There are as many ways to update a news story as there are reporters. The original story, especially when it’s written on deadline, always includes the Who, What, When, Where and How.
But after that, the variations are endless as journalists seek expert perspectives, historical data, and community context.
I was never much of a mathematician—I barely passed Algebra and squeaked through Geometry only by watching online video tutorials—but I knew that as Patrick and I continued to cover the Nicky Wright story, there was a good chance, statistically speaking, that we’d run into each other.
Yes, even with a huge number of possible story angles and sources and updates, it was highly likely that our paths would cross at some point.
In other words, it was only a matter of time before I was face to face with him again.
I thought that after that initial meeting at the scene of Nicky Wright’s death, I had time to weigh my options for setting the tone of our communication. But again, I was wrong.
Unfortunately, our paths crossed for the second time the very next day. It was the same day our bylines graced opposing newspapers, symbolically throwing our new rivalry into the spotlight and casting long shadows (at least in my own mind) over our old strife.
Even more unfortunately, our paths crossed suddenly and without warning, because after I left Gram’s house, her words about paying Very careful attention still echoing in my mind, I went straight to work.
Patrick Longmeier was standing in my parking spot. Where was Lady Luck now? No one ever parked—or stood—in my spot.
I don’t usually drink in the car, but when I saw him there, all lanky limbs and windblown hair, I stopped in the driveway and threw one back. Then I parked, narrowly missing him with my fender. He stepped out of the way just fast enough.
“Nice day, huh,” Patrick said when I finally opened my car door.
I grunted in response.
“Couldn’t park somewhere else,” he said.
I always parked in this spot, and Patrick knew I was a creature of habit. In fact, he’d teased me about it daily when we were … well, when we were together, if that’s what you’d call our series of clandestine trysts and his subsequent annihilation of my heart.
“Nope,” I said. “This is my spot.”
It had never occurred to me to consider why this spot was always empty when I arrived.
“Couldn’t you work somewhere else?” I said. “Or live somewhere else? What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Huh. Out here in public?” I said.
He looked around, then, which reminded me that it was lunchtime, which meant the office ladies were out and the reporters were not yet in. Had he done this on purpose?
Then he looked right at me, his eyes locking onto mine. My heart started to beat faster—only enough that it was noticeable. Why did he have to be so good-looking? Why did his eyes have to glint like that, reminding me of the way we’d once argued over the merits of Shakespeare and Greek yogurt and tea versus coffee and Volkswagens? For the briefest moment, I was seventeen again, on the verge of tears as the gravity of his betrayal hit me.
“I’m proud of you, Rosie,” he said. “I know this is your dream job. It’s nice to see you’ve come out of your shell.”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” I said.
“I was young, Rosie,” he said.
“Not too young to get in my pants,” I said. “Besides. I was young, too.”
I was so young I believed that what we had—Chinese takeout in the woods, late-night checkers at the park, existential conversations over rainbow-colored ice cream—was something like love.
“I never got a chance to—”
He had a chance and he botched it.
“You had a chance,” I said.
“Could we just talk,” he said.
“Still avoiding question marks, I see.”
“I just want to talk to you.”
“I don’t think so.” I bent down to pick up the stack of stuff I carted between work and home, and when I straightened, Patrick’s gaze landed on my flask, shining silver in the sunlight.
“Everything okay, Rosie,” he said.
“Why are you here, Patrick?” I hated the vitriol in my own voice.
“I wanted to talk to—”
“No,” I said. “I mean, why are you here, in Juniper?”
“Oh,” he said. “Coincidence, really.”
Gram’s voice came from out of nowhere: Coincidence is a myth, Rosie. Always remember that. Because my arms were full, I didn’t have a hand free to open my flask. But I wanted to.
Instead, I said, “Great. So happy you’re back. I’ve got work to do.”
Then, I walked away from Patrick Longmeier, just like I should have done after that first night, after he finished taking photos from the roof of the movie theater. I thought I would experience some level of satisfaction when the newsroom door clicked shut behind me. But I didn’t.
A tiny—but growing—voice in my mind was begging me to hear him out. Who was I, it argued, to stop him from apologizing, if that’s what he’d come to my office to do? Who was I to stop him from groveling?
I was Rosie Taylor, that’s who.
I may be Rosie Taylor, but that didn’t mean I could avoid talking to Patrick Longmeier forever. I couldn’t even avoid talking to him for twenty-four hours.
A press conference in a small town is almost like a class reunion. Only, reporters usually arrive with fresh pens and full notebooks instead of fresh hairstyles and Spanx. We share cigarettes instead of stories and show off with lead paragraphs instead of fancy cars and job titles.
