chapter ten

chase

“This town doesn’t deserve her,” Meghan whispered to me in front of the barber shop, where Mayor Angela Michaels had just arrived for the ribbon-cutting on Main Street. Wearing tennis shoes with her navy pantsuit, she’d walked the four blocks from city hall, saying the weather was too beautiful not to enjoy the fresh air. She greeted everyone by name as she came down the sidewalk, including both of us. A few years ago, Angela was simultaneously Woodvale’s first Black mayor and first female mayor—proof that even in this small, conservative town, people couldn’t deny her capability and charm.

“If she doesn’t get re-elected, I’m moving,” I mumbled to Meghan as I set up my camera, framing my shot to include the red, white, and black balloon arch around the door to the new barber shop. I hit record just in time to catch the mayor shaking hands with the owner, which would make for some good b-roll content.

“In that case, I just might start campaigning against her,” Meghan said. We exchanged antagonistic glances before I turned back to my camera. We still had a few minutes to go, and a small crowd was beginning to gather on the sidewalk. I liked ribbon-cuttings, because they were usually low-key, predictable events. Occasionally someone would hire a DJ or have a local baker cater the event, but besides that, they were pretty straightforward. A couple of speeches, a comically oversized pair of scissors, and a photo op. Short and sweet.

I’d been to dozens of these, and so had Meghan. Part of the reason I always looked forward to covering ribbon-cuttings was because I knew it meant I’d probably have some interaction with her. Even if it was just a glare in my direction.

But this time, we rode together. And she even complimented me on my appearance—if “Wow, you look more put-together than normal” could be considered a compliment, that is. She took it back when I showed her the retro elbow patches on my new tan blazer that I purchased weeks ago but never worn because I didn’t like trying new things. That, and the tag was itchy on the back of my neck.

I also preferred my worn-in Vans over these loafers, which I normally reserved for formal events. My youngest sister, Madi, whom I’d Facetimed the night before, assured me the shoes looked fine with my dark jeans. It appeared Meghan approved of the look, too. I caught her looking me up and down a couple of times while we waited on this thing to get started.

Just as I was ready to call her out on it, a loud rumble down the block caught everyone’s attention. We all watched a metallic gray Porsche creep by before parking up on the corner. Its front end blocked a portion of the blue curb reserved for handicapped parking, and it was no surprise at all when Silas Brown stepped out of the car.

He strutted over to the sidewalk, pushing his sunglasses up off his eyes as he approached the crowd. “Nice wheels,” the barber shop owner, a guy with a neatly trimmed beard and an obnoxious fade, said. “How fast does that thing go?”

Silas responded with a grin, satisfied with the attention. “At least one-fifty. Ask me how I know.” Meghan and I exchanged a look of mutual disdain as this quickly shifted to the Silas show. The ribbon-cutting was scheduled to start three minutes ago, but everyone was so surprised by Silas’s unannounced arrival, preparations for the event seemed to come to a halt. It took the mayor clapping her hands together, like a teacher trying to control her pupils, to get everyone back on track. “All right, are we all here? Shall we get started?”

Silas spotted me and made his way down the sidewalk toward us. “Morning,” he said, giving us both a little head nod. Then, he took in my equipment–the camera, the tripod, the WWTV microphone on a boom stand–before eyeing Meghan, who was standing beside me with her notebook out and her phone ready to record. His gaze lingered on her tattoos, which were hard to miss that day thanks to the short-sleeved black blouse she had on. Her top button was undone, which was likely an intentional move to reveal the “this too shall pass” tattoo on her collarbone.

And she wasn’t smiling. I clenched my jaw at the audacity of staring your CEO in the face and not even bothering to fake a polite grin. I was both nervous for her and a little turned on. Thankfully for both of them, the festivities began, and the three of us diverted our attention to a speech given by the barber shop owner. He introduced himself as Troy Hatfield before he started rambling on about how this day was a dream come true.

