Page 15 of Something to Prove

Thanks to the success ofWhat’s New, Smithton?I had money in my savings account, I owned my car, and I was up-to-date on my tuition. I rented a recently remodeled two-story Victorian with a generous front porch, high ceilings, tall windows, and original hardwood flooring, and…I lived alone.

Not only was the house adorable…it was a sweet write-off too. If I wasn’t filming on site, I was here, covering current events in Smithton. I lived downstairs, and ran the business from the two upstairs bedrooms—one was an office while the other had been transformed into a mini studio, complete with anews desk, comfy chairs for my guests, and professional lighting (a must with my bright locks).

Was this a cushy gig? No, not at all. I worked ding-dang hard, but I was well aware that this wasn’t how most twenty-three-year-old seniors lived.

Then again, I had more to prove than the average college student.

You see, the Woodrow name was synonymous with journalism. My great-grandfather was a war correspondent in Britain during World War II, my grandfather was a speech writer for two presidents, and two of my uncles had worked with the most influential rock bands of the ’70s and ’80s and founded a widely regarded industry magazine. But in my opinion, my mother outshone them all.

Mom had been a political correspondent in dangerous war-torn areas in Afghanistan, Libya, and Syria, risking life and limb in her quest to report atrocities of human suffering. She’d used her own resources to help fund a school for young women in Kabul and had taught English in her spare time.

Me? I had an appointment with Bill and Janet Clancy to tour their beehives this week. Not quite living up to expectations, was I?

But let’s face it, I wouldn’t last five minutes in a military zone in the Middle East, and though I loved music, the thought of hanging out with a rock band for months on end sounded like hell. Unless we were talking Gaga.

So yes, I had big shoes to fill, but I had to do it my way—and ideally, not lose my integrity for the sake of a measly story.

I sank deep into the cozy leather chair by the fireplace, curling my knees under me like a human pretzel while listening with half an ear to Aunt Kay’s chatter about the upcoming harvest and Uncle Richard’s hip problems. Her melodic tone and cadence reminded me of home.

God, I wished I lived closer. I would have loved to sit at her table, solving the world’s problems over tea and apple cake. Or stroll through the orchards with the dogs like I did when I was a kid, playing hide-and-seek with one eye on the road, looking out for my dad’s car and?—

“Walker? Darling, are you there, or have I bored you to tears?”

I sat up, shaking off unwanted memories like a spider web clinging to my clothes.

“I’m here, but I should get going,” I replied.

“Busy, busy! Just tell me you’re coming to visit next month.”

“I’ll be there.” I grinned at Aunt Kay’s whoop of joy, feeling lighter than I had in days.

And three point five seconds after we’d said our good-byes, a new text popped up on my screen.

Ty:Meet me at the rink tomorrow at 5.

My heart pounded in my chest.

But this was good. This was what I’d been angling for. This was a major story I could make sweeter with a note of redemption.

So why did I feel as if I’d been asked to cover a Category 5 hurricane barreling straight toward Smithton?

CHAPTER 7

TY

Jett poppedthe tops off of two beer bottles and slid one across the kitchen island to me.

I nodded my thanks, scraping the edges of the label with my thumbnail. “Nice place.”

“Dude, you’ve been here like three times. Housewarming party, summer barbecues ring any bells?” he snarked.

I flipped him off, swiveling on my barstool to check out the layout of the open floor plan of the two-bedroom house my buddy shared with his super-smart physics professor boyfriend.

The farmhouse-style kitchen was adjacent to a large living area decorated in bright colors. It featured a comfy sectional anchored in front of a brick fireplace with a ginormous flat-screen above the mantel and two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The shelves were filled with intimidatingly thick textbooks interspersed with dozens of houseplants and framed photos of family and friends.

It was a grown-up house.

So surreal. It hadn’t been that long ago that we were teammates, grinding through classes in between parties and endless hockey practices. Now, Jett played pro for a developmental team in Syracuse and was working toward hismaster’s degree. This house was a huge upgrade from the one-bedroom bachelor pad he’d lived in before he came out. Excuse me, before he’d been forced out of the closet by Walker fucking Woodrow.