The Singles (83 page)

Perched across from me in her cushy leather chair, Barb looked none too pleased at my outburst, but really, who could be calm at a time like this? This she-devil—this Amanda Truthslayer—was ruining my career, one nasty keystroke at a time.

“Avery, I know you’re upset.” Actually, I was pissed off, but I bit my tongue. “And I know this is a big deal.” Barb paused for another moment, tapping her long red nails on the edge of her desk. “But apparently, the public is interested in what she has to say.”

I sucked in a harsh breath. Did she have to knee me below the belt so soon? “
Really
, Barb?”

Ignoring my exasperation, she bobbed her head a little too enthusiastically, causing her elegant black bun to bounce. “Amanda’s gotten almost eighty thousand hits on just this one post, not to mention the thousands of comments, shares, and likes. And this one just went live last night.”

Eighty. Thousand. Hits.

Wow.

Had I ever even gotten close to eighty thousand hits?

Sure, I have... if you combined all the advice articles I’ve written since starting here a little over a year ago, multiplied the total by two, and then added
that
number to Amanda Truthslayer’s
least
popular skewering.

Coming to terms with that particular fact gave me a headache, as if Amanda had just shoved another pin in the voodoo doll she must keep of me.

“
And
,” Barb added in a low voice, “she’s trending on Twitter and Facebook.”

Was it just me or did she sound more and more excited with each piece of crappy news she decided to share with me?

Focusing my gaze up at the tiled ceiling, I tried to calm my nerves by counting to ten, which immediately sent me into the third stage of panic.

Defensiveness.

“Pardon my French, Barb, but this is complete bullshit.” I stood and began pacing, biting my already ragged nails. Barb’s sharp brown eyes followed my erratic movements, but she said nothing. I had never been this unhinged, but damn if what I’d just read hadn’t given me cause to drink. And eat. It was almost a given that I’d have a date tonight with a box of craptastic wine and a medium supreme pizza.

Fisting my hands, I paused in front of the window and stared down at the busy street seven floors below. “I just can’t believe this is happening again,” I said robotically.

Amanda Truthslayer had not only taken another question one of my readers had sent to me—she’d once again flipped my advice, turning it into an all-out bitchfest.

And somehow, her current bitchfest had garnered eighty thousand hits and was now trending on social media.

“How can people even like that sort of thing?” I asked myself aloud.

“Avery!” Barb snapped. I turned to face her, cringing at the sight of her thinned red lips and narrowed eyes. “This is an office, not solitary confinement. Stop talking to yourself and sit down so we can discuss this.”

She swept her hand out at the seat across from her. Reluctantly, I sat, smoothing my flowy black skirt beneath me.  “How do I fix this?” I whispered. “What do I do?”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk. “Look, Avery. Your column is good, and your advice is sweet, but hers is edgy and entertaining. You just have to be ...
better
. Spice up your column, add a little sass, make readers
want
to hear what you have to say.”

Was my boss telling me to add a dose of bitchiness to my column?

When I’d gotten the job last year, Barb had given me the history of
The Azalea Post
. The lifestyle and entertainment paper had been established by her grandfather a few years after World War II ended. It wasn’t until college, when Barb had stumbled upon old copies of the paper that had snagged her interest had she wanted anything to do with her family’s legacy.

“Your advice,” Barb had told me the day she hired me, “reminds me of the R
esolutions from Ruth
feature that was in my grandpa’s paper.  Your view is that sweet throwback this paper desperately needs.”

Apparently, that sweet throwback had gone stale at an alarming speed.

“Avery, are you paying attention to anything I’m saying?” Barb demanded.

I swallowed the tennis ball-sized lump lodged in my throat.  “Of course. And I apologize for my brief moment of insanity.” Barb smiled at me like I was a certified fool and clasped her hands together, patiently waiting for me to give her a play-by-play on how I could turn my sugary advice into something that was ... edgy and entertaining. Something that would get our site a gazillion hits overnight.

Something that wasn’t
my
advice at all.

“I’ll do some research and see what the public is looking for, and I can revamp if necessary,” I promised, standing. I didn’t want to wait for her response. I wasn’t ready for more ultimatums or bad news. Reaching the door to her office, I grabbed the knob, took a deep breath, and then looked over my shoulder. “I’ll let you know what I come up with.”