The mayor said a few words, too, followed by the president of the Chamber of Commerce. After the actual ribbon-cutting, Troy’s wife invited everyone to come inside and have some cookies made by a local baker. And that was that. Meghan pulled out her Nikon and asked the whole group to pose for a picture. She had her notebook ready for interview questions for Troy, but before she could say a word, Silas planted himself between the two of them with his back to Meghan. “How long have you been cutting hair?” he asked, his tone casual but commanding.

“About twelve years,” Troy answered. “I started out as an apprentice at a small shop uptown, learning the trade from an old-timer who’d been cutting hair in Woodvale since the ’70s.”

What followed this exchange was a rapid-fire series of questions from Silas, as though he were conducting his own interview, completely unprompted. All Meghan could do was step aside and let these men talk. She gave me a look of confusion and whispered, “He’s asking all the questions I was going to ask.”

“Start recording, I guess.” I already was, keeping the camera locked on the barber’s face with the balloon arch behind him. With a little creativity, I could edit Silas out completely. I’d make it work. Meghan was growing more anxious by the second, though, and I could tell she was debating whether she should interrupt. Finally, Silas seemed to notice her in his peripheral vision, and he stepped aside.

“I apologize—I guess you’re waiting to do your job, huh?”

Meghan tilted her head and shot him a tiny smile, but it was the same look she frequently gave me before telling me to go jump off a bridge. I was pretty familiar with that disdainful, sarcastic grin. Luckily for her, Silas wasn’t.

I panned the camera to include Meghan and stood back with my hands in my pockets. “So, tell us again how long you’ve been cutting hair, and where you did your training?” Her voice lacked its usual confidence.

And to make matters worse, Troy gave her a cocky smirk, glancing over at Silas before answering. “As I just said, I’ve been doing it for about twelve years.” He repeated more of what he’d just told Silas.

“What made you decide it was time to open your own place?”

“Again,” he began, jerking his head toward Silas, “I had built up a loyal clientele and decided it was time.” This was a shorter answer than he’d given Silas. The interview carried on just like that, with this asshole treating Meghan like she was preventing him from doing something more important. The difference in how he spoke to Silas and how he answered Meghan’s questions made my blood boil.

If Silas hadn’t been standing right there, I might have something to say. I’d remind this guy Meghan was doing him a favor by giving his business some media attention, so if he could stop being a jerk to her, that’d be fucking great. The words were on the tip of my tongue, getting closer and closer to spilling out with every cocky response.

But as it turned out, I wouldn’t need to defend Meghan at all.

After another rude, dismissive answer out of Troy, Meghan paused her voice memo and said, “If I’m wasting your time, Mr. Hatfield, just say that. I can go.”

Oh, shit—I should’ve known she didn’t need any help from me. I kept the camera rolling. Immediately, Silas swooped back in, holding his arm out between the two of them in an attempt to diffuse the situation. He directed his attention toward the barber. “I apologize for her, Mr. Hatfield—that’s probably enough questions anyway, huh?” He glanced at Meghan, but he didn’t wait for her to speak up before opening his mouth again. “Why don’t you show us the inside of your shop?”

He clapped a hand against Troy’s shoulder and followed him beneath the balloon arch through the open door of the shop, leaving Meghan standing on the sidewalk with her mouth gaping open. “What the actual fuck?”

Without hesitation, I pulled the microphone from its stand and maneuvered in front of the camera beside Meghan. “This just in: Misogyny on Main Street,” I said in my newscaster voice. “A local barber and hotshot CEO demonstrate the latest in condescending behavior toward women, leaving one local reporter stunned . Meghan, do you have anything to say?”

I held out the mic toward her, but she only glared at me in response.

Turning back to the camera, I said, “Folks, she’s utterly speechless. Back to you in the studio, Jillian.”

“You’re stupid,” Meghan muttered. I knew she wanted to appear angry, but that dimple on her cheek made it obvious she wasstruggling to keep herself from smiling. Mission almost accomplished.

Grinning as I packed up my equipment, I said, “You know you love me.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“Come on, you have to admit, that–” Before I could pester her any more, Silas burst from the barber shop, his face red with anger, shaking a pointed finger at Meghan.

“You work for me, correct?”

Meghan glanced down at her notebook. “I’m not doing this for my own enjoyment.” Jesus fuck, Meghan.

