Walking through the halls of Safford, I felt more than the usual number of eyes on me. A few women nodded at me, silent solidarity or perhaps gratitude after seeing the livestream at the park. Richard pulled me into a hug and told me how proud he was and this caught me a bit off guard. He had always been a good friend, but proud? I didn't feel as if I deserved such praise. What had I done, really? It would have been more praiseworthy had I told my story in my late twenties.

The Monday morning staff meeting went well. My staff, to their credit, treated me the same as they did before the revelation of the weekend. One person was looking at me differently—Jane. I shouldn't have been surprised. But the fact that I could pick out the difference in how she was looking at me was telling. How she was looking at me had nothing to do with who I was in that moment versus the thousand moments beforehand as her boss. She was looking at me as if she might be sick. And that's when it dawned on me that she was hesitant. It should have occurred to me sooner that Jane might feel that my offering her my story was in some way an attempt to lure her to stay. It couldn't be further from accurate. I offered her my story because she is a hell of a writer. It should have also occurred to me that she would have worried about it the remainder of the weekend.

I found myself floating away from the discussion around the conference table as I accepted that my story would be the last Jane would tell for Scarlet. The gala had been exhausting and my visit to the park even more so which is why I hadn't given myself a moment to consider just how much I would miss Jane out in that bullpen. She had been a breath of fresh air at Scarlet from her first day as an intern. She was bright, dedicated and I had no doubt she would be a star. I had always imagined she would be that star for Scarlet. I had always imagined that I would be the editor of that star.

I would miss her in my life even more than the office and this didn't sit well with me. Had I been getting too close to her? Employees had come and gone before and I never felt this dread. I prided myself on my professionalism, but I knew if ever there was someone who could shake that, it would be Jane. Perhaps her leaving for Incite was the right decision for me as well as her, unwittingly. They certainly don't prepare you for this situation in journalism school. Hell, my own relationship with my mentor didn't prepare me for this. She and I had worked well together and she taught me an unquantifiable amount, but there was nothing between the two of us on a personal level that in any way resembled what I have with Jane. Maybe it was standard chemistry. Two people can have chemistry and be strictly platonic, but could they have chemistry and be strictly professional? The fact that I truly didn't know the answer said to me that it was time for Jane to have a less attached editor.

###

"Jane?" I stuck my head out of my office door and caught her attention. "It's time."

She walked toward me and the anxiety rolled off her in waves. I felt the tension she was carrying as much as I saw it. When she took a seat, I pulled a chair close to her in the hope that my presence would help her relax.

"Did you prepare questions?" I asked, knowing the answer. She nodded in that bashful way that always surfaced when she revealed her notes to me. I knew my question would remind her that she was prepared and nobody was more ready for this interview, such as it was, than her.

"I…um…I am not sure how much you want to reveal. I won't write anything that makes you uncomfortable."

I placed a hand on hers and noticed she was trembling.

"Look at me, Jane."

When she looked up, I could see the worry in her eyes. I don't know many writers who would be as conscientious about writing my story. Women, of course, due to our shared life experiences are more sensitive to how we talk about one another's trauma. But most writers would see this story as a big get and would be thinking of how it might further their careers. She was not that kind of writer. I knew I had chosen the right person to not only write it, but also to share this extremely vulnerable part of me with.

"I trust you. Even if I wasn't your editor with the benefit of full editorial control, I would trust you. If I was just… well, you know…. I would trust you. Please don't worry," I said.

Did she know? I certainly didn't.

She nodded and squared her shoulders to ready herself for what would be her last story at Scarlet. This saddened me. I took my hand away so we could begin.

"Can I?" she nodded at her phone with its audio recording app open and I exhaled slowly before agreeing.

Her first question asked for his identity and with that we began. I explained that I worked with him at News Today, what role I had there and how old I was at the time. I was a few months younger than she is now. That seemed to be the impetus for her cringing. I don't doubt that she could see the similarities in the beginnings of our careers. I was grateful she had started her career under my tutelage.

"His professional respect meant something for me. I worked hard for it."

She nodded her understanding of what that was like with a superior, no doubt thinking of how hard she has worked for me.

I explained that he had asked me to stay late so that he could help me clean up my story.

"I accepted. Gratefully. That was not an invitation but he took it that way."

Facing Jane, I admitted something that I had never admitted to anyone else: "I have never felt so powerless."

With a few more details revisited, Jane was as near to tears as I was. She managed to ask if I ever considered telling someone, pressing charges. There was no judgment in her question, only wonder.

"Not even for a second. It would have ended my career. At the very least defined it. I made a choice to push it down, go back to work and pretend like nothing ever happened."

Looking back at it, I marvel at the ability I had then to go back to work. To go back to work with that man. We never give ourselves enough credit in the moment when we are able to do something that then seems superhuman in hindsight. I deserved a lot of credit for picking myself back up and pushing ahead.

Jane asked why I decided to come forward now and my answer was much the same as it was when I explained to Ian why I was telling my story.

"Well, Mia asked if she would ever feel normal again. And I can only speak from my own experience but I would say the answer is no. You find a new normal and it works so well that sometimes you don't even know that it's not. And I don't think I realized how much of the weight I was still carrying."

I believed Jane was biting her lip to prevent herself from crying. As I said what had spurred me on, I could tell that she remembered the moment I stood next to her in the conference room watching the recording of her interview of Mia. That conversation in the conference room is one I wish I could take back. I was so hard on her. For the first time in my job as editor-in-chief I insisted she clear her follow-up questions with me before speaking to Mia again. Perhaps I needed to feel control in some way as I was transported back to a time when I didn't have control. I don't know. I regretted it. She needed to know that.

