A/N: Welcome! This is going to be a multi-chaptered story of undetermined length that'll be updated weekly. If you've never seen the Newsroom (you are really missing out), you still shouldn't have any problems following the story.
Just in case, here's a basic run-down: News Night is a cable news TV show, Will McAvoy is the anchor, Mac McHale is the executive producer and Will's love interest. Maggie Jordan is an Associate Producer on the show working under Jim Harper, Senior Producer. Gary and Tess are also Associate Producers. Maggie's ex-boyfriend Don Keefer is the executive producer for another news show, Right Now with Elliot Hirsch, which comes on 2 hours after News Night. Sloan Sabbith is Don's sort-of love interest, and she is the resident financial expert for both shows and sometimes a substitute anchor. Lisa is Maggie's roommate and ex-best friend. Charlie Skinner is the president of Atlantis Cable News, which puts him in charge of all of the news shows. Hopefully that wasn't too confusing, but that's the basic cast of characters so far.
I've been planning and plotting out this idea for months now, and I'm beyond excited to finally be writing it. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for coming along on the ride! :)
For the first time in several weeks, I wake up to an empty bed. I lay still, blinking the last vestiges of my semi-restful, alcohol-induced slumber from my eyes, my mind processing the musky scents and stark white ceiling. I lay still, and listen for a sound, any sound, that might indicate the presence of another who is also awake in this early morning, the light still a faint purple-orange-blue through the window. I hear it, a noise my brain slowly comes to process as a running shower, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I begin to move now, continuing the process of waking up with a greater urgency. If I'm quick enough, then maybe –
I twist myself out of the bed, pushing aside the deep red linens and searching for pants. Over by the door, my brain recalls blearily, and my shirt... Had my shirt even made it to the bedroom? I find it right outside, and just as I finish buttoning, the sound of running water stops. Shit.
In a frantic rush, I grab my shoes and purse and slip quickly and quietly toward the door, and shit, my phone, charging on the nightstand. I scurry on tiptoes back through the apartment and yank the charger from the wall, shoving it hastily into my purse and making a break for the door.
A small part of me, hiding in the back of my mind, is impressed with how quietly I was able to slip out. I briefly congratulate myself for managing not to trip over anything. I keep my heightened pace, not daring to slow down until I reach the elevator, mashing the lobby button once, twice, three times, tapping my foot impatiently. After the doors finally close, I turn to my reflection in the shiny wall, fixing my hair and smoothing my clothes as best I can.
The doors open, and I make my way through the lobby, studiously avoiding any eye contact. An elderly doorman opens the door for me with a friendly smile, but for some reason the smile only annoys me. Even though I know it is unrealistic for the man to know what I was doing there, it still nags at me that he might know, or suspect, or something. I keep moving briskly, head down, bustling amongst the early morning crowd of the city streets, and I don't dare slow until I'm on the subway, exhaling in a sigh of relief as the doors close.
It really is easier this way, despite the added anxiety. I've come to hate the morning-after dance, the awkward and flailing waltz when everyone sees everyone in a new light. The inevitable awkward conversation, the avoidance of eye-contact, the tension so thick it could be sliced with a knife. I've danced this dance now more times than I care to remember or think about.
Sometimes there are offers for breakfast, sometimes not. On occassion, my partner-for-the-evening wishes to engage in an encore, but I always beg off with claims of being late for work, even though I'm not due in for hours. Some ask to see me again. I have a fake phone number saved for this purpose, a dead number to a disconnected line. It's easier to avoid the hassle of explanations and let-downs.
The best mornings are the rare mornings like this, when I am able to escape with no contact at all. Mark (I'm pretty sure that was his name) seemed like a nice guy, if a bit dorky and overly-eager, but I had a feeling he would have been interested in more than just the one night, and I just don't have the energy to deal with that today.
To be fair, these days, I never have the energy to deal with just about anything that isn't work. Unfortunately, today is Saturday, which means there is no work. I don't even have anything to work ahead on today, and I'm at a total loss for what to do with myself. I wrack my brain, trying to remember my rommate Lisa's schedule today. It's 9 AM, and I'm pretty sure she's at work now, which is nice because it means that it's safe to go home and shower and spend a few hours in bed before I have to come up with somewhere else to be.
I sometimes wonder if Lisa knows where I go on the nights I don't come home. I wonder if she would even care. Probably not. It's been over four months since I got back from... well, it's been four months since I've been back, and in all that time, none of our conversations have lasted longer than 30 seconds. Anything that is of vital importance goes on the white board on the refrigerator.
I won't lie, it's painful living with Lisa. It's this constant daily reminder of every single thing I did wrong, shoved in my face at close range. I won't try and act like I don't deserve it, because I totally do. I probably deserve everything that's happened to me.
I lied to her about being in love with her boyfriend, Jim, and she had to find out from a YouTube video of me shouting at a Sex and the City tourbus, which said boyfriend conveniently happened to be on, trying to learn more about SatC in an attempt to make Lisa happy. And as if that weren't enough, I kissed him. What the hell kind of best friend does that? The shitty kind. Not to mention the fact that I did all of this behind my boyfriend's back and lied to him too. Don never deserved that, even if he admitted afterward that he was never actually in love with me. And now I have to see Jim and Don at work every day and then go home to the apartment I still share with Lisa, and it's pretty much just the greatest thing ever.
