Not My Type (19 page)

I laughed, knowing he was poking fun at himself. I liked that he could do that. These few minutes on the couch with Tanner were a perfect mirror to reflect every interaction we’d had—equal parts frustrating and exhilarating. I braced for every encounter with him, expecting him to make me mad, which he did. And then at some point, he always surprised me with a glimpse at the Tanner beneath his brusque professional facade. There was the Tanner who made scathing remarks about his competition’s publication, and there was the Tanner who hung out with his kid sister a couple of times a week because he worried about her. Tanner Graham, the enigma.

“So tell me again when this double date is going to be,” he said.

“It’s not a double date. It’s Josh and Courtney’s date, and you and I are tagging along.”

“Whatever. When is it?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “I have to call Josh.”

Tanner didn’t say anything for a moment; he watched me like he was trying to figure something out. “Are you sure he’s going to be okay with substituting Courtney for you?”

“Yeah. No chemistry. He thinks she’s cute.”

“No chemistry,” Tanner muttered, and in an absent-minded gesture, his hand closed around my wrist again. He was still staring off, and I wondered what was running through his mind and what it meant that he was touching me without thinking about it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah. No chemistry,” I said, flexing my wrist.

Startled, he glanced down and let go. Then he smiled. “None.”

I let the little bubble of . . . something settle between us. And finally, when the silence grew too fraught, I broke. And I broke it. “Thanks for the story help,” I said. “I’m going to go find Courtney.”

“I bet she’s still in the same seat.”

My cheeks grew pink as he poked a hole in my excuse for leaving. I didn’t know what I was running away from, but the urgent need to break away and breathe fueled my escape. Breathe air that didn’t have the light, spicy scent of him in it. Just breathe.

I slid off the couch and straightened my soft-gray, corduroy, A-line skirt, so my hands had something to do. “I’ll call Courtney with the details for our . . .”

“Date,” he finished. “It’s called a date.”

“I think it’s more like babysitting. That’s what you’re doing, right?”

He shrugged and held my gaze. “Maybe.”

I cleared my throat. “I’m going to go.”

He smiled. After another awkward pause, I turned and fled to the cultural hall and my seat beside Courtney, where I took a deep breath because I finally could.

“Everything okay?” she whispered.

“Maybe.” I smiled, surprising myself. “Maybe it is.”

Dear Mr. Handy,

I truly appreciate you for hiring me almost a year ago, and I am thankful I’ve had a job during a time when so many other people are struggling to make ends meet.

Things change, I guess. Even when we don’t expect them to. If we’re lucky, we make our breaks. Or maybe we at least manage to go with the flow when the tides of change come.

Then again, some things never change, like the Rust Bucket. She’s going to give up the ghost soon, and I don’t think Austin will get the same service from Nelson and Sons that I do. You might want to consider a new freezer. Like, consider it really strongly.

Again, I want to sincerely thank you for the opportunity to earn a paycheck when a lot of others don’t. I’ve learned more than I expected to, like approximately fifty ways to use vinegar and why yeast really does matter. Life, lessons, Mr. Handy. Life lessons.

Sincerely,

Pepper Spicer

Chapter 14

For eight months, I’d wallowed at the bottom of a rut I’d dug. After breaking up with Landon, I went into retreat mode, a reasonable thing to do given how long we’d been together and how much it hurt to realize he loved me because I was convenient. I’d never gone through a major breakup before, but if I’m supposed to believe books and movies, right around the time I should have emerged from my emotional hibernation, the media blitz for
The It Factor
hit, and I burrowed deeper. Landon was everywhere, especially in the Utah news because of his hometown roots. It was like death by paper cuts every time I heard a report or saw his face on TV or in the
Bee
, even though my dad generally tried to hide the Arts section when it ran a story on Landon.

For eight months, I lived in a routine of sameness. Get up, face the day in my Handy’s Sandwich shirt, come home and sulk on my blog, and slowly pay off wedding debt. Wash, rinse, repeat. Given the sameness and the excruciating slowness that defined everything in my life, I was shocked to discover that life could move so fast it was like old-school Star Trek warp drive.

In the three months since I had taken my dad’s challenge, everything had changed. It started when I sent out my first batch of résumés, but it blew up when my replay of the Rhys date hit. I knew something was up when I walked into the kitchen Tuesday morning to find Mace hunched over a plate of French toast, staring at my dad’s laptop and chuckling, each laugh louder and longer than the one before it.

“Something good on YouTube?” I made my way to the fridge in search of tortillas. It was a breakfast burrito kind of morning.

“Nah,” he said and laughed again. “Oh man. This is good.”

“What is it?”

“Your column.”

I couldn’t contain my grin. “You like it?”

“Dang, Pepper. I forgot how funny you can be when you’re not pouting.”

I threw a potholder at him. “Thanks.”

He pushed back from the table and brought his plate over to the sink. “Man. I wish I could tell my English teacher it’s you writing this. She loves your column. I’d probably get an A just for being your brother.”

“Your English teacher reads ‘Single in the City’?” I asked. Ginger wandered in and edged me out for space in front of the crisper drawer, where I rummaged for a bell pepper.