Leaning forward, I hit stop on the recording and remained like that, elbows on my knees.

"Me pushing you on this story was misdirected. It was not about you, it was about me and I'm sorry for that."

Nearly in tears, Jane spoke: "I'm not. You made me a better writer."

Whether she meant it in general or about this piece, I didn't know. I couldn't know.

"Well I'll take that credit. And I hope where you are going there is someone who is going to keep on pushing you because Jane, I really do believe that you have the potential to be exceptional."

Despite what I knew to be perfectly placed hair, a beautiful lace black top and expertly applied makeup, I felt far from attractive in that moment. I felt dirty and a touch nauseous from reliving decades old pain. However, Jane's gaze was of a woman appreciating the beauty of another woman. The compliment I delivered was acknowledged with a slight upturn at the corner of her mouth, but she was too lost taking in my appearance to speak. Leaning as I was, it was easy to reach over and touch her. Her exhale as I touched her knee was audible. She tilted her head to look at me and her eyes held dozens of questions.

It was Andrew at the door that tore our gaze apart. I felt relieved as my heart had begun to hammer in my chest and my mind couldn't make sense of what was being said in her gaze.

"Jacqueline, you have the board meeting—"

"Yes, Andrew. I am aware," I sharply cut him off.

When he retreated behind the door, ever the wounded puppy, Jane chuckled.

"Things change and yet things stay the same," I mused.

"I will go get started on my article. Thank you, Jacqueline. Sincerely. Your trust in me is, I don't even know how to describe it. Humbling," she stood and I followed suit.

"I should be thanking you. It's because of your persistence on Mia's story that I have been able to let go of what I didn't realize was still burdening me."

I watched her make her way to the door and then hesitate. She didn't reach for the pull. She didn't say anything, either. I waited patiently. Years of working with her had taught me that she often needed time to organize her thoughts before she spoke or what she ended up saying would be word salad.

"I know that you have Ian," she turned around to face me. "But if you ever need or want to talk about this or anything else, I hope you know that I would be there for you in a heartbeat."

Warmth came over me. I was touched. But there was something else happening that couldn't yet be defined. My emotions were erratic and so I didn't speak. I nodded my thanks, leaving it at that. She walked through the door.

I had never been happier to have the distraction of a board meeting.

###

"Jacqueline, I have Ian," Andrew's voice broke through the silence of my office as I worked on the budget.

"Hi," I said as I picked up the receiver. "What's up?"

My husband, clearly having been thinking on it for hours, proceeded to lecture me about discretion. Discretion about my own story being out there in the world. My own story that I had hidden for twenty years out of nothing but fear and shame.

"Excuse me?" I stood from my desk and turned toward the floor to ceiling windows as to put my back to the wall separating me from my staff. I didn't raise my voice, but I knew I couldn't control my shocked and angry facial expression. "If you have still failed to grasp that this is my story, Ian, and I am the one who gets to tell it or not tell it, I don't have anything more to say to you on the topic."

Apparently, the Today show had run a segment on the powerful women in media and publishing that had come forward to reveal an industry riddled with sexual misconduct. My name had been added to the painfully long list of women. I wasn't grasping what was so different about this segment versus the print pieces that had appeared all weekend.

"This reflects on more than you, Jackie. They thought we were married at the time!" he barked.

Ah, there it is, I thought.

"I am sorry you feel slighted in some way," I was now seething after he made this about him. "It makes no difference whether we were married at the time or not. It changes nothing about what happened then. And in this moment the one thing it changes is my respect for you."

I had never hung up on him. It was such an immature thing to do; it felt so right. However, the second I hung up the receiver, I felt tears threatening. How dare he make this about him! I gritted my teeth and that's when I knew it was too late. Tears let loose, carving a meandering path down my face and taking with them my makeup. I wiped the tears away with anger. How could this have happened? How could he not see how this was a positive for me? I felt lighter. Was that not obvious to my spouse of twenty years? After wiping my eyes again and noting the missing tissue box, I walked out the door and in the direction of the women's bathroom. I nearly ran straight into Jane as I rounded the corner by the elevators. We both stopped with mere inches to spare.

Those green-gold eyes stared at me with deep concern.

"Are you okay?" she said quietly.

I nodded and hoped she wouldn't notice me digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands to hold back whatever unshed tears remained. Without another word I passed her and made my way to the bathroom where I immediately went to the sink to splash water on my face. I grabbed for a towel to dab at the mascara streaks when the door opened. My eyes met Jane's in the mirror before she looked toward the stalls, obviously checking whether they were alone. She turned the lock on the door. Her approach was slow, allowing me time to understand she was here to help not hover or ask dozens of questions. Slowly open arms were presented to me and I walked right into them. I never would have imagined her arms to be so strong and steadying. Jane held me as I cried for the second time in five minutes. Without a word, she held me until I had caught my breath and had caused a wet spot on the shoulder or her blouse.

"Thank you," I whispered against her ear as we began to separate.

"Do you need to talk about it?" she kept a hand at my elbow.

"Not right now, but thank you."

She watched me for a moment and I only wished I could read her thoughts. The wheels were turning as she looked at me. Jane furrowed her brow before nodding her head in acceptance.

"If you ever do," she stated, not needing to say more.

"Thank you, Jane. I'm going to clean up my makeup and then get back to work. We will catch up later about your piece?" I smiled softly. She did have a wonderful way of offering comfort without making a big deal of it. Had she always? I couldn't remember. It was usually me offering her a comforting hand.

"Yes, I will be ready."

We shared a look, yet again in the mirror as I had turned to deal with the streaks on my face. If I had been able to think clearly and without the distraction of Ian's tantrum, I might have been able to decipher if there had been something beneath the surface in the exchange.

To be continued…