Barb had returned her attention to her computer, but I noticed her dismissive smile. “You’re a brilliant young woman, Avery. I’m sure you’ll do just fine!” For a moment, I waited for the “Or else” but it never came, so I crept into the hall with my shoulders hunched like an admonished child leaving the principal’s office.

I headed back to my corner cubicle and plunked myself down in the chair. Turning off my screensaver—the not safe for work shirtless picture of Henry Cavill—I checked my email. After seeing that vomit-inducing blog, the full inbox was somewhat of a relief. My column was still a success. Just because some pseudo-advice giver had been twisting my work for the last few months for a website that catered to the miserable didn’t mean my career was over.

Even so, I wanted to kick Amanda Truthslayer’s ass.

Pulling up her page on Snarkjunkies.com, I re-read her advice to my reader once again, and then compared it to my answer to the same question, which had been published three days ago.

Dear Confused,

I know that relationships can be difficult at first and they require a lot of change and compromise. I would say that maybe you should address these feelings with “Ed” and let him know how you feel. Sometimes guys, like girls, can feel torn or shy and they don’t want to put themselves out there for fear of being rejected. I wish you the best of luck and feel free to update us on any new developments.

Lots of love,

Avery

Beneath my answer, the number of hits on my own post curled my lips into a harsh frown. Thirty-five hundred. That wasn’t even a tenth of Amanda’s hits for this week’s bashing.

Crap.

I couldn’t lose this job. I had just moved into my condo and bought a new car. I needed the income. But most of all, I liked my job. I
loved
giving advice. I’d been doing it for as long as I remembered, and I enjoyed the emotions that came with helping women feel empowered and confident in their relationships. For Amanda to do this to me—again—well, it was enough to knock me down a few notches.

Disgusted at how easily a woman I didn’t even know had managed to shake me, I slammed my laptop shut and closed my eyes.

Massaging the bridge of my nose in a useless effort to ease my pounding headache, I checked the clock on my desk. One-fifteen. I’d already missed the first fifteen minutes of my lunch obsessing over Amanda Truthslayer. Sighing heavily, I shrugged on the purple cardigan hanging on the back of my chair, grabbed my oversized purse, and headed down the hall. I ignored the knowing looks of my coworkers who’d probably already read and shared a chuckle over Amanda’s post. To avoid any awkward conversations, I opted for the stairs instead of the elevator, taking them two at a time because I was so desperate to get outside.

As soon as I exited the building, I stopped on the sidewalk and inhaled deeply. Even though it was the dead of winter, Charlotte was warm. It was a far cry from Grand Forks, the North Dakota town I’d grown up in. 

I first fell in love with Charlotte while attending Queens University, but it wasn’t until a year after I graduated—when I came back to visit my friend Tessa—that I decided to make it my home. Tessa had helped me get started with
The Azalea Post
when she’d introduced me to Barb, who was a friend of Tessa’s mother. I was beyond excited to move back to Charlotte and, up until a few months ago, this job had been everything I could ask for. The public—well most of them—had responded well to my advice.

So who in the hell was Amanda Truthslayer anyway to downgrade my opinions?

Shoving my hands into the shallow pockets of my cardigan, I walked slowly down the sidewalk, being careful not to get my stilettos stuck in the cracks as I made the six-block trek to the little café on East Trade Street. The place had the best milkshakes I’ve ever tasted, and this was definitely a sugary dairy kind of day. Screw the diet.

When Gabby, my favorite waitress, spotted me settling into a booth at the front of the shop, she bounced over, pen and pad in hand. “Told you resolutions were meant to be broken,” she teased, reminding me of my declaration that I was taking a break from their addictive shakes and fried pickles a few weeks ago. “I’ve missed seeing you around, Avery.”

“Yeah, I’ll give that resolution another go next year.” I shook my head when she offered me a menu. “Can I just get a blueberry shake?”

“You got it, babe.” She winked. “For what it’s worth, you
so
didn’t need that resolution. You’re gorgeous, girl!”

A flush crept across my skin. “Thanks.”