“What’s your name?”

“Meghan. Meghan Dobson.”

“All right, Meghan—let’s be a little more polite to the people we’re interviewing, yeah? Especially when they’re one of our sponsors?”

“Will do.” She was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, despite the fake smile on her lips.

“And you.” He turned to me, making me swallow. After looking me up and down, he said, “Keep doing what you’re doing. I like it.”

Damn it, I really didn’t want to accept a compliment at the moment. “Uhh. Yes, sir,” I answered, adjusting my glasses. Silas gave Meghan one more long-lasting stare before strolling back to his Porsche. I half-expected her to flip him off as he climbed inside, but she resisted.

“I’m going to quit,” she muttered the second his engine roared.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m going to burn down his fucking house.”

“C’mon,” I said, throwing my camera bag over my shoulder. I was tempted to rest my hand on the back of her arm as we started down the sidewalk, but I feared she might bite it off. “Let’s go get you an iced coffee.”

**

In the car, Meghan’s disgust turned into worry. “I probably shouldn’t have been such a bitch to our CEO.”

I couldn’t exactly disagree, so I just kept my mouth shut.

She swirled her iced coffee around—which she refused to let me buy for her in the Riverside drive-thru—and shook her head. “I’m going to single-handedly get the paper shut down with my big mouth. At the very least, I’m probably going to get sacked.”

“For what it’s worth, that barber was being an ass. I almost said somethingto him myself.”

She let out a little laugh as she swallowed her coffee. “Yeah, right.”

“I mean it, Meg,” I said. The nickname slipped out–I hadn’t called her that since we dated. It felt too intimate, and deep inside, I knew I no longer had the privilege to call her by that name. I quickly spoke again, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “You beat me to the punch.”

Meghan slowly inhaled and exhaled, either a reaction to the old nickname or mere frustration with me. Maybe both. “You’re the most non-confrontational person in the world, Chase.”

“When it comes to my own matters, sure. But when someone’s being a dick to a person I—” I stopped abruptly, deciding at the last second I didn’t want to reveal I cared about her. She’d never let me hear the end of it.

I could feel her staring at me as I drove. “What? Someone you what?”

“Work with. When someone’s mistreating a colleague of mine, I can be confrontational if need be. Even if it’s you.” Especially if it’s you. “But you didn’t need me, did ya?” I smiled, just remembering the look on the guy’s face when she snapped at him.

Meghan drew a hand to her forehead. “God. This newspaper’s already a sinking ship, and I just lit it on fire.”

“Why don’t we focus on our next story, huh? Something good enough to make the man realize he can’t fire you.” I knew from experience distraction was one of the best ways to turn Meghan’s mood around. “How are you going to beat Xander?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “He’s even got Jill scheming against me now, so we’re going to have to come up with something good. Why don’t we both spend this weekend brainstorming and meet Monday morning to hash out some ideas?”

“Okay. I have one now, though.” The night before, some kid left a comment on our YouTube channel about some weird symbols etched into stones he found in the woods that the Woodvale Witch supposedly haunted, and I was dying to talk to him about it.

“It better not be about ghosts,” Meghan warned, and I promptly closed my mouth. “That’s what I thought. I want a list of non-paranormal story ideas from you on Monday, please.”

“You’re not my boss.” I glanced over at her, and she responded by blinking at me a couple of times. “I mean, yes ma’am.”

And Meghan laughed. It wasn’t a cruel, cold laugh, either—it was a genuine chuckle, followed by a smile that wouldn’t go away. She even turned toward the passenger window, as if trying to hide it from me. But I’d already seen enough.

I was getting really good at this.

**

“When’s the last time you had a home-cooked meal, Chase?” Erika asked me as she placed a bowl of mashed potatoes on the center of the kitchen table. Sean was bouncing Dimitri on his knee beside me to soothe his crying, but it wasn’t working. Between that and the sound of their running dishwasher behind me, it was all so distracting that it took a few seconds longer than it should have for my brain to register Erika’s question.

“If you don’t count the pizza rolls I microwaved last night, then the last home-cooked meal I had was probably… the last one you cooked for me.”