The hard part is, I'm sure it's just as painful for Lisa, having to see me every day, and that makes me feel guilty. But I really don't have anywhere else to go, unless I move in with a stranger, and I've heard enough bad-roommate horror stories that I know it's better just to stay put. Also, it would put Lisa in a hard spot if I just up and moved. Even with 30 days' notice it's a challenge to replace a roommate, and she can't afford our apartment on her own.
I finally make it back to the apartment and take a long, hot shower, before grabbing some food and settling into my room. I lay in bed for awhile, trying not to let my mind wander, before finally giving in and pulling out my laptop. After puttering around with unimportant work stuff for half the day and not really accomplishing anything, I turn on Netflix and get lost in some stupid romantic comedy that came out recently. A few months ago, Lisa and I would have enjoyed watching together after a long day at work.
That time seems so far away now, and thinking about it for too long makes my heart ache. My life now is separated into Before and After 'The Event'. That's how I've come to refer to what happened in my brain. It saves me from having to linger on any of the details. I achingly remember how hard I pushed Mac, my boss, to let me go to Africa for a story. I remember, with a sick swirl in my stomach, how excited I felt when my coworker Gary and I boarded the plane.
If I close my eyes and lay still, I can still remember nearly a perfect image of the orphanage in my head. The sights, sounds, and smells. How terrified the children were, when they thought our camera was a gun. Meeting Daniel for the first time. The picture book that I read to him, over and over and over again, while he played with my hair, fascinated by the blonde color he'd never seen before. I will remember every word and picture in that book until the day I die.
I can recall with a frightening clarity the actual gunshots that rang out late that night in the darkness. Pop. Pop. The whimpers of frightened young voices. Pop. Pop. I can still feel the sense of urgency, as we roused the children. Pop. Pop. The fear in my heart as we scurried them onto the bus as quickly and quietly as we could. Pop. Pop. The confusion and terror as we realized that Daniel wasn't on the bus. Pop. Pop. Dragging him out from under the bed, carrying him on my back. Pop. Pop. Gary, falling to the ground, and my heart stopping, thinking he'd been shot. Pop. Pop. The utter relief I felt as we made it onto the bus and drove away. Pop. Pop. Daniel's lifeless body slipping off of me. Pop. Pop. Daniel's small, lifeless body...
I awake with a start, sweating profusely. I didn't even remember having fallen asleep. I moved the mouse on my laptop and got no response. The battery was dead. With a sigh, I leaned over to grab my phone and check the time. 8pm. Damn. I hadn't meant to sleep that long. Lisa would be home by now, unless she had gone out somewhere.
I pull myself out of bed and rifle through my closet, throwing on one of my dwindling number of feminine outfits, and tossing on some light make-up. I grab my purse and rifle through it, making sure I still have all my essentials, and get ready to leave. There's a quiet bar a few blocks away that I've been meaning to check out, and it seems like a decent place to pick up a guy. After sleeping all day and a nightmare like that, I know better than to try and face the night alone.
I open my bedroom door and slip out as quietly as possible, tiptoeing into the living room. Lisa is indeed home, watching some talk show on the TV. She glances up as she see's me passing. I don't expect her to acknowledge my presence, so it startles me a little when she speaks.
"I got a second job with a catering company. It'll mostly be evenings and weekends, so I'll be gone more. Just so you know."
I'm not sure what sort of response she's looking for, so I just nod. That seems to be enough for her, and she turns back to the TV show, no longer acknowledging my presence. I briefly, just for a moment, consider trying to say something else, but I can't think of a single thing to say that doesn't make me sound like a complete dick, so I just leave.
The New York City air is brisk and windy tonight, and I wrap my coat a little tighter around me as I walk, keeping my head down. I used to like walking around town with my head up, looking at the faces of my fellow New Yorkers, trying to guess what they did and who they were. I would make up stories for them in my head, about where they had been and where they were going, based on their facial expression or their clothes or what they were carrying with them. These days, though, I keep my head down, because I can't bear the thought of the story someone might write in their head if they saw my face.
The trip to the bar isn't long, and I'm pleased to be out of the cold air. I settle in on a semi-comfortable bar stool near the far end of the bar, order a gin and tonic, and begin scanning the other inhabitants of the bar. There is soft jazz playing in the background, and it takes me a second, but when I recognize the tune I almost laugh out loud at the irony of it.
"You can't go on, thinking nothing's wrong, oh no. Who's gonna take you home, tonight?"
The bartender is a decent-looking guy around her age, and as he finishes up with another patron he saunters back toward me with an easy smile on his face.
"Drinking alone tonight?" he asks, his voice as warm and easy as his face.
"Depends," I reply, forcing my own, well practiced, flirty smile back at him. "You wanna join me?"
His eyes light up a little as his smile grows. If I were in a better place, I might really like that smile. It's genuine, and that's a quality in short supply in this city.
He pulls up a stool and we sit, chatting about nonsense until suddenly it's 2 am. I am relieved when he invites me back to his place, which is conveniently located above the bar, which it turns out he owns. He turns off the lights and locks up the door before leading me up the stairs, and I am at ease now, because I know that I am safe from the demons in my head for at least one more night.