Stay Tuned

Chapter 2

“It’s Drew and it’s urgent,” Tim yelled, gesturing for everyone to crowd around him. “Now, folks!”
    
On cue, our enormous newsroom copier whirred to life, cranking out faxed press releases. Over the scanner, a police dispatcher announced codes and locations. I cranked down the volume and hit pause on the document feeder.
    
Above the din, Tim shouted for everyone to quiet down.

By then, most of the staff had wandered over, waiting for the announcement. I glanced around the room for Alyssa, who apparently wasn’t coming back. No big surprise. Less drama was okay by me.

Tim held a finger to his lips and punched speakerphone. The gravelly voice of our news director crackled through the connection. “You know, only something huge would drag me away from bikinis and Rum punch.”

“Yeah, right,” Tim cut in. “You’ve had Fox News on the whole time, boss.”

Drew’s guffaw shook through the newsroom. “Man, at least I’ve got a view of the beach while I’m watching 60 Minutes and the BBC.”

The newsroom staff broke into laughter.

“So,” Drew continued, waiting until the noise died down, “Not that any of you want to go home on a Friday night, but I felt compelled to interrupt all the fun and excitement.” He cleared his throat. “Congratulations are in order from the Scripps Howard Foundation. The Broadcast/Cable Journalism Excellence in Electronic Media—bear with me while I read this—honors the best investigative or in-depth reporting of events covered by television and radio stations or cable systems.”

Whoops and clapping erupted around the room.
    
Tim’s series, the one I’d written and produced on children with ADHD, was up for a national award. So was Alyssa’s piece on the city’s only drive-by shooting last year.
    
My knees buckled the slightest bit. I didn’t dare look at anyone.
    
Drew’s voice burst into the room with flourish. “This year’s award goes to Tim Donaldson with Melissa Moore producing. Congratulations!”
    
Behind me, several corks popped and hit the ceiling. Everyone hugged, backslapped, and celebrated. Someone handed me champagne in a plastic tumbler and shouted out a toast. “To Donaldson and Moore!”
    
Cheers echoed as everyone raised cups and ceremoniously tossed back the alcohol. The drink burned my throat and bubbled up my nose.
    
The room tilted some and my thoughts swarmed like a tornado sweeping up everything in its path. Scripps Howard. National award. Wow. When I found my bearings, I wove through the crowd toward Tim.
    
“You knew,” I accused him, as he strolled up beside me with a bemused expression, a bottle of Korbel tucked under his arm. I backed away and narrowed my hazel eyes in mock-indignation[lr1].
    
“What?” Tim circled my neck with his hand and gave my ponytail a tug.
    
“And you,” I poked his bicep, “if I had to guess, sent Alyssa on that wild goose chase about her dog tonight.”
    
“Maybe,” he winked and refilled my cup to the brim.
    
“I have to hand it to you. That was smart, very smart.” We pretended to clink our drinks together and sipped in unison.
    
Tim and Alyssa’s volatile relationship was legendary, not just in the newsroom, but in the larger community. It was a co-dependent, on-again, off-again mess, the best I could tell.
    
Professionally, I did everything necessary to make them look good on set and during public appearances. On a personal level, their relationship was their own business.
    
Tim squinted down at me as he topped off his own drink. “I can’t reveal my sources.” He winked, breathed alcohol in my face, then turned to gulp from the mouth of the champagne bottle. “But no one needed Alyssa freaking out in her usual Lindsay Lohan fashion.” He burped.
    
“Um, nice manners, Donaldson.” I gave him another friendly jab and pushed him away. “Someone help him!” I called out.
    
Tim grinned wickedly as he finished off the last drops, wiped his mouth with the back of his shirtsleeve, and stumbled off.
    
My shoulders sagged. I was exhausted.
    
Joe sidled up. “Obligatory congratulations from one of your soon-to-be totally inebriated partners in crime?”
    
“Come on, Tim can be sweet,” I retorted in a loud whisper. “He’s harmless, really. You know, he gets a bad rap. Guilt by association with the girlfriend, maybe.”
    
“Mrs. Jekyll and Miss Hyde?”
    
The immediate mental picture of Alyssa as a pseudo-mad scientist made me stifle a laugh. “No comment.” I snapped my jaw shut guiltily. I was genuinely pleased for Tim. No sense being ugly.
    
“Well, it’s great news,” Joe added. “I’m happy for you. And Donaldson.”
    
I gave him a nudge. “I’m lucky to work with such wonderful, talented folks behind the scenes.”
    
Joe grinned at the compliment.
    
I needed to thank about ten other people, but as I glanced around the newsroom, most of the staff had already disappeared. I picked up a random plastic cup and tossed it in the trash.
    
“Need help cleaning up?” Joe asked.
    
“Nope, go home to your wife and kids,” I shooed him away. “I’m not staying long.”
    
“Well, don’t revel too much in your new-found fortune and fame. We’ll need you for the next round.” Joe turned, grabbed his jacket, and waved.
    
I grinned. “Same bat time, same bat channel.”
    
As Joe made his way down the hallway, Tim stumbled back in.
    
“You still here?” he asked, wiping his forehead.
    
“Of course, Mr. Journalistic Excellence,” I quipped, then stopped when I saw his face.
    
“Not feeling so hot,” Tim scrunched up his shoulders and slumped against the wall. He was an insulin-dependant diabetic and notoriously awful about his medicine. I’d run to the pharmacy more than once to grab his prescription refills.
    
“Hey, how’s your blood sugar?”
    
He grumbled something incoherent.
    
“Tim,” I took him by the arm and sat him down at his desk. One by one, I opened the drawers. “Where’s your glucose meter?”
    
I shuffled through packs of gum, breath mints, and a box of paper clips. Under a stack of paper, I unearthed a monitor and insulin pen.
    
The finger stick took seconds. Sure enough, his blood sugar was high. The screen read 400.
 
“Okay. Let’s get your medicine,” I shoved the pen into his hand, then crouched down to steady him.
    
“Not now,” he argued, slurring his words.
    
“Please do this. I don’t want to call an ambulance,” I said. “Where’s Alyssa? Where’s your cell phone?”
    
“I d-don’t know.”
    
He lifted the edge of his shirt and pressed the pen to his abdomen. Tim grinned like a drunken Cheshire cat, showing off two rows of gleaming white teeth.
    
“You’re a mess, Donaldson.”
    
I was exhausted. I wanted to go home. And I didn’t have a choice. He needed help.
    
“Come on, I’ll drive you, big guy,” I said.
    
Tim slung an arm over my shoulders and let me guide him down the steps. He half-fell into my car, managed to strap himself in, and proceeded to sing most of the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack on the way to his house. He finished a rousing version of
 
“Music of the Night” as we pulled up.
    
Alyssa was waiting outside on the steps. “Where have you been?” she asked him, ignoring me.
    
Tim hummed “Masquerade” while he found his keys. Alyssa pouted while he lumbered past her and flipped on the lights. She shut the door without a thank you. The fighting started almost immediately. Home Sweet Home.
    
Minutes later, I pulled into my own driveway. A lone yellow Post-it waited for me on the kitchen table.
   
“Working late—C.”