Alone again with my thoughts, I pulled out my phone and spent several agonizing minutes reading Amanda’s comment section. The “Truthslayer” was personally responding to some of her readers, whose feedback on her newest post ranged from smiley faces to “Amen” to several that were flat-out ridiculed by not only my reader but also my original advice.

Dejected, I slid my phone into my purse and waited for Gabby to return with my milkshake. The first few sips were painfully cold, but soon the blueberry goodness took over my senses, temporarily smothering all thoughts of the other advice column. Sighing, I glanced up at the television mounted over my booth. It was tuned to a Charlotte-based station, which was featuring a local success story.

“... Earned his fortune in the mobile gaming market, but Max Bradbury has expanded his reach in a way that has the Internet abuzz,” the reporter said from where she stood in front of a massive slate-colored building. “Just last year, Bradbury Enterprises unleashed Snark Junkies. Max Bradbury boasts that this entertainment and social networking website allows content providers the freedom to speak their mind.”

The logo for the website partly responsible for my blueberry milkshake binge flashed on the screen, and I gritted my teeth at the sight of the Snark Junkies dog—a smirking Siberian husky.

Dear God, Amanda Truthslayer was
everywhere
today.

Glaring at the reporter as she praised Bradbury and his company, I made a mental note of the address on the building behind her. I’d mentioned going to the website’s headquarters before, but Barb had shot down the idea. She’d told me to leave the confrontation to her lawyers, but they weren’t exactly doing a great job getting through to Bradbury. At this point, I couldn’t see things getting any worse, so what did I have to lose by going to see him in person about Amanda and her posts? And besides, the fact the TV was tuned to a story about Snark Junkies was a sign I couldn’t ignore.

Waving to catch Gabby’s attention, I motioned her over.

“Just a sec,” she mouthed. While I waited for her to come to my table, I built myself up about confronting Bradbury. Regardless of whether or not my complaints bothered him, if his “content provider” could speak her mind, so could I.

Stopping next to my booth, Gabby grinned. “Did you change your mind about the fried pickles?”

“Can I get the check, please?” I pointed to my shake. “And this in a to-go cup?” Glancing up at the Bradbury Enterprises employee being interviewed on screen, I stiffened my spine as she gushed about how awesome the company was. Yeah, awesome my ass. “I have an errand to run before I head back to the office.”

W
hen the receptionist informed me that Max was out of the office for the rest of the day, I refused to lose my confidence. Determined to meet the man behind the rude website face-to-face, I left my condo earlier than usual the next morning and returned to the corporate park that housed Bradbury Enterprises. After the doorman let me pass, I stood in the corner of the elevator, breathing unevenly as I counted the floors to Max Bradbury’s office.

One
. Had I been this nervous yesterday?
Two
.
Three
. No, I hadn’t been, but what if he’s not here again? Or what if he just refuses to see me.
Four
. Not even twenty-four hours ago, the receptionist had looked at me like I was a shoe-in for the next
Idiocracy
movie when I had asked to see the CEO without an appointment.
Five
. If Barb found out I had visited Bradbury, she’d freak out.
Six
. Maybe, just maybe, I should take the elevator back down after it stopped.

I stared at my reflection in the gleaming doors. In spite of my professional exterior—a black pea coat over a crisp tucked-in blouse and pinstripe pencil skirt, black pumps, and my simple but effective auburn up-do—the confidence I’d shown yesterday wavered. My hazel eyes were unsure, nervous.

Seven.

Eight
.

Clenching my hands into fists, I released a deflated breath as the doors shuddered open. I crept from the corner and hovered my finger over the first floor button to take me back to the lobby. Just before I pushed it, the bottle blond receptionist from yesterday afternoon glanced up from her cherry red, U-shaped desk, simpered at me, and then went back to her call.

You know what, screw leaving,
I thought.

I forced myself into the lobby of the CEO’s personal suite—which was surprisingly bright and cheery considering the nature of his website. The bold shades of red, yellow, green, and blue reminded me of the candy-coated color scheme of one of Bradbury Enterprises’ oldest and most popular games—which, to my embarrassment, I had on my phone and found myself playing in moments of extreme boredom.