Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

“Oh,” I said, feeling diffusely disappointed. I had to remind myself that this was better than a come-on. You don’t want someone tripping over himself just because you look pretty that day. You want someone willing to alter the course of his career because of your talent.

But there was a term for those who never married, who were wedded to the job instead: a news nun. There’s a reason they don’t write fairy tales about brainy career women.

“They are.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, I guess they are.”

Corey had warm brown eyes. “Are you happy?” he said.

“I—of course, I’m…” But I floundered, and fell silent. I tried again, but I didn’t know what to say. It was such a simple question. How had I never answered it?

“I’m sorry.” Corey reached for my hand. “I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t mean to upset you. That’s a pretty personal thing for me to ask.”

I blinked. “I just—I guess I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

“Most of us don’t,” he said. “Until we have to.”

After a pause, he let go of my hand. “Here’s what I meant to say,” he said. “Sometimes you don’t know if you’re happy until you go somewhere else. It’s a big world. There’s a risk to becoming a lifer. Even if you make it to the top of the ladder—they’ll still remember you as the person you were on your first day.”

“But what if you love your job?”

“Usually that’s more a reflection of you than of the job.”

I drank from my water glass. It was satisfying to crunch the ice cubes between my teeth, the cool water rinsing away the salt of the appetizer, the tannins of the wine. “I like that,” I said. “But you are suspiciously wise.”

Corey laughed. “I’ve been reading a lot of self-help lately.”

“Post-divorce malaise?”

“That, or maybe it’s impending middle age.”

Hours later, the restaurant was nearly empty, the music cranked up in the open kitchen, dessert cleared and the check long since paid. Neither of us made a move to stand up. The conversation was effortless. This was part of what I loved about journalists. The news we reported represented only one small slice of reality. Beneath the official quotes and statements and statistics, there was so much more gossip and speculation—the hidden depths of the iceberg, teeming with life. Corey and I didn’t talk much about home, but I didn’t have to strenuously avoid the subject, either. It was the opposite of Oliver’s indifferent hmm when I mentioned my parents. Every question Corey asked was tinged with the knowledge of my past—my real past.

When the waiter finally interrupted and said they had to close, Corey and I moved to the sidewalk. The glow of the restaurant dimmed behind the windows, and the staff clustered around the bar for their shift drink. It reminded me of the end of a broadcast, when the director shouts “Clear” and the anchor exhales. If you hang around in the minutes that follow, you witness the rapid disassembly: the bright lights turned off, the stage swarmed with crew to reset for the next day. It always felt melancholy, the abrupt end to the magic, the resumption of real life.

“What time is it?” I said.

“I’m staying nearby,” Corey said. “Come back to my hotel for a drink.”

“I really should get to bed.”

“Really?” he said. That big grin. “Aren’t you having fun?”

“Maybe this isn’t what you mean,” I said carefully. “But I should tell you that I have a boyfriend.”

“Ah. The truth comes out.” He smiled, offering me his arm in a smooth transition to chivalry. “Then at least let me walk you home.”

As we started walking, he said, “That was only half of what I meant. I actually do want to know what you think about the ambassador to the UN. But while we’re on the subject”—he bumped his shoulder against mine—“who’s the lucky guy?”

“His name is Oliver. He’s a lawyer.”

“Oliver the lawyer. How did you meet?”

Corey had heard of Stella, of course. Everyone in the industry had. He went quiet, after I explained. “So you and Oliver have been dating since…?”

“Since December.”

“Right after Stella disappeared.”

Corey glanced at me. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“What?” I said. “What does that look mean?”

“Isn’t it kind of gruesome? Do you manage to talk about anything except her?”

“We do fine.”

“Do you love him?”

“ What? ” I said. “What kind of a question is that?”

“A valid one. You’ve been dating for four months.”

“I have no idea,” I lied. But why should I lie to Corey? “No. I don’t love him.”

“Then what are you doing?”

The truth, unutterable, was that I didn’t really know. “That family has been through so much,” I said, instead. “I feel like I have to be there for them. Or for Oliver, at least. For now.”

“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say,” Corey said.

“Is that such an awful reason to stay with someone? Compassion?”

“Yes,” he said.

Our conversation, which had flowed so easily before, had become jagged. Short words spiking through the silence, like an erratic heartbeat in an EKG.

“It’s going to be hard,” I said. “If I break up with him.”

“You’ve done harder things than that,” Corey said.

Another stretch of quiet. Corey was probably a very effective interviewer. Lies require noise and misdirection to blend in. Silence is the best way to draw the truth to the surface.

“He does remind me of Stella, in some ways,” I finally said. “But I like that about him.”

He smiled sympathetically. “You miss her.”

“Of course I do.”

“But she’s gone, Violet. You’re not going to get her back.”

For a moment, I wanted to tell Corey everything. What I had done that night, in the name of self-preservation. He knew me. He knew how hard I’d fought, to get to this point. He knew how easy it was to backslide. He gets it. He’d understand.

But did I really know Corey? On the sidewalk we passed a group of girls, NYU students most likely, shrieking and shivering in skimpy clothing. His up-and-down glance was almost imperceptible, but not quite. One of the girls, a baby-faced blonde with breasts quivering in her strapless dress, caught his eye and smiled.

See, Corey was good at his job. He made you feel like you were at the center of the universe, like he was talking right to you. But there were so many other people who felt the exact same way. That’s what TV anchors were trained to do. I was just an old friend from his hometown. Someone he liked, but someone for whom he was willing to keep a horrible, incriminating secret? Not a chance.

“What I’m saying,” he said, “is you can’t change what happened. Staying with Oliver because you feel bad for him won’t help anything. And even if he reminds you of Stella, he won’t ever replace her.”

A few blocks later, we stopped in front of my building.

“This is where I get off,” I said. “Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re a good egg, Violet.” He hugged me tight. “I hope you know that.”

When we stepped apart, he added, “We’ll see each other again, right?”

“Of course,” I said, though I suspected the odds were low.

He smiled. “Call me when you can have that drink, okay?”

The office on Wisconsin Avenue was boxy and unremarkable from the outside. It might have contained anything: logistics companies, medical device sales, tax preparers. The inside wasn’t much better, with gray carpeting and poor lighting, and reporters who had to do their own hair and makeup. D.C. lacked the glassy glamour of the New York studio. It was a different beast entirely. But that’s why I was here.