T he late-morning sun felt particularly oppressive given today’s cloudy forecast. Its rays beat against my blouse as if teasing me for my audacity in choosing long sleeves.
I leaned against the news van and stared at the graffiti on a brick building across the street.
The clown image reflected in a huge puddle that crossed the road from sidewalk to sidewalk.
The colors of both copies blurred together as I spaced, not truly seeing.
Albert, my cameraman, was talking as he filled the tank, but I wasn’t listening.
After The Boys, or ATB for short, was a phase consisting of three stages.
Stage one—shock.
Stage one typically lasted twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
I spent this time unable to comprehend that the visit was over.
I replayed my mistakes, imagining how I could have done things differently, how I should have been a better person.
I got stuck on the fact that though Carson and I were still technically married since we never got around to finalizing the divorce, we did not live together as a family anymore.
This led to stage two—regret.
Stage two was mostly a period of wallowing. I cleaned voraciously, then regretted it when the boys’ room stopped smelling like old goat’s milk because no stink meant they were really gone.
I also spent a fair amount of time trying to distract myself by reading or watching feel-good shows, drinking wine, and chatting with my two best friends—Daisy and Tess. They were both extra busy lately though, Daisy with her werebunny drama and Tess with her mysterious supernatural job.
Work was my favorite hobby and go-to avoidance tactic. Fortunately, the world of reporting never stopped, so there was always work to do. Even better, the pay was good, so at least I could provide for my family financially, even if I couldn’t always be there in all of the ways I wished.
Stage three was hardly worth mentioning. I was too deep into stage two right now to think about the hopes and what-ifs I’d end up clinging to right before I saw Carson again and took the boys home with me, then repeated the whole cycle.
“Mm-hm,” I heard myself say in response to Albert’s…whatever Albert was going on about. I had no idea.
“Oh, so you agree, do you, Erika?” Albert jiggled the hose, then snapped the handle back into the pump. Humor danced behind his attempt at a straight face.
Upon first glance, a stranger would assume a few things about Albert.
For starters, that he’s terrible at poker because of his easy smile and expressive, thick eyebrows.
The thin line of hair that wrapped around the bottom of his head and completely abandoned the dome was as white as snow.
Pair that with his spare tire, his deep wrinkles, and the gray chest hairs that slipped out between the buttons of his shirt, he looked to be in his mid-sixties.
His skin was that shade of pale where it took on a purplish red tint, and even more so under fluorescent lighting.
It looked like the skin of a man born in an underground cavern, one who would hiss and hide if sunlight dared attempt to touch him.
But I’d worked alongside Albert for nearly two decades at WNCR, and none of those assumptions were true.
He was an excellent poker player, if only because he didn’t care about the stakes.
He was only forty-nine, which made me worry at times what the next few years would do to my appearance.
And despite crisping into a five-and-a-half-foot lobster every time he saw the sun, Albert adored the yearly cruises he took with his wife to some island or another to sunbathe on exotic beaches.
He was looking at me now like I was the butt of a joke I hadn’t caught, a joke that both amused him and made him pity me the teeniest bit.
“Why don’t you save me from guessing and tell me what you said while I wasn’t listening,” I told him.
“Because it’ll be more fun to make something up later.”
“Oh great.”
“It will be, I’m sure.” He tapped his knuckles against the roof. “Time to roll.”
Before he could take a step, a huge truck barreled past, ten feet from where we stood. The engine roared.
The tires hit the sitting water on the road, creating a huge wave that splashed across the side of the WNCR van.
“Slow your roll, jerk.” Albert’s yellow shirt glued to his chest. His eyebrows sagged over his eyes as gray droplets dripped down his cheeks.
He looked me up and down. His wilted brows furrowed.
“What?” I scowled right back at him. “I didn’t splash you.”
“You’re not wet.”
He was right, I was still perfectly dry.
“Not even one single droplet hit your shirt,” he said. “And I’m drenched.”
“That sucks for you,” I said.
“Yeah. And you’re the luckiest woman on the planet.” He gestured to the van. “That gross sitting water coated every inch of the van, even behind you, like it swerved mid-air just to miss you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
One bad thing not happening to me didn’t make me lucky. If anything, the universe owed me after what it had done to my brain and therefore to my family. Or at least that’s what I’d think if I believed in that kind of thing.
