Just Go With It
Chapter 1
I'd never been good at saying "no." Not in the way you see in movies and television, where the main character is physically incapable of saying no because of a curse or a well-intentioned but poorly executed gift of obedience from a misguided fairy. I'd never been compelled into doing anything dangerous or committing a crime—a serious one, anyway.
I didn't think streaking through the Quad on my college campus counted, although I probably should've put my foot down on that one. I don't think that campus police officer ever looked at me the same way.
And, okay, I guess sitting on a random stranger and impulsively making out with him might count as harassment, but he must not have felt that way, because I never received a complaint. If the kiss ever even happened. I'd lost both of those memories to alcohol, but the ticket I'd nearly gotten for the streaking brought that one back (the officer let me keep the half-written ticket as a reminder not to do that again, after giving me his jacket to cover up. Not that I'd planned on making a habit of it in the first place).
Despite what some might consider evidence to the contrary, I liked to think my unfortunate condition was more subtle, enough so that it didn't make me an obvious target or a doormat.
Except if that were true, I wouldn't have found myself going door-to-door, asking strangers what they thought about a venomous snake being on the loose in their neighborhood, courtesy of an exotic pet enthusiast who forgot to lock William Snakespeare's cage before leaving the house. For all I knew, the little fugitive had already slithered into the bag I was dragging around and was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
At least if I died on this assignment, they'd be able to write "death by killer snake, William Snakespeare" in the news article on my death, and maybe even on my gravestone.
I knocked on yet another door after receiving no response at the last home I'd approached, holding my breath as I waited for an answer, or perhaps my untimely demise, if William Snakespeare had decided to abandon his refuge in my bag and was hiding in the bushes next to me. I was about to knock again before moving onto the next house when the door swung open.
"Whatever you're selling, I don't want it," the old man said.
I fought a grimace. His breath smelled like a foul ashtray. It was unpleasant enough to make the bushes seem like a refuge, killer snake be damned. I forced a smile onto my face instead. "I'm not selling anything. Have you heard about that snake that's on the loose?"
His eyes narrowed. "It ain't my snake, if that's where you're going with this."
"Oh, I know. Do you know the owner?"
"Unfortunately. The damn fool. We told him to stick to his lizards."
"Right. Well, you seem to feel strongly about the situation. Would you be willing to do a quick on-camera interview to talk about it?"
He squinted at me, his dark eyes still narrowed into tiny slits. "Who did you say you were again?"
Here went nothing. "My name is Alessia Vega. I'm a reporter with Channel 9 news." I almost regurgitated the slogan we used in all of our sign-offs, 'Your News Now,' before swallowing it instead. "I've got all my equipment here and won't take more than a few minutes of your—"
Without warning, he slammed the door in my face, muttering, "Damn commies," under his breath.
"—time." I sighed in defeat, readjusting the straps to my hefty camera bag as I turned away, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of my face from the exertion and the late-August heat. My eyes scanned the other houses, watching for some sign of life, someone I could approach to avoid the humiliation of having a door slammed in my face over and over again, but none came.
I pulled out my phone, recoiling at the time. 1:00 p.m. already, and I had nothing to show for it except some footage of the neighborhood and Snake Guy's house. I couldn't show up at the station without a story, but what was I supposed to do if no one wanted to talk to me?
I kicked a small rock in my path with a frustrated grunt, nearly toppling over from the weight of my equipment. That would be the cherry on top of this already humiliating experience, I thought as I struggled to regain my balance. Not only would I be coming back empty handed, but I'd also be walking in with a broken camera and tripod, whose replacements would undoubtedly come out of my already pitiful paychecks.
I tried to force myself to stay positive. I'd always delivered, at least up until now, so maybe they'd go easy on me if I failed this one time. I'd only started this reporting job a few months ago, my second one since graduating college, but I'd never completely struck out like this, even when I was sent on wild goose chases—once, a literal wild goose chase, but that was a story for another time.
What was most frustrating, I thought, was that this was a nice neighborhood, the kind where you'd imagine people were friendly and all too happy to talk about anything and everything. I was sure the people who lived here didn't eat frozen dinners every night and never had to take up bartending or waitressing gigs for extra cash. Keeping a menagerie of dangerous reptiles had to cost a pretty penny, so it made sense that Snake Guy would live in a neighborhood like this.
I was about to give the station a call to see if they had any backup ideas for me when the sound of an all-too-familiar voice made me freeze in my tracks.
"Alessia?"
No.
No.
It couldn't be.
This couldn't be the "nice little neighborhood" my college sweetheart had talked about us moving to one day, before I tore his heart into shreds and stomped on the remains. Not on purpose. I wasn't a sociopath. Psychopath? I always mixed the two up. My best friend and roommate, Zoey, would be disappointed in me. Our true crime documentary binges should've taught me better.
I mean, I knew uncomfortable situations tended to gravitate towards me like moths to light, but this was pushing it, even for me. My luck couldn't be that rotten. But I knew it was before even turning around.
