It Girl. Nic Tatano
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"You tell stories for a living. C'mon, it's not a real job."
Annndddd… cue the anger. "And you sell stocks to people. You're nothing more than a legalized bookie taking bets that companies will make money. Wall Street is a glorified casino."
"Don't change the subject. You're not taking this morning show job. You're not a morning person anyway."
"You don't get it. This will lead to the main network anchor job in three and a half years. You know how many people have sat in that chair in the last half century? Three. I'll be the face of the network at thirty-five. And I'll get to cover Sydney Dixon's campaign, and she's a lock to be the next President. I'll get to travel the world, have the President of the United States on speed dial, take trips on Air Force One—"
"Great, I'll see even less of you."
"It's my dream job."
"It doesn't work for me. Or my plan for us. You're not taking the job. End of story. C'mon, get back in bed."
He reached out for me and I shoved his hand away. My blood reached its boiling point, but I'm one of those people who can still think rationally even when I'm seriously pissed off. Reporters often see things in black and white, with very few gray areas. And at that moment, I knew I had to step back and look at the situation as a reporter, not as a girlfriend. I took a long look at the thirty-five year old man my friends considered to be an incredible catch. Tall, classically handsome with (ironically) an anchorman's square jaw, deep set dark brown eyes that matched the color of his short hair, a rugged face. A seriously buffed body to die for and sex that was off the charts. But the realization hit me that the man I had planned to turn into a hundred and eighty pound chocolate sundae didn't even know me.
Or didn't want to.
And just like that, I reached a decision. I knew it was time to cut my losses. "Get out."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Get your underwear off the trapeze and your toothbrush out of my bathroom and whatever other stuff you've got around here and get out. You've got thirty minutes and after that anything I find that belongs to you is going down the garbage chute. We're done."
He reached out for me again. "C'mon, babe, calm down."
I glared at him. "Oh, I'm very calm. You just showed your true colors. You have absolutely no respect for my career, or for what I want to do with my life. Which, since you obviously didn't get the memo, is not yours to mold. And in case you haven't been to a wedding in a while, they took the obey part out of the vows, so you can't forbid me to do anything. You put up with me for the past few months? Well now you won't have to put up with anything. Go get yourself a nine-to-five girlfriend."
"You're serious."
I nodded. "We're done, Alexander. As you would say, end of story."
Scott Winter is known as "America's boy next door." One look at him tells you why.
Not classically handsome but beyond cute, he's got a mop of always-tousled black hair that leaves the impression it's been styled by some babe who ran her fingers through it after having her way with him. Combine that with devilish olive green eyes that make him look like he's up to something, a permanent five o'clock shadow, and a lean face accented by dimples that run the length of his cheeks, and you've got a guy with the highest "Q" rating in television.
That means viewers like him more than anyone else. On any network.
Women really like him. And they all want to sleep with him, even though he's happily married to his high school sweetheart and would never, ever cheat.
At five-foot-ten he's the biggest thing on television.
And he's been my friend for fourteen years since the day we met freshman year.
He stepped off the set to greet me as I entered the studio. "Hey, it's The Spitfire!" he said, using my nickname.
"Hi, Scott," I said, as he gave me a strong hug and almost lifted my hundred and thirty-five pounds off the floor.
"There's something I haven't seen between our co-anchors in awhile," said Gavin Karlson.
"Do we have to do a tryout?" asked Scott, as he wrapped one arm around my shoulders. "Can't we just hire her right now?"
"Sorry," said the producer. "This one's not my call. But you've got as much input as I do."
"Yeah, I know," said Scott.
Gavin looked at me. "So, you go by Spitfire?"
"My dad gave me that nickname when I was a little girl since he said I was an out of control ball of fire."
"Nothing's changed," said Scott. I playfully slapped his shoulder. "So, you ready to become the next morning show It Girl?"
"I don't know if I'd get that title, but I'd love to work with you."
"It would be nice to see you more. And my wife would be thrilled if you were my partner. She got a little tired of my bitching about Katrina."
"Well, thank goodness for the NYPD Vice Squad."
Gavin interrupted our little reunion. "You guys ready?"
Scott nodded, then took me by the hand and led me up the riser to the set, a grouping featuring a red leather couch and matching chair, a mahogany coffee table and a couple of giant flat screens hanging off the back wall which was painted royal blue. "We haven't anchored together since college. Remember how we always planned to work together?"
I nodded as we both sat down in the anchor chairs. "I'd forgotten about that, but maybe this is it. Just took ten years to get there."
"Why don't you read through the script a few times before we roll tape," said Gavin, who headed out of the studio. "I'll get someone to run the prompter and leave you two to practice."
"Sure," said Scott, who turned to me. "When was the last time you anchored?"
"I filled in a few times this year, but never more than two days in a row."
"Well, just think back to our college days. Like riding a bike. And remember, this is different than a regular newscast. It's more about personality than anything else."
I couldn't help but smile as the memory of our college newscast flashed through my mind. We had incredible chemistry that only works in television if the anchors like each other. I wondered if it would still show up after a decade apart.
A young brunette entered the studio and sat down at the teleprompter control station.
"That's Mandy," said Scott. "Mandy, this is Veronica."
She waved and gave me a cheerful smile. "Hi!"
"Hi, Mandy," I said, smiling back.
"Her pace is probably a little faster than Katrina's," said Scott.
Mandy nodded.
"Okay, you ready to do this?" he asked.
"Let's rock," I said.
I faced the camera and the words filled the prompter.
"Welcome to the Morning Show, America. I'm Scott Winter … "
"And I'm Veronica Summer. Thank you so much for joining us this Friday morning."
And just like that, I was twenty-two again, anchoring next to my closest friend in the business, looking at a future that was suddenly very bright.
Until I began to stumble through the script like I was twenty-two.
***
The job I didn't want that became the job I had to have had quickly become the "what if" moment I'd look back on for the rest of my