Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
But it wasn’t—and I’m now in an active, real-life relationship with three men. Three. I must be suffering from temporary insanity. Hopefully it will pass soon.
The haphazard clunking in my ribcage tells me it won’t.
The fact that I miss them already does, as well.
My skin feels paper thin without them touching it.
“You’re in trouble, Elise,” I whisper, climbing the final stair.
When I reach my apartment, thankfully Shayna is on the phone. Still, she waggles her eyebrows at me as I hang up my coat and bypass her into my bedroom. I eye the manila envelope containing the photograph I took of Alexander and Crouch last night. There is a slight chance I could bring this to Karina tomorrow morning and earn myself a staff writer spot. But it’s very slight. There is a better chance she rains down Armageddon on my head.
I sit down on the edge of my bed, settling my laptop on my thighs and opening it.
There is a folder on the desktop labeled Alexander Crouch where I compiled all of my notes on the rejected story, but I bypass it now in favor of pulling up the Google homepage.
Before I can guess my own intentions, I’ve typed the words “New York City journalism schools” into a search engine and hit return. The first search result is Columbia. Uh, yeah. The Ivy League won’t be happening any time soon. There are several more realistic schools, however. Hunter. Hofstra. Baruch. All a subway ride away.
Could I possibly get into those?
What if I could actually commit to four years of school and become a journalist the right way? No shortcuts. No scheming. Do I have it in me?
Maybe.
My parents believed in me once upon a time. I believed in myself. And I would be lying if I said the Tram Fam wasn’t inspiring this Google search. My guys would tell me I can do it. Apply to a journalism school and work toward an actual degree. Pursue this thing I want and succeed without trying to scheme my way to the top.
Or you might just continue your cut and run pattern.
With an impatient sound, I ex out of the webpage and pull up a fresh document. After a moment’s hesitation, I start typing, my fingers already sluggish with guilt.
* * *
Me Plus Three
by Elise Brandeis
* * *
What do an egomaniacal porn star, an emotionally bullied construction foreman and a rugby coach with crippling mommy issues have in common?
They all slept in the same bed as me last night.
By a simple twist of fate—and a Roosevelt Island tram malfunction—there I was, trapped with a trio of walking red flags…
* * *
A few hours later, I stare down at my unmoving fingers on the keyboard. My gaze lifts to read some of the more provocative lines. In a way, the article is way too personal. In another…it doesn’t sound like me at all. It sounds like my fears trying to convince me that these men couldn’t possibly be right for me. It’s a con list with no pro side.
It’s over-the-top humorous and a little mean.
And it’s not how I truly feel about Tobias, Banks and Gabe whatsoever.
Maybe in the very beginning, but not now. No way I can send it to Karina. Right?
Just because I send it doesn’t mean it’s going to be published.
It could be terrible and I’ll be back at square one. What I should do is delete the whole thing and continue browsing schools. So I can pursue a writing career the right way.
But it wouldn’t hurt to get Karina’s opinion…right?
In the end, my fear of enrolling and subsequently dropping out of school wins. Not to mention, the growing need for someone to tell me I’m not terrible at writing. The need for some positive reinforcement to reassure me I’m not chasing a pipe dream when I research journalism schools in the first place. It feels disloyal sharing this information with even one person, but it won’t go any further than that. Without giving myself another second to talk myself out of it, I attach the piece to an email to Karina and hit send.
Chapter Fifteen
I push the sandwich cart through the lane of cubicles, acutely aware that everyone on staff is staring at me with fresh fascination. Fine, it’s Monday morning and this is the first time I’ve been in the newsroom since the Tram Fam surprised me at work. And I guess it’s not every day that three very attractive men show up to an office and express their interest in the sandwich girl, even if she does have great legs. Eventually, a new piece of gossip will intercept their curiosity, but not today. All eyes are on me for now.
Awesome.
It would be a lot more convenient if these working stiffs accepted their sandwich from me, as usual, without taking their rapt attention from the screens of their Mac. Because I need to speak with Karina again. I need to at least inform her of what I overheard at the party Saturday night, don’t I? The conversation between Alexander and Crouch is way too important. I can’t simply pretend I never heard it, can I? That’s irresponsible as a citizen.