It's not that his voice was particularly unique. It was low, even, crisp. Pleasant sounding, sure, but he was no Morgan Freeman. Still, it was ingrained in my memory, even after several years of silence.
Reluctantly, I turned to face him. It's not like I could pretend I hadn't heard him, considering our proximity. Still, I felt my entire body ache, nearly overcome with the urge to run the other way and never look back. "Miles. Hi. I wasn't expecting to run into you here." Or, well, anywhere, for that matter.
"Really? I mean, I live here, so..." He trailed off, watching me closely with warm, brown eyes, as I silently panicked. How the hell was I supposed to know he lived in this neighborhood? Did he think I was stalking him? Please tell me he didn't think I was stalking him. "It's good to see you," he added. "It's been a while."
I let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Yeah. It has. It's good to see you, too."
The silence that followed was about as awkward as I'd envisioned, whenever I imagined running into him again. When we first broke up just before my senior year of college, those imaginary scenes took up a lot of real estate in my mind. I'd obsess over what I'd say and how I'd play it off. Aloof and cool? Warm and nostalgic? Awkward but genuine? The possibilities were endless in the safety of my imagination. Now that it was actually happening, I couldn't remember the last time I'd dreamed one of those scenarios up. The thought was oddly comforting.
"What are you doing here?" he finally asked. His eyes shifted from my face to the equipment I was holding. "Are you working on a story?"
I was about to answer, when a sweet, feminine voice cut through the air. "Miles, babe, there you are," a young woman said, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, stopping when she was at his side. I didn't miss the way she stroked his arm, like it was a natural reflex. "I've been looking for you everywhere." She reached up and ran her fingers through his dark hair, until it was fashionably messy, and gave a little noise of satisfaction. It was only then that she seemed to notice me. "Oh, hello."
"Hi," I said, trying not to stare at the rock on her finger and very overtly failing. It was hard not to look, considering it was the kind of ring that rich girls probably had to train their fingers to carry.
"Lacey, this is Alessia. We... knew each other in college," Miles finally said, when he realized I wasn't going to say anything else. That... was one way to put it, I guess. "She's a reporter. I'm guessing she's here about the snake."
Lacey shuddered at the mere mention of William Snakespeare. "Ugh, don't remind me. What kind of maniac keeps a venomous snake as a pet?"
I was surprised to find myself agreeing with her. She was marrying the first and only guy I'd ever fallen in love with. Shouldn't I hate her, even if I wasn't still pining over the guy? Wasn't that how this worked? Maybe this was what moving on felt like. I guess I'd been too busy to notice I had.
"Right?" I said. "Can't you just be a normal person and get a pet that won't potentially kill you in your sleep?" Well, I guess any animal could potentially kill you in your sleep, even the ones you wouldn't suspect. The chance of being killed by a corgi, for instance, is low, but never zero. "Well, I should get going. Your neighbors aren't the most talkative, so I think I'm gonna try the next street over."
It was only then that she noticed the equipment I was hauling. "Oh! You're a TV reporter. Well, we can talk to you, can't we, babe? I did my makeup today."
I tried to tell her that wasn't necessary. I really did. Miles tried harder than I did, but she wasn't having any of it. Maybe because she didn't know what we used to get up to when we "knew each other in college." I certainly wasn't going to be the one to bring it up, and Miles was clearly avoiding the subject. I also felt bad being the one to tell her no, especially when I really did need an interview for this story.
So while my mind was screaming "if there was ever a time to find your backbone, now would be it," I found my mouth saying, "Sure, that'd be great."
***
I was back in the newsroom, sitting at a video editing station when one of our interns came over to watch me. She had just started this week and had spent the morning shadowing another reporter, who had apparently pawned her off on me for future instruction.
I had the interviews I'd done with Miles and his new girlfriend—or fiancee, I guess, given the real estate on her ring finger—up on my screen, side by side, when she settled in next to me. "Is this who you interviewed for the snake story?"
I just nodded.
"They look cute together. Are they a couple?"
I nodded again.
"That's sweet. Why didn't you just interview them both at the same time?"
"It's better to get separate interviews, whenever possible. They're easier to frame and caption, and you don't have to worry about them talking over each other or interrupting or moving out of the shot," I said.
I tried to keep my face neutral, still avoiding eye contact, but I must not have been trying hard enough, because the next words out of her mouth were, "Do you know them? You look like you know them."
"I know him," I finally said. Nosy little shit. If she decided not to become a journalist, she might have a future in psychology or criminal profiling. Or maybe I was just easy to read. "He's my ex."
"Oh. Awkward. How'd you end up interviewing your ex, of all people?"
Her question was more loaded than I think she realized. I often wondered the same thing myself. Not about this situation in particular, per se—although that was also a big question mark—but about all of the similar ones I'd found myself in over the years because of my inexplicable inability to say "no" in situations where a "no" was perfectly warranted.
But I wasn't about to tell her all of that. She didn't get paid enough to sit there and be the therapist I couldn't afford to visit. Hell, she didn't get paid at all. So instead, I opted for the easy answer and said, "It's a long story."