Page 42 of Good Days Bad Days

Greg

WQRX Boardroom

Janesville, Wisconsin

“Sit, sit, sit.” Don Hollinger, asshole Don Hollinger, stands at the front of the conference room.

The large oval table is fully populated with producers and assistant producers, broadcast technicians, our main anchors, and Will Barnett, who does field reporting.

Standing in the corners of the room are the crew, camera operators, gaffer, lighting assistant, and audio engineer.

The meeting memo was labeled “Mandatory,” and no one is missing.

Mark sits at the table. He motioned at an empty seat beside him when I first came in the room, but I took a spot leaning against the back wall, understanding the risks of accidentally sitting in the hot seat.

I’ve avoided close contact with Hollinger at all costs since that night seven months ago when I left my meeting with Martha and rushed to Lake Geneva to help Betty.

After speeding away from Betty’s childhood home that Sunday morning, we drove back to Janesville in complete silence.

When we pulled up to her apartment, she hopped out as if nothing had happened.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, tidying her hair and throwing her bag over her shoulder, starting to walk away and treating me like a friend who was simply dropping her off after a casual meetup for coffee and a half sandwich.

“Wait,” I called out, confused and a bit hurt. I hadn’t given up my time, sleep, and sanity to be her chauffeur—I helped her because I was her friend, ’cause I cared about her. “What are you gonna do about the car?”

She shrugged and glanced around the parking lot like she was hoping it’d appeared overnight.

“I think I’ll be taking the bus,” she said nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t cried in my front seat or held my hand in her sister’s kitchen. The wild change in her demeanor made my head spin.

“You’re going back to work on Tuesday?” My mouth went dry with shock as I realized what was happening. There would be no police, no reports to EBN, no quitting, no consequences for that asshole Don Hollinger. She was going to pretend like nothing had happened and hope Don did the same.

“Show must go on,” she said, retrieving keys from a pocket inside her bag. They jangled as she swung them around her pointer finger. Then she added with intensity, “I need to keep this job.”

After her conversation with Charlotte about finances, I should’ve seen this coming. She’d decided to choose her job over justice.

“I . . . I could give you a ride.” I offered to change my routine if it’d make her first day back easier after such a tumultuous breakup.

Palming her keys, she gave me a twisted look and then popped her head through my window, making me jump. Her breath touched my cheek, and her defenseless eyes told me she hadn’t forgotten I’d been there when she needed me.

She leaned in a bit further, her full, soft breasts pushing against my forearm where it rested on the door. Immobilized, her lips brushed my stubbled cheek. Heat spread through my body, an energy that filled and swelled every cell with a startling ecstasy.

“You’re a good man, Greg Laramie,” she sighed into my ear before slipping away and heading into her apartment building. I watched to make sure she made it inside safely before driving home, more intoxicated from her kiss than I’d ever been off alcohol.

She didn’t call me for a ride. And when I saw her on set on Tuesday after the Labor Day break, she’d fully retreated back into her false self, pretending I was only a cameraman and she was only the on-air talent.

Two days later she drove up to WQRX in a new car—a black Plymouth Barracuda—as Martha and I were walking into the studio after grabbing lunch at Ike’s.

“Looks like Betty got a new toy,” Martha said, her eyes slanted in judgment. “Maybe she’ll call whoever bought her that thing next time she needs help.”

My stomach lurched. I had an idea who was behind Betty’s new ride.

If I were a braver man, I would have asked her why she would take back someone who treated her so terribly, like Hollinger did.

I would have pointed out that she recognized her sister’s poor choice in men but failed to see her own.

Was it about money? Her job? I shook my head to get the idea of Betty as a gold-digging woman out of my mind.

“It’s possible she bought it herself,” I said defensively.

“Then we’re not getting paid enough,” she snipped back, taking my arm and urging me inside when Betty looked to be moving in our general direction. “Let’s go before she sees us.”

I followed, disappointed that our burgeoning friend group had fallen apart as a result of one phone call.

At least Martha and I reconciled quickly.

When I’d talked to her that Sunday, I’d told her Betty’s engine had locked up and my number was the only one she could find in the phone book.

