Nic Tatano - Twitter Girl

He shakes his head. “It’s not a station.” He hands me the tablet and I read a direct message sent to @TwitterGirl:

Cassidy, your voice mailbox is full and need to talk. We have a position for you in the campaign. - Frank Delavan

My eyes widen and I feel myself smile for the first time in days.

Sam is wearing his eyebrows-up-I-told-you-so look, which I get a lot since he’s much smarter than I am. “So, Twitter Girl, still pissed at me for reading your mail?”

I hand back his iPad, lean down and give him a hug, then muss up his hair like I did when he was little. “Hell, no. I owe you big time. You know who Frank Delavan is?”

He nods. “Duh, my sister works in the news business. Of course I do. He’s Will Becker’s point man. And apparently he wants you to be a part of the team.”

Me. Twitter Girl.

Working for the Will Becker. And unless you’ve been living under that same neighborhood of rocks for a while, you know he’s America’s most eligible bachelor and odds-on favorite to be the next President of the United States.

My euphoria is interrupted by the doorbell. I run across the living room to answer it, as I already know it’s my boyfriend Jamison back from a long trip to China. I’ve barely been able to get in touch with him since I got canned and now I can’t wait to share the good news. While Sam has been doing his best to comfort me, it’s brotherly love, and I really need a hug from my significant other. (Well, okay, more than just a hug.)

When I open the door I see that he’s carrying something other than a Christmas gift. It’s a metaphorical box of relationship coal for my stocking as a peek inside tells me it’s my stuff from his apartment. My smile disappears.

“Hi,” he says, looking at the box he’s holding instead of my face.

“What’s this?” I ask, even though my romantic GPS has already told me.

Your relationship has hit… a dead end.

Recalculating…

He walks inside, accompanied by a blast of frigid December air and I close the door. “I’m… uh…”

I bite my lower lip and feel my emotions well up. He’s still not looking at me and I’ve been around the block enough times to know why. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“I’m sorry, Cassidy.”

“This why you didn’t get back to me?”

No response.

“Look at me, dammit.”

He looks up and I see very little emotion in his eyes. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since… you know. The incident.”

“And?”

“I… don’t think I can be with someone who is disliked by so many people.”

In a flash my emotions switch gears. Upset to pissed off. My blood pressure zips past elevated , leaves dangerous in the rear view mirror and goes directly to Irish-girl-wanna-hit-someone level. I see Sam wheel to the edge of the living room and peek around the wall as he’s obviously heard the conversation and is standing by in case I need him, which I will shortly. I slowly nod and fold my arms. “Wow. And here I thought you came over to support me. Alas, I incorrectly assumed you had a spine.”

“The people at the firm today…” He shakes his head as his face tightens. “God, it was just brutal what I went through.”

“What you went through? Excuse me, but are you actually playing the victim card here?”

“Cassidy, my reputation is at stake. How many clients will want to hire me if I’m in a relationship with someone like you.”

Like me? LIKE ME???

His words push me over the edge and send Sam heading in my direction. I yank the box from his arms, put it on the floor, open the door and point out at the street. “Get out.”

He reaches out and takes my shoulders but I twist away like his hands are on fire. “Cassidy, don’t take it personally—”

“You heard my sister,” says Sam, rolling to a stop a few feet from Jamison and glaring at him. “Get the hell out of our house. Now.”

My boyfriend looks at my brother, who was a six-foot-two black belt in karate before the accident and has tremendous upper body strength from life in the chair. Jamison knows Sam would have no qualms about kicking his ass. He nods and turns back to me. “Well, know that I wish you the best.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, as he heads out the door. When he’s on the way to his car I turn to look at Sam who has a gleam in his eye. He cocks his head at the pile of snow on the porch.

“Do it, Caz.”

I know exactly what he’s thinking. I step outside, grab a handful of the white stuff which has almost turned to ice, pack it into a ball, rear back and fire. It nails Jamison in the head.

“Ow!” He turns around. “What the hell was that for?”

“That’s for the snowball’s chance you ever have of coming back to me!” I flip him the bird, throw in the Italian salute for good measure (that’s the hand slapped in the crook of the opposite elbow, for those not versed in Sicilian sign language), step back inside, slam the door and get a high five from Sam.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“A little.” I feel my eyes start to well up. “Not really.”

Sam reaches his arms up, I lean down and accept his warm hug. When we break the embrace we start the rehab ritual, which, unfortunately, I have gone through too many times.

Like I said, I’ve been around the block known as Breakup Square.

He rolls into the kitchen, I follow him. He reaches into the freezer, grabs a pint of Haagen Dazs rum raisin and hands it to me, already sitting at the kitchen table with a spoon. He wheels his chair next to me and starts stroking my hair. I lean my head on his shoulder as I savor the rich ice cream.

Sam kisses the top of my head. “Hey, wait till he finds out you got another job.”

And wait till he finds out who I’ll be working with.

***

“Yo, Twitter Girl!”

The words from a young hardbodied bike messenger greet me as I emerge from the cab in Brooklyn. I smile and wave at him as he pedals by, slows down to check me out head to toe, and returns a sexy grin. (If I didn’t have an important meeting I’d grab a CitiBike and go after him.)

I head into the seriously out of the way tavern and pause a minute so my eyes can adjust to the very dim light. I walk past the ancient oak bar, empty except for a burly bartender wheeling in a keg, and spot Frank Delavan at the last table near the kitchen door. He stands up, much shorter than he appears on television, maybe five-six, and extends a hand. “Cassidy, nice to meet you. Thank you for coming.”

I return the handshake. “Thanks for inviting me.” I take a seat and adjust my chair as I take a look at the New York sports photos that cover every inch of paneled wall space. “This place is a little off the beaten path for you, huh?”

“Well, I thought in light of the publicity you might want to keep a low profile.”

“That’s not really possible when you’re a six foot tall redhead who’s been on network television for seven years, but I appreciate the thought.”

He laughs a bit. Delavan has a nice smile which goes well with his short and portly look, but I know his reputation as a gunslinger. He may look like a bald, middle-aged lawn gnome, but every politician wants him in a foxhole. “Well, the food’s excellent here. I actually try to get by once a month. This is one of the city’s best kept secrets. I grew up down the block. Used to come here as a kid for the cheeseburgers and never stopped.”

A young waiter arrives at our table, hands me a menu, and his eyes light up with recognition. “Hey, you’re Twitter Girl!”

I put my palms up and shrug. “See what I mean?” I say to Frank.

“Nice to have you in our restaurant,” says the waiter. “For what it’s worth, I thought you got a raw deal from the network. I sure miss those tweets. You’re funny as hell.”