“Everyone reads it. Duh.”

Classic delivery of a compliment, Ginger-style.

Rosemary trailed in behind my mother, frowning as she tried to tug the stubborn strap of her Disney princess backpack over her shoulder. “I didn’t tell anyone it’s you!”

“Okay. Thanks,” I said. She looked proud of herself. “Way to keep a secret.”

“It’s up today?” my mom asked.

“Yeah. It’s a good one,” Mace told her on his way back up the stairs.

“Wait for me,” my dad said. He pulled up his chair next to my mom’s and within seconds, the giggling started, growing into a full-blown guffaw after a minute.

“I don’t know what to think about the fact that the column making the most fun of me is the one that makes you laugh the hardest,” I grumbled, but I was pleased.

My dad didn’t say anything for a moment, finishing the column with a few more laughs, and then he stood and walked over to hug me. “You should think that we love your sense of humor and we’re so glad to see you able to laugh at yourself again.”

He relaxed his bear hug and headed out for his office. “Well done, daughter!” he called over his shoulder.

“Mom?” I asked, wanting her input too.

“I was about to say I wish I had been there to see this, but honestly, the way you wrote it made me feel like I was.” She tapped the screen. “‘Fear enlarged Sir Hottie’s remaining good eye until it eclipsed his bright-blue regulation Frisbee when he saw me coming at him again, even though I waved an Alaska-sized cup full of ice as a peace-offering.’ Brilliant,” she said.

A text dinged on my phone, and I snatched it from the counter. It was from Courtney and read,
HAHAHAHAHAHA
.

I scooped my burrito up and sat at the table to read the column while I ate. I could probably recite it word for word, but there was something about seeing it official with the Indie Girl byline and the graphic they used in place of my picture. It showed a girl with a fall of dark hair hiding all but the curve of her cheek and one downcast eye. It was mysterious and artsy. And a little misleading since my hair wasn’t nearly long enough or well-behaved enough to drape that way. But I loved the slick production values on it and the way it said, “This is a real column written by a real writer.”

In past weeks, I’d grown used to seeing reader comments on the date recaps show up toward the afternoon of the first day they were posted, hitting a peak of around fifty after a day or two and tapering off toward the end of the week. This morning, more than two dozen comments already waited for me. I read through them, delighted. They ranged from single word comments like, “Awesome!” to paragraph length responses from a couple people who shared their own horror stories. Even with the use of screen names, it was easy to tell that most of the commenters were women, but there were a few guys who chimed in. The tone from all five guys was of the good-natured “glad it wasn’t me” variety. One joker added, “I’m not good-looking enough to make you nervous. Can we count this as meeting online? Then you could go out with me.”

The house quieted as everyone left for school and work, and I savored the rest of my breakfast as I read each new comment that posted. This should go quite a ways in my negotiation with Ellie for something a little more full time and permanent, especially given the presence of three shiny new banner ads at the top of my column’s page. Business must be looking up. I had thought long and hard over the last several days about how to approach Ellie. I’d gone so far as to e-mail Chantelle and ask her advice, counting on her dislike of Ellie to win her help. Chantelle confirmed that based on everything she was hearing, my column was the biggest thing to hit
Real Salt Lake.
“Use that to your advantage,” she e-mailed back. “Ellie is using it to hers, and you deserve a slice of that pie.”

When my phone rang an hour before I had to be at Handy’s, I wasn’t at all surprised to see Ellie’s number. She had a hit on her hands, and we both knew it. I answered, curious about what approach she would take when I asked for a permanent position.

“I loved it,” she said. “Great column.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You should work this angle more in the future,” she advised. “You struck a nerve today. Or maybe a funny bone.”

It was time to test the waters. “About the future,” I started.

“Yes?” she said, her tone guarded.

“How are we doing on the page clicks?”

She cleared her throat. “I think you’ll be happy with your check. I’m pretty sure you’re going to max out this week, so that means the full amount.”

“That’s great,” I said. “But it seems like if the page gets even more views than that, it’s more valuable than what I’m being paid.”

“This is a new feature,” she said. “It’ll take more time to gauge the impact of your column on traffic and advertising.”

“Why? It seems like it should be easy to figure out how many people are reading my stuff. It should also be fairly easy to ask advertisers what draws them to spend money with you, right?” The instinct that “Single in the City” had suddenly become a key selling point for Ellie emboldened me to pin her down.

“It doesn’t work like that,” she said, refusing to be pinned. “We need to watch trends and see what’s happening over time.”

Talking and saying nothing was a talent all its own, I decided. I tried a different strategy. “But if you’re specifically talking up my column to get more ad dollars, then it’s only fair that I get a bigger piece of the cut.” It’s not what I wanted, but I gambled on it getting me my real goal.

“That’s not our agreement,” she said. “The whole point of running your feature is to attract new advertisers. Your pay is based on what we projected to bring in. Now that we’re bringing that in, if we pay you over what we discussed, we lose the margin of profitability that was the point of the whole column in the first place.”

I figured that was likely the case, and a knot formed in my stomach over facing off with her, even though it was a calm discussion. Then I pictured myself hanging up the phone and putting on my worn-out Handy’s shirt, and I couldn’t take it. I hated the thought of spending one more day there than I had to. The last three months had taught me that I had some control over what was happening in my life, and if I made good choices, I might see good results. I took a breath, and then I took the plunge, reaching the point of my amateur negotiations.

“My work with my real byline gets a good response too,” I said.

“It does,” Ellie conceded. “But that’s not what drives readers and advertisers to our site.”

“I don’t have access to all your sales data”—which was a growing problem—“but I think maybe people are starting to show up for music reviews. And the only reason we don’t know whether they’re showing up for my features is that I’ve only gotten to write one. But you were happy with that one, right?”

“I was,” she said. “And you’re welcome to turn in more freelance pieces. You’re working on something now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but it’s hard because I have to work full time somewhere else, and that’s kind of my point. Maybe you can’t pay me more for the Indie Girl stuff, but I’ve shown that you’re going to get your value back if you pay me to write full time on stories outside of the dating and music pieces. You could fold the checks you already write me for the column into my salary which, okay, is going to cost you more, but you’re going to get way more writing out of me. And build more readers by keeping the ‘Single in the City’ column.”

“What do you mean, ‘keeping’ the column?” she asked, her voice sharp.

This is where I had to step very, very carefully. This is where I wished I had gone to business school or studied something that taught me about real negotiations. Heck, I’d give anything to freeze time and cram in a marathon of
The Apprentice
before broaching my next argument to her, but it was now or never. I breathed deeply and tested how much leverage “Single in the City” really gave me. “I can’t keep writing that column if it’s not going to pay off career-wise,” I said. “It’s a huge emotional and time commitment, and there’s a point where it doesn’t make sense for me to do it anymore, especially since I do it anonymously. It’s hard to use it to build my résumé.”

Ellie was silent for a long moment, and the knot in my stomach compressed on itself, becoming denser and nearly painful while I waited to see what I had gained or lost with my thinly veiled threat.
Stay calm
, I admonished myself.
It’s Ellie’s steely nerves that make her so intimidating. Keep it together; keep it together.

“If you quit writing the column, I can find someone else to write it,” she said. “That’s the beauty of the Indie Girl byline.”

“I know you can replace me. Eventually. But that’s the problem, right? You told me you were having a harder time than you’d expected until I came along. Are you going to lose a lot of buzz while you go looking for a replacement? And will you be able to find someone who can strike the same tone?”

She fell silent again, but I could practically hear her thoughts scrambling to organize themselves into a counterargument. For a full twenty seconds, she didn’t say anything, so I took the kill shot. “Look, I’m not asking for a bunch of money without offering any return on investment. I’ll write way more and go far above and beyond in earning my keep. But I can’t keep up this pace with two jobs plus dates and concert reviews. I’m exhausted, and I can’t quit Handy’s unless you make me full time at the magazine.”

“I have to think about this,” she said. Most likely she had to think about whether she had a way around me.

“I understand,” I said. “If you decide that we can make this work, I have an amazing feature about a local jewelry maker to hand in.”

She exhaled, her exasperation evident. “You’re playing hard ball, aren’t you?”

“I’m trying to find a solution we can all live with,” I countered. When I hung up after her vague, “I’ll call you later,” I dropped my head onto my arms and stared at the worn wooden table beneath them. Maybe I would pull this off and get full-time status. I told Ellie the truth when I said that the two jobs were taking their toll. It got harder each week to fit it all in. On the other hand, I might have totally ruined everything. Ellie might be able to line up another option for the “Single in the City” spot, and I would have zero leverage and no job. Except for sandwich making, which beckoned . . . I hoped for the very last time.

* * *

I yanked my phone out of my apron again near the end of my shift, wondering if maybe it had shut itself off or if I wasn’t getting a signal. I hoped so. Otherwise, I had no other theories as to why I hadn’t heard from Ellie yet. The power was on, and it showed full bars. I glanced over at Austin, the assistant I had hired the month before in the fond hope I could off-load my job to him when things got going with
Real Salt Lake.
Sadly for both of us, it looked like I might be staying put at Handy’s and maybe even cutting back his hours so I could go back to forty hours a week. It stank.

I yelped when my phone vibrated with an incoming call, and Austin eyed me in concern. I checked the caller ID. Ellie. After a deep breath, I answered.

“We moved some things around,” she said. “I’d like to offer you a full-time position.”

“Yes!”

“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “It comes with conditions. You’ll get the grunt stories. Features you write will be on your own time, and I won’t pay extra for them anymore. Doing them will be up to you. And you’re getting entry-level pay, so don’t get excited about the money.” She quoted a salary that beat Handy’s by nearly five bucks an hour, a note of an apology in her voice.

I knew she was trying to dampen my excitement so I would decide it was smarter to stay at Handy’s, but as my eye fell on the table in front of me, with its caked-on mustard smears, I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be here one second longer than I had to, and she was handing me my ticket out. And she had no idea she’d given me a huge raise. “Still yes!” I almost choked in my eagerness to accept.