Of course, Patrick managed to fit right in, like he’d graduated with the class of Juniper journalists; stood shoulder to shoulder with us during local elections and school board meetings and parades.
I showed up to the Juniper Police Department’s press conference three minutes before its four p.m. start time, the world tilting slightly as I walked in (thanks to the moonshine I’d guzzled in the parking lot).
I should not have been surprised that Patrick was already there, or, worse, that he was sitting in my usual spot, at the end of the second row next to radio reporter Sally Jo Harris, who was not only one of my closest friends but also just a little bit prettier and a lot charming than I was.
The two of them sat there, heads inclined towards one another, sharing some secret.
Which is what you’re good at, Patrick Longmeier, I thought.
Of course, at that very moment, Sally Jo threw her head back and gave a bawdy laugh, and Patrick looked around sheepishly to see if anyone noticed. And of course, he saw me standing at the back of the room, glaring at him.
If my face reflected my thoughts at all, he probably thought I wanted to kill him with throwing knives. No wonder his expression sobered so quickly.
Somewhat bolstered, I chose a spot in the back row, several seats down from another radio reporter, David Greene. David smelled like dirty socks and breathed like someone was sitting on his chest all the time. He chewed his fingernails down to the bed, and he shredded his cuticles next.
So why Patrick got up from his spot beside Sally Jo (who always smelled like Ivory soap), and came to sit between David and me, I wasn’t sure.
Immediately, I wished I hadn’t been thinking about how people smelled, because Patrick smelled the same as he always had: woodsy and masculine and clean. My body went haywire. My breasts tingled, my skin shivered, and my lower abdomen heated up, spreading warmth downward.
I braced myself for another of his awkward conversation starters, but he didn’t deliver.
Instead, he leaned his shoulder against mine. If he turned his head, he’d be able to nuzzle my neck. Of course, that thought gave me chills. Like the good ol’ days, right Taylor?
Just before his lips grazed the skin below my ear (at least, in my imagination), he said, “Geezus, Rosie. You smell like a damned distillery.”
Hmm. I’d never stopped to consider what I smelled like to other people.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. “Why—”
“You shouldn’t,” he said. “It’s unprofessional.”
“Why don’t you go back to Sally Jo and her Ivory soap?”
“Look, Rosie—”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I said.
“Got it,” he said. “I got it loud and clear earlier.”
“Then why are you—”
He held up a hand. His face was inches from mine. It’s not that I wanted him to kiss me, but the image was there. “Rosie. Let me finish, please.”
“Fine.”
He leaned even closer. So close that when he spoke, I could feel his breath on my lips. Even as my skin prickled with anticipation and my body begged for him to put his hands on it, warning bells went off in my mind.
“I want you to know that I’m not going easy on you,” he said. He hooked a strand of my hair around his finger and twirled it. My lady parts jumped to attention, and I hated him for it. “You cemented our relationship as rivals when you refused to talk to me earlier.”
“Actually, Patrick,” I said, practically spitting out his name and leaning back so my hair spiraled off his finger. “You cemented our relationship as rivals when we were still in high school. And now that you’re here, I have a feeling you’re going to be sorry you came back.”
An interesting expression crossed his face then. Remorse, maybe? Or resignation?
But then he clenched his jaw, scooted even closer to me, and said, “I doubt it very much, Rosie. I couldn’t be happier to be here. Unless and until, of course, I scoop you on every new break in this story. Which is exactly what I plan to do. And then, you’ll be sorry I came back.”
In a defiant voice that sounded childish, even to my own ears, I said, “I already am.”
I stood up, straightened my shirt (even though I’m sure it was already straight) and marched to the front of the room to sit next to Sally Jo.
She leaned over and whispered, “Did you see Patrick Longmeier’s back in town?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Saw him earlier,” I said. “Didn’t have a chance to call you, yet.”
“He looks good.”
I rolled my eyes again. “Always has.”
“Maybe he’s here to win you back. Earn your forgiveness.”
Now, I shook my head. Patrick Longmeier, ask for forgiveness? Hell would freeze over, first.
Sally Jo handed me a stick of gum, which she did at every press conference, and for the first time, I wondered if it’s because I smelled like a distillery.
I didn’t have time to ask, though, because at that moment, Juniper Police Department detective Joey Mancuso stepped up to the podium and tapped the microphone. The quiet talking ceased in a half-second, and he said, “We have a suspect in the Nicky Wright murder case.”