Channel 20 Something (2 page)

Janet hit the play button again, and we watched the rest of the guy’s audition reel. It was amazing how much you could tell about someone in four minutes. He seemed to know his stuff. He had no accent at all, as if he’d grown up… nowhere, or maybe everywhere. He was funny, a creative writer. He would appeal to female viewers for obvious reasons, but I could see guys watching him, too.

With his wide shoulders and high-testosterone jawline, he looked like an athlete, a man’s man kind of guy, minus the twenty-six inch neck some former-jock sportscasters had. In short, he gave very good TV. The reel ended on a still shot of his face with his contact information printed underneath.

Aric Serrano.
His name is Aric.

Kenley wandered into the office and joined us. “What are we doing, ladies?”

“Heidi was drooling over our new weekend sports anchor,” Mara said, giving me a shoulder bump.

“Potential weekend sports anchor,” our boss corrected. “I haven’t watched all the reels yet.”

Kenley shot me a sideways glance under pinched eyebrows. “You have the perfect guy already. Why would you even look?”

“We’re on a break. Anyway, I’m not
looking
. I was just… looking.” I flipped a hand toward the guy’s frozen, beautiful face on the monitor. “He’s probably a total himbo, anyway.”

“Perfect,” Mara said. “How fast can he get here from… where’s he from?”

“He’s working in Mankato, Minnesota. But his resume says he’s from California and went to college in Boston,” Janet said.

“Ooh, a well-traveled himbo. Even better—and he’ll probably need some warming up when he gets here from Minnesota.” Mara grinned, rubbing her hands together.

Kenley stepped close to me and whispered, “You and Hale are on a break? When did this happen?”

“Um, yeah. I guess I have some news for you, too. I’ll tell you about it tonight.” I gave her a drop-it look, and she nodded.

Janet closed the video file, erasing God’s-gift-to-sports-and-women from her screen. “Well, it’s not like you can date Aric even if I do hire him, Mara. You know the rule.”

Our station owner, Mr. Aubrey, was an eccentric man who had strict ideas about “conduct unbecoming a WPLM employee,” and he had
lots
of rules. We weren’t allowed to curse in public, drive fast in the news cars, or wear short skirts. And we weren’t allowed to date co-workers.

Mara huffed an irritated breath. “Right. Like Mr. Aubrey is going to come check my bed every night and see who’s there.”

I couldn’t stifle a gasp. Mara was the bluntest person I’d ever known. She’d grown up in New England and always said exactly what she meant, which was a novelty in my experience. It was also kind of refreshing. She could be shocking, but I loved her.

As for Mara, she found the unwritten Southern rule of softened and sugar-sprinkled speech rather confusing. She was always encouraging me to
just say it, Heidi.

“I don’t know, girls,” Janet said. “Let’s not push it. We’re talking about Mr. Aubrey here. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

Mara, Kenley, and I made plans to meet in a couple of hours at the Rock Bottom, a local bar and dance club, our only real entertainment option in Pineland. We had to drive to Columbus or Starkville to even watch a movie or find any decent shopping. Not that any of us could afford to shop much. Broadcasting was one of the few professions where a college degree would get you a starting salary that easily qualified you for food stamps.

People always assumed because you worked on TV you made a lot of money. Maybe that was true after you’d paid your dues and clawed your way up to a large market, but not at this level. And there were so many applicants for every low-paying on-air job in every crappy little market, that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.

Mara and I were both nearing the end of our first contracts, each of us hired almost a year ago right out of college. Kenley had been here a year longer but probably wasn’t making much more than we were. At least we were all in it together, thus our regular excursions to the Rock Bottom to drown our collective sorrow. There was always money for cheap beer.

My phone rang as I got out of the shower. Tucking my towel around me, I crossed my tiny one-room apartment to look at the screen. It was Hale.

“Hi. Is everything okay?” My tone spelled out my confusion at his calling.

He, on the other hand, sounded like nothing had changed. “Hi honey. Just calling to say hello. What’re you up to?”

I hesitated. “I’m getting ready to go out.”

“Out? Where are you going? Who’re you going with?” Not accusatory, only curious, but his voice sounded forced, like he was trying too hard to be casual.

“Hale—we’re on a break. I thought we weren’t going to call each other.”

