Damn—she’s an expert at this interrogation thing.
“No! I mean—” My cheeks are on fire. I didn’t want to talk about this.
“You have! I knew it. Tell me everything.”
“Morgan, I—”
“Excuse me, ladies. Are we interrupting?” My dad has appeared in the doorway, a man I’ve never seen standing just behind him.
“No, of course not,” I say, grateful for their sudden appearance. “Morgan was just dropping off her supply list.”
Morgan smiles. “Yup, I was just about to go finish preparing my classroom.” She turns to leave, but from the look she flashes over her shoulder, I know that this conversation isn’t over.
When she’s gone, Dad steps forward, ushering his companion toward the seat Morgan just vacated. where this is going" aid="lp
“You have a minute, don’t you, honey?” he asks me. “This is Asher Julian. He’s from the Intown Voice. He’s writing a piece on us.”
“On us?”
“On the Center. On all the changes we’ve been making these past few months. Isn’t that wonderful?” My dad is almost bouncing in excitement.
I glance over at the man sitting across the desk from me. He has sandy blond hair and bright, friendly eyes. If I had to guess, he’s in his early thirties, but there’s a boyish quality to him—probably only heightened by that dimple on his left cheek. He’s dressed in jeans and a sport coat, casual but put-together. He extends his hand to me.
“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Frazer,” he says, shaking my hand. “I must admit, I admire the work you two have done around here. This place is truly an asset to the community, and I think a lot of people would love to hear your story. At the very least, I hope to give you a little more visibility. Our little city could use more places like this.”
Okay, this guy definitely knows how to butter us up. No wonder Dad’s beaming. This sounds like an amazing opportunity, but still, I’m a little wary.
I used to date a journalist—Garrett, who shall henceforth be known as The Psycho Ex—and I asked him once, when we were still together, if he’d run a little piece on us. Nothing crazy, or long—