“You know, the article gets written when your fingers are moving over the keyboard,” quipped Marcus.
I jumped, looking up at him. I shook my head, furrowing my brow. “What?”
“You were spacing out, Bella,” he said, sitting down in my cubicle. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just stressing out of the closing at the end of the week,” I said, giving him a sheepish grin. “And Edward’s impending departure.”
“When does Romeo go back to that tropical island?” Marcus asked.
“He leaves the Monday after Easter. I’ve roughly got a month with him before he’s going to go,” I frowned. Shaking my head, I turned to my friend and editor-in-chief of the paper. “I’m guessing that this is more than just a wakeup call for me, hmmm? What’s up, buttercup?”
“You are correct, Miss Swan. Come with me. We’re going to lunch,” he said, handing me my purse and jacket.
“What would your wife say?” I teased, walking to the elevator. Marcus snorted. We got onto the elevator, riding down to the main level. We chatted about some of the stories that were assigned for tomorrow’s edition of the paper and the new online, interactive edition of the paper that went live last week. Edward helped with that launch, smoothing out some edges with the tech department. Marcus drove us to a nearby café and we sat down, ordering some drinks. I was perusing the menu, trying to figure out Marcus’s M.O. for our little lunch date. “Dude, seriously, what’s up?”
“Let’s order our lunch first and then I’ll tell you, Miss Impatient,” Marcus snickered. I rolled my eyes, focusing on the menu to pick a meal. The waitress came and we ordered. Once she left, I stared at Marcus, encouraging him to spill the beans. “Okay, Bella. Do you remember the story you wrote on domestic abuse?”
“The one I got yelled at and almost suspended for?” I deadpanned.
“Uh, yeah,” Marcus chuckled. “Well, I had Miranda read it. She was impressed and she submitted it for the Seattle Newsroom Awards, as a nominee.”
“Weren’t the nominations due in January?” I asked.
“They were and she submitted it just under the wire,” Marcus explained. “Typically, there are five stories that are accepted as nominees. I’m pleased to say that your story on domestic abuse is one of them.”
“What?” I squeaked.
“You are nominated for feature of the year for your piece on domestic abuse, Bella. Congratulations,” Marcus smiled, sipping his coffee. “Oh, here’s your invitation to the award ceremony.” He handed me an envelope with my name written on it with a frilly, elegant script. “It’s at the W Hotel in Seattle. I’m invited, along with Miranda and another nominee, Brayden, for his piece on high school students and their use of steroids.”
I opened the invitation, looking for the date. I tried to smile, but failed. It was a month after Edward left for Brazil, in the middle of May. “This is great, Marcus. Thank you,” I said, tucking the invite into my purse.
“Why are you not happy? This is huge, Bella!” Marcus squeaked.
“I know it’s huge, but Edward won’t be there,” I sighed, picking at the paper napkin on the table. “I’m proud of my work on the story and happy that I got nominated, but the person that supported me when all that shit went down with the douchenozzle won’t be there for the ceremony.”
“Maybe, he can fly back?” Marcus said.
“Perhaps,” I shrugged. “When do I need to respond?”
“Beginning of May,” Marcus said. “You can bring up to four other people, besides yourself. Invite your parents if Edward is unavailable or the girl that you and Edward helped that was the inspiration for the article.”
“Okay,” I said, giving him a smile. “Thank you, Marcus, for everything you’ve done this year.”
“For one of my best writers? Anything,” he said. “Now, how’s your new house?”
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