Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Actually, it was, but Robin was gone before I could argue the point. I worried my bottom lip between my teeth and scrolled through the barrage of friendly text messages I’d sent over the past week.
Hello, this is Walker. It was great to meet with you yesterday. Lmk your availability. I’d love to set up a time to chat about your social media options. Have a great day!
Hi there. Checking in. Are you free tomorrow, by chance?
Walker again. Hope all is well. I know you’re busy, but I’d still love to sit down with you. Call or text at your earliest convenience.
Yuck. I sounded desperate. Not a good look. I shot another text message off to Ty just as my phone buzzed with an incoming call.
I smiled in spite of my blue mood. “Hi, Aunt Kay. How are you?”
“Darling, I’m living the dream! The sun is shining, birds are chirping at my kitchen window, and the trees are positively laden with apples. Big, fat, wondrously luscious honeycrisp lovelies ripe for the pickin’…or they will be at the end of the month. Tell me you’re coming home. Cider never tastes the same without you, sweetheart.”
“Will there be apple fritters?”
She gasped theatrically. “What sort of dog-and-pony operation do you think we’re running in the wilds of Ontario? Of course we’ll have fritters.”
I chuckled as I wandered into the living room and settled in for a chin-wag with my fabulous auntie who had a knack for popping up when I needed her most. Not that I was in dire straits, but I was…unsteady somehow. Not quite myself.
This kerfuffle with Ty had morphed into a two-fold opportunistic campaign to secure a timely interview for my channel while righting a past wrong. It seemed selfish, as if I were using him for my own gain. And maybe I was. Maybe I’d accidentally sold my soul to a virtual world that valued my online content and subscribership over personal substance.
Trading my social media expertise for Ty’s trouble wasn’t a fair exchange. Yes, I could certainly help him. But it would be nicer if the gesture wasn’t tainted with desperation.
And greed.
Please let me fix what I’ve done wrong…while I take advantage of your rising star and hopefully net a few hundred thousand more followers.
Had I lost my way? Perhaps, but unless I took Robin’s suggestion and used my parentage to seek favor with the jock, social media was my currency.
Thanks to the success of What’s New, Smithton? I had money in my savings account, I owned my car, and I was up-to-date on my tuition. I rented a recently remodeled two-story Victorian with a generous front porch, high ceilings, tall windows, and original hardwood flooring, and…I lived alone.
Not only was the house adorable…it was a sweet write-off too. If I wasn’t filming on site, I was here, covering current events in Smithton. I lived downstairs, and ran the business from the two upstairs bedrooms—one was an office while the other had been transformed into a mini studio, complete with a news desk, comfy chairs for my guests, and professional lighting (a must with my bright locks).
Was this a cushy gig? No, not at all. I worked ding-dang hard, but I was well aware that this wasn’t how most twenty-three-year-old seniors lived.
Then again, I had more to prove than the average college student.
You see, the Woodrow name was synonymous with journalism. My great-grandfather was a war correspondent in Britain during World War II, my grandfather was a speech writer for two presidents, and two of my uncles had worked with the most influential rock bands of the ’70s and ’80s and founded a widely regarded industry magazine. But in my opinion, my mother outshone them all.
Mom had been a political correspondent in dangerous war-torn areas in Afghanistan, Libya, and Syria, risking life and limb in her quest to report atrocities of human suffering. She’d used her own resources to help fund a school for young women in Kabul and had taught English in her spare time.
Me? I had an appointment with Bill and Janet Clancy to tour their beehives this week. Not quite living up to expectations, was I?
But let’s face it, I wouldn’t last five minutes in a military zone in the Middle East, and though I loved music, the thought of hanging out with a rock band for months on end sounded like hell. Unless we were talking Gaga.
So yes, I had big shoes to fill, but I had to do it my way—and ideally, not lose my integrity for the sake of a measly story.
I sank deep into the cozy leather chair by the fireplace, curling my knees under me like a human pretzel while listening with half an ear to Aunt Kay’s chatter about the upcoming harvest and Uncle Richard’s hip problems. Her melodic tone and cadence reminded me of home.