“I know, but I just wanted to check on you. I miss you.”

Silence filled the space where I was supposed to say, “I miss you, too.” I did miss him, but I didn’t want to tell him that.

The break had been my idea. If he detected any hint of caving, he’d be here within the hour, uncorking an expensive bottle of wine, offering a back rub, turning the conversation to our future and that Golden Time when we’d inevitably be married. Maybe I
should’ve
wanted all that, but somehow I didn’t quite, and I needed to figure out why. In the meantime, I had to stay strong.

I kept my voice carefully neutral. “Well, it’s nice of you to call and check on me, but I’m fine.”

The triple-beep from my microwave sounded behind me, reminding me I’d set it to cook for six minutes at least fifteen minutes ago. Hopefully my five-for-ten-dollars glazed chicken meal hadn’t gotten cold already.

“Is that the microwave?” Hale said. “I hope you’re not having one of those frozen diet dinners again. Listen, I stir-fried venison tonight. Why don’t I drop some by for you? You need better nutrition than a piece of Franken-chicken the size of a quarter and a tablespoon of white rice.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You know I’d rather have my frozen Frankenstein meal than eat Bambi. And my dietary well-being is not your concern. Thanks anyway. I’ve got to finish getting ready now—my friends will be waiting for me.”

“Well… all right then. You be safe. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Okay, bye—wait—did my parents invite you to dinner tomorrow?”

“Well, your dad said he had some new lures he wanted me to take a look at. He asked me to come over… he might have mentioned you’d be there.” I could hear his sheepish smile as he replied.

“Hale.”

“What? Are you really going to come between a man and his fishing lures?”

“Do we need to go over the concept of ‘taking a break’ again?”

He sighed audibly. “No. I understand you need some time to focus on your career and think about what that means for us. That’s fine. I already said I’d wait for you. But I promised your parents I’d stop by tomorrow, and I can’t go back on my word to Gordon and Melinda. Tell you what—when I get there, your dad and I will talk lures for a bit, then I’ll tell them something came up and I can’t stay for dinner after all. Deal?”

I hesitated, my earlier irritation soothed by Hale’s gentleness and predictably sensible manner. I pictured him there alone in his big house, his sweet brown eyes, the baby soft hair that was usually falling over his forehead by this time of night.

“No. Just stay. Of course you can stay. See you tomorrow night, Hale.”

Three weeks later

“The himbo hunt is
on
, ladies,” Mara announced, glancing around the crowded bar with a predatory grin on her hot pink lips.

“Whoo!” Kenley threw back her third shot and whooped, having left her normally demure personality somewhere between work and the Rock Bottom.

I would be holding someone’s hair back tonight, for sure.

She picked up another full shot glass.

“Okay there, sister, slow it down,” I said, taking the glass from her hand, sloshing the clear liquid over my fingers in the process.

“But it’s my good-bye party. I can drink if I want to.” Kenley laughed loudly, looking to Mara for encouragement. “That should be a song, right?”

Mara and I made eye contact, and I subtly shook my head. In complete agreement, she hugged Kenley and offered a high-five, distracting her while I slid the tray of still-f shot glasses out of Kenley’s sight and motioned for our cocktail waitress.

She leaned down to hear me over the loud music blaring through the bar.

“Can you please do something with these? We didn’t order them, and we definitely don’t need any more here. And could we get some waters? Thanks.”

The waitress took the tray and disappeared into the crowd. Friday was eighties night at the Rock Bottom, which explained the proliferation of fortysomethings filling the club. It also explained the inordinate number of complimentary drinks being sent to our table.

Nothing brought out the generosity of unattached male bar patrons like the sight of a leggy blonde under twenty-five (not me), loudly celebrating with her raven-haired, olive-skinned and curvaceous best friend (also not me), and their… designated driver. That’s me. Good old Heidi, raised to be a Southern lady and still living in the same area code where I was born. In fact, if I studied the faces in here closely enough, I’d probably recognize more than a few from my parents’ high school yearbook. Between being on TV and living so close to home, I had to be conscious all the time of how my behavior might reflect on my family
and
on my employer.