Martha made some snarky comment, which I ignored, and then we quickly moved to making plans to meet at the park on Labor Day to finish the proposal.

I picked up sandwiches and slices of chocolate cake from Ike’s, and we ate them on a blanket while listening to the community band play.

Like all time spent with Martha, it was calm, efficient, and enjoyable.

When we walked to her car as the sun set over the Rock River, there was an opportunity to make up for the missed moment in the kitchen, but I couldn’t bring myself to kiss her.

Not while my head was still so completely consumed with thoughts of Betty.

I gritted my teeth through the production team meeting the next week and let Martha present our programming, advertising budget, and plans for the future.

Hollinger sat across the desk from us, acting like he wasn’t the son of a bitch who’d accosted the show’s star, who also happened to be his secret girlfriend, destroyed her car, and then left her stranded at a job he’d gotten her fired from.

Betty. She’s here at Hollinger’s mandatory meeting, of course, sitting at the conference table, fresh off shooting.

She’s still wearing her stage makeup and a poofy Classy Homemaker skirt and formfitting blouse.

The only thing missing is her iconic apron, which she hangs on a hook at the end of each show.

It’s washed, starched, and pressed every night, ready for a new day of cakes, grout, and floor wax.

Though I see her five days a week, somehow I miss her.

My eyes find her in every room, and I memorize every detail through the camera’s lens.

She treats me with a distant kindness, and I don’t know if that’s out of concern that I’ll tell someone her secrets or out of shame that she stayed with Hollinger.

But what I do know with complete unsettling certainty is this: I’m stupidly, head over heels, unwaveringly, and illogically in love with Betty Wilkens.

Don Hollinger throws papers onto the table with a loud bang, like it’s a gunshot starting a race, and every head in the room snaps to look at him.

“Those right there are our second quarter numbers, and let me tell you”—he pauses dramatically, making eye contact with several of the staff sitting at the table like he’s about to ream them out for an abysmal report—“they’re damn amazing.

We’re number two in our market. Number two. Way to go, boys.”

He says “boys,” though Martha is sitting to his right and Betty to his left.

The women take it in stride, joining in with the roar of cheers.

I watch, arms folded across my chest, unwilling to applaud anything, even good news, that Hollinger presents.

He allows us a minute of celebration before rapping on the table with his knuckles.

“I knew we had something special when I started here, and it turns out Midwest Broadcasters Association agrees. I got word today that we have nine nominations this year.” A rumble runs through the room, and murmured speculation. “Shhh. Hold on. I’ve got them here.”

Hollinger clutches a sheet of paper. He reads off some minor nominations, some similar to the one Martha and I won in ’68. We received a certificate and Martha put hers on her desk, but mine is in a folder somewhere in a box in the back of my closet.

When I hear Mark’s name, my attention returns to Hollinger’s announcement. Mark is nominated for Best Promotional Announcement in a Small Market. This is a major award that gets him an invitation to the MWBA ceremony, something Mark has coveted since I first met him.

“I wanna go. I don’t give a shit if I win one of those stupid plaques, but I could meet Nicole Davenport and slip her my number,” Mark said every year when the nominations came out.

Then, when WQRX didn’t get any significant nods, he’d tell everyone he’d have to wait until next year to meet his future bride.

But it’s not only his crush on Nicole Davenport that makes Mark want to stride into the MWBA wearing a black tie and cologne.

He’s worked here since he got out of the army.

He craves, and I think deserves, the recognition.

The room lets out a big “woop,” and I’m pulled back to the present by a slap on the back.

“Hey. Congrats,” Will Barnett says, and one of the news producers shakes my hand. I’ve completely missed something. I hear Martha calling my name and I find her smiling at me with pink cheeks.

“Woo-hoo. Greg! Hello?”

“I think he’s had the life shocked out of him,” Mark jokes, and I laugh like he’s right.

I didn’t catch the nomination, but it must be for something good, really good.

Instead of admitting to being mentally checked out, I give Martha a thumbs-up as Hollinger announces the last two nominations, each one more monumental than the one before it.