I crossed my arms. “Are we going, or what?”
“Yeah, sure.” Albert sighed and let his shoulders droop. Then he headed around to the front of the van.
I slid open the slider and climbed in the back.
Albert wrangled some napkins from the glovebox and wiped his face. A burst of air conditioning erupted from the vents as soon as he turned the keys in the ignition. He shivered but didn’t turn down the dial, and started driving. “Boys back with their dad?”
“Yep.” I didn’t have to ask how he knew.
I was sure the devastation was all over me. Plus, since Albert was my landlord and lived in the house above me, he would’ve heard the difference.
“You should come over for dinner tonight,” he said. “Carol’s making lemon chicken.”
I hated Carol’s lemon chicken. So, I lied, “I’m looking forward to some quiet alone time.”
“Liar.” He snorted and took the next turn a bit too hard, digging the seatbelt into my lap. “You’re going to pop open a box of wine, microwave one of those frozen meals, and sulk in front of HGTV.”
Nailed it. “You don’t know that.”
I could practically hear him roll his eyes.
Albert pulled the van into a parking spot. Trees dotted the park’s landscaped clearing. At the center of the space, a few people scurried between folding tables, metal corrals, and portable kennels. If I didn’t know this was the spot, I definitely would have missed it.
The adoption fair started at eleven. It was eleven now. It was put together by a small animal shelter, so a minimal setup made sense.
“That’s your comeback?” Albert asked. “That I can’t be certain you’re going to sulk in front of your remodeling shows?”
He climbed in the back and began prepping his equipment. The van jostled. Albert’s wet shoes squeaked against the metal floor. His challenging expression dared me to imagine a better excuse.
“Maybe I was planning to read,” I told him. And then veg out to HGTV after.
“Just come.”
And deal with Carol dropping hints about how eligible of a bachelor her brother was again? No thank you.
I wasn’t interested in moving on. I was perfectly content to wallow, thank you very much.
Plus, if we were really past the point of no return, Carson would have served me divorce papers by now.
And every time I not-so-subtly asked the boys if their dad was seeing anyone, they said no.
Last time, Adam actually laughed at me. Boys.
I missed them so hard.
When Albert was ready, I opened the door for him and followed him out of the van. The tall trees offered ample shade, dulling the early summer heat. I rolled my shoulders and summoned my professional persona—detached interest, complete calm, warm smile.
A few feet away, I spotted a woman with big auburn and silver hair. Between the hair and her flowing boho skirt, I recognized her from her website’s photos—Wendy Ariti, owner of the Barnacles animal shelter. She’d already spotted us and was headed this way.
A boom carried across the park, deep and sudden. Thunder?
I hoped not. A surprise storm wouldn’t fare well for the outdoor event.
I signaled Albert to get the camera rolling and met Ms. Ariti halfway. I offered my hand. “Ms. Ariti, good morning. I’m Erika Campbell with WNCR.”
“You’re my favorite part of the news.” Her smile was both nervous and optimistic, her palm clammy as we shook. “Call me Wendy.”
“Favorite part of the news?” Fluff pieces. Each night I offered a counterpoint to the depressing and stressful main news. “Thank you so much, Wendy. I’m sure I’m about to be a fan of your work as well. There’s nothing more noble than helping those who can’t help themselves.”
Her cheeks flushed. Her hair seemed to grow larger with every moment that passed, likely from the humidity, something I’d also suffer if not for products.
Albert took a step to the left, framing us with the camera. Wendy’s gaze flicked to him.
I pulled her attention back. “Tell us a little bit about yourself and your shelter.”
She went into the history of the place, but nothing about herself, or their current work.
I redirected. “What changes have you implemented since taking over?”
“I’ve spruced things up a bit.” She listed off specifics, none of which would play well with the emotional value needed to connect with viewers, even if her efforts were impressive. “We still have a long way to go.”
“What can the public do to help?” I asked.
“Come out today, adopt a pet.” She waved at the camera, then looked at me and pointed back toward the tables. “I need to?—”
People were beginning to gather around the dog pens.
“Of course,” I told her.
Gray clouds crept slowly over distant trees. If rain was going to follow, we needed to hurry and capture more footage while we could. I scanned the people working the event.
Albert leaned in. “Camera doesn’t love her.”