Erika laughed. “Pizza rolls don’t count. You either need to learn how to cook or get yourself a wife, sir.”

“I know how to cook,” I said, reaching for the green beans. And it was true–give me a recipe, and I could make almost anything. Nobody could beat my barbecue ribs. “But I live alone, so what’s the point? I’m not doing all that for myself.”

“Then you need to get you a lady friend to cook for,” Erika said, taking the seat across from me. The three of us—or four of us, if you counted the screaming infant—were crowded at one end of the table because our Comic Con plans were spread out at the other end.

Now that we were just a few weeks away from the event, Sean and I decided it was time to start meeting weekly to make sure it was all coming together. Sean revealed he finally received an email from Ethan Killian’s assistant, who wanted to know more about our security arrangements and local accommodations. He was all set to sign autographs at the convention, as long as we could prove our professionalism.

That’s what we were working on that Friday night, ensuring we had everything in place to back up the promises we made to Ethan’s assistant. I had started to gather my things to leave when Erika came into the kitchen to cook, but she insisted I stay.

I was glad I did, too—her porkchops were amazing.

Swallowing a bite, I shook my head at the “lady friend” remark. “I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”

“How’s working with Meghan going?” Sean asked, having finally gotten Dimitri to quiet down by holding his pacifier in his mouth.

Erika’s head shot my direction. “You’re working with Meghan?”

I spooned a heap of mashed potatoes onto my plate. “Yeah, we just started collaborating on some online hybrid stuff this week. And it’s going okay, I guess. Neither of us want to be working together, but we’re making the best of it.”

“Tell her I said hello, will you?” Erika asked. “We keep in touch online, but our interactions don’t really extend past her liking photos of Dimitri, and me doing the same for her cat.”

“Oh yeah, Wanda,” I said, staring down at my plate with a smile. “Got to see her the other day.”

“You went to Meghan’s place?” Sean looked up with wide eyes.

With a casual shrug, I said, “We had to swing by her apartment to pick something up, and I just wanted to pop in to see if the cat remembered me.” I looked up from my food, catching Erika and Sean giving each other a quick, knowing glance. My eyes darted back and forth between them. “She does,” I added a bit too quickly while the two of them stared at me like they knew something I didn’t.

“Just be careful,” Erika said, picking up a knife to butter her roll. “Don’t go falling back in love with her. You know how much she hurt you the first time around.”

I swallowed, thinking back to the way I often vilified Meghan when I came here to vent to them after our break-up, claiming she left me out of the blue “for no reason.” I probably shouldn’t have omitted my own fuckups. “I’m the one who hurt her,” I corrected, though I was about three years too late.

“That might be true, but I seem to recall you crying on our couch the night she left, drowning your sorrows in a bottle of–”

“He probably doesn’t want to relive all that, hon,” Sean interrupted, attempting to eat while balancing the baby in one arm. I bowed my head in subtle gratitude. “Let the poor man eat.”

He was correct, I didn’t want to relive that night for the millionth time, but it seemed no matter how much time passed, the memories crept up on me anyway. With or without Erika’s reminders, I could still see Meghan’s taillights as she peeled out of our driveway. I still recalled the look on her face when she showed up the next morning to retrieve her things—not to make up, like I’d assumed. I could still feel the shame deep in the pit of my stomach at how I just sat on the couch, barely able to speak, and let her pack up her stuff. All I could manage to say was her name.

“Meg…”

“Don’t. It’s too late.”

And she was gone.

I tried not to think about her while we ate, half-listening to Sean and Erika plan their couples’ costume for the cosplay dance party we had scheduled to close out the Comic Con. But my mind kept drifting back to Meghan and how she looked that time we dressed like Mulder and Scully at Jill’s Halloween party, and the way she made me say “I want to believe” when we hooked up in their bathroom. How it made her laugh so hard she hit her head on the medicine cabinet. Those were the moments I ached for, when we could be completely silly together. Before she hated my guts. Before I let her down.

Erika’s warning echoed in my mind. “Don’t go falling back in love with her.”

Well, you can’t fall back in love with someone you never stopped loving in the first place.