Kenley no longer had to worry about WPLM’s behavior policy. A few weeks ago when she’d teased us with the prospect of big news, we’d met here after work, and she’d announced her engagement to her long-time hometown honey, Mark. She’d also told us she’d be resigning her weekend anchor job at the station to move back to Atlanta to be with him. Now, less than a month later, we were saying goodbye.

“I love y’all. I really love y’all, you know that?” Oh boy. Kenley was getting teary. If she hadn’t been so smashed, I might have gotten emotional, too. As it was, the moment was more comical than bittersweet. “You’re gonna be my best maid,” she said to me, slapping my back, “and you’re gonna be—wait, is it best? Maid of honor, that’s it. And
you’re
gonna be my
other
maid of honor.” She threw a floppy arm around Mara.

“Okay, Bride-arita, sounds great. Maybe we should head out…” Mara looked at me, questioning.

“Noooooo. It’s early, and I’m having fun,” Kenley protested. “And the guys said they were coming by after the ten. We can’t leave—I haven’t seen everybody yet. And we have to dance.”

Almost everyone from the dayside crew had come by after the six p.m. show to wish Kenley well. Everyone but Colleen. No one would miss her, though—none of the girls, anyway. She was a reporter and one of those women who didn’t seem to have (or want) any female friends. She’d actually thrown a birthday party for herself recently and invited only the guys. They went, too. With her pageant-girl looks, she never lacked for male attention.

I checked my watch. Another hour to go before the ten o’clock news ended and the nightside folks arrived. I hoped Kenley would still be coherent by then. “Okay, girlie, let’s look at this menu. You’ve gotta eat something and start drinking some water, or you’ll be saying your goodbyes to your friends’ shoelaces. And the only dancing you’ll be doing is a Tango with your toilet bowl.”

When the late news crew arrived, Kenley was actually still conscious, having made an amazing comeback thanks to several glasses of water, a Coke Zero, and a large order of Rock Bottom’s Famous Cheesy Bacon Fries. Nothing like a little grease to coat the stomach.

Late show reporters Brad and Ce Ce were there, along with Tony, one of our few full-time photogs, and Allison, the ten p.m. producer. Even Dan and Janet came by for a few minutes. They told us the weather and sports guys were on their way. It was fun to see everyone together. Kenley jumped up, screaming with delight and passing out hugs as each person drifted in and pulled up a chair to our corner table.

Our gathering of local “celebrities” was drawing the notice of the other bar patrons. The staring turned up several notches when our sports director Dennis came in, his large, muscular frame weaving through the crowd. He’d been a high school football hero in a nearby town and gone on to play college ball before getting into sportscasting. That was the equivalent of a full knighthood here in the South.

“Dennis!” As he made his way to our corner, several men stood up to greet him and do a buddy-hug or back slap. He finally reached us and leaned over to hug Kenley. That’s when I saw the guy standing behind him.
Aric Serrano.

Everything stopped, as if someone had hit a giant pause button. No synthetic eighties pop tune blaring, no friends’ voices, no loud male banter from the surrounding tables. No air left in the room. It wasn’t love at first sight, because that didn’t exist. But it was definitely… something.

I’d never experienced such a strong reaction to anyone before. I went from hours-at-the-bar-mellow to hyper-alert instantly. My insides vibrated like a cell phone set on silent. From my seated position at the end of the table, the DJ’s colored light setup framed Aric’s blond hair, giving him a sort of retro-Disco halo, like a 1970’s album cover you’d find in a vintage records store. My God, if
that
was a good look for him, what wouldn’t be?

Dennis took a few steps away to greet a viewer who’d come to shake his hand. Aric stood alone, the tips of his fingers in his jeans pockets, glancing over our group with raised brows and tightly pressed lips. His eyes followed Dennis like he was a life preserver that had floated just out of reach.

Then Aric’s gaze fell to me, and he gave me an uncertain smile.
Oh sugar
. He was even better-looking in three-D than he’d been on screen. So… I could leave the poor guy hanging, or I could act like a rational human being and introduce myself.

“Hi.” I stood and extended a hand toward him. “Are you the new sports guy? I’m Heidi. I work at the station.”

He towered over me, looking down with a lifted brow and half-smile on his face as if he’d expected there to be more of me when I stood up. His large hand enclosed mine, sending a surge of warmth all the way to my toes.