her red head moved slowly back and forth. “We were so busy. The grabber story blew up, and then you were a hero. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think. It wasn’t your job on the line, so you didn’t care.”

Her eyes snapped to mine. “You know that’s not true. I’ve always cared what happens to my reporters.”

“Your reporters.” I surveyed my office space and decided I didn’t want anything else from this place. “I thought we were friends.”

I’d gone back to my apartment and spent the rest of the night sobbing in Chas’s lap. “She was supposed to be my friend.”

“Friends let you down.” Chas had stroked my head and fed me more alcohol.

More sniffing, more stomach cramps. “And him . . . I loved him.”

“I know, cupcake.”

“No,” shaking my head harder, “I really loved him. Not like James . . . Not like anybody else . . .” My chest squeezed, and more tears flooded my eyes. “He was . . .”

My roommate’s voice is sad. “He was your Star-Lord.”

Eventually I’d thrown up in the toilet, and cried myself to sleep on the cold bathroom floor. At some point Chas had gone to bed, and I’d woken up the next day covered in her fluffy pink robe, determined to move forward and not look back.

Three weeks later, it still hurts like hell.

“He betrayed me,” I say softly. “Vicky betrayed me . . . I counted on all of them, and they didn’t even fight for me.”

Chas is thinking—I can tell by the way she sips her Cosmo, but she isn’t saying what’s on her mind. Instead she rises with a flourish and returns to our small kitchen.

“By the way, this came for you today.” She picks up a white business-sized envelope and hands it to me.

“A letter?” I frown, ripping the linen envelope open and sliding out a single sheet of paper. “Who writes letters anymore?”

Across the top in gray ink surrounded by a sweeping circle in all caps are the words NBC 4 New York and the rainbow peacock.

“What is this?” I whisper, sitting up straighter and setting my glass aside.

My eyes fly down the sheet so fast, I’m barely reading the words.

“What is it?” Chas scoots closer to read with me. “NBC!”

“Brian Caldwell. He thanks me for my interest in working with their station . . . ‘Vicky Grant has spoken very highly of your work ethic and your recent assistance in capturing a criminal preying on senior citizens in the Houston area . . . ’” My eyes are huge, and I look up at my roommate. “He wants to schedule an interview! He says to call at my earliest convenience!”