“For Best Personality . . .” We all pause, expecting to hear Larry Torrence’s name. Instead, he says, “Betty Wilkens.”

Martha’s eyes bulge, and Larry makes a very unattractive guttural sound of surprise.

A woman has never been nominated in this category before, and we all know it.

Betty covers her mouth like she’s holding in a scream.

The applause is delayed, but when Hollinger starts clapping, the rest of us join in.

Betty blushes, and I have to look away when Hollinger squeezes her shoulder.

He keeps his hand there as he announces the final Small Market nomination for WQRX: Best Station.

The meeting room door opens, and Hollinger’s new secretary wheels in a cart filled with glasses of champagne.

Stunned, head swirling already, I take a glass and hold the bubbling golden liquid up in the air along with the rest of my coworkers.

Martha stands behind her chair, her eyes sparkling like she’s intoxicated.

Hollinger stays directly behind Betty, his hand holding her in her chair, while everyone else stands for a toast. Betty catches my eye as he gives a short speech.

“Congrats,” she mouths to me, tipping her glass in my direction.

“You too,” I say back as the rest of the crowd chants something about WQRX. We all drink in unison. Eyes locked, Betty takes a sip and I down my entire glass.

Across the room, I feel closer to her than I have in weeks.

“We must be doing something right,” Martha says, beside me now, breaking my connection with Betty.

“You’re doing something right. I’m just along for the ride—again,” I say, referring to our other joint award nomination. But I understand her excitement.

Overall, this is a triumph. Even though Janesville Presents . . . failed, we are not failures.

“You know I wouldn’t want to do this without you, right?

” Martha says, her warm green eyes connected to mine like she’s sending a secret message through ESP, though I don’t know exactly what it is.

Thankfully, I don’t have to figure it out because Mark wraps both of us up in a giant bear hug, planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek first and then on Martha’s, which she wipes away.

“You know what this means?” Mark asks, picking up someone’s abandoned but nearly full glass of champagne. “We’re going to MWBA and I get to meet . . .”

“We know, Mark. Nicole Davenport,” I say, deadpan.

“Mrs. Mark Lucian, weather goddess, if you please.”

“You’re bonkers,” Martha says, smacking his upper arm.

“I’m going stag, in case Miss Davenport needs a ride home. What about you two? Who you gonna bring for your plus one?” Mark subtly bumps my side, and Martha looks at me shyly, like a girl hoping to be asked to prom.

Over her shoulder, I spot Betty and Don whispering to one another in a corner. The magnetism between them hurts to see. The only woman I really want to be with is in love with another man, a man who did unspeakable things to her. Am I as much of a fool as she is? Chasing a love that hurts?

“We could, uh, we could go together,” I say to Martha, my cheeks burning. Mark beams.

“Uh, yeah,” Martha says, fidgeting with a button on her blouse, then smiling. “Yeah, that sounds like fun.”

I don’t know what to say after she accepts. Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Martha quickly excuses herself to check in with the rest of our team.

“Way to go, man. You did it! About time,” Mark says, shaking my hand vigorously, his grip crushing my bones. “That girl has been into you for so long.”

“You think?”

“Totally. Aren’t you jazzed?”

“Yeah, super . . . jazzed,” I say, trying to match my expression to my words, but Mark follows my eyeline and catches what really has my focus. It’s Betty and Don slipping out the back door of the packed conference room, eliciting a pang of envy so strong I wince.

Mark speaks to me close in a low whisper. “She’s with Hollinger, you know that, right? Like, they’re an item.”

I nod, putting my champagne glass on the table with the rest of the empties.

“Martha’s a fine girl and she likes you. Plus, she’s not dating our boss,” he adds wryly, and I bob my head up and down again. I must seem like a fool to him, like I’m chasing butterflies instead of enjoying the meadow of flowers surrounding me.

Thankfully, Mark changes the subject to Nicole Davenport and how he plans to start up a conversation with her using meteorological puns.

He’s always known of my fondness for Betty, but he has no idea how deep our friendship has become—the shared secrets, the visit to her childhood home.

It wouldn’t help to tell him, anyway. Betty is taken.

No, not taken, she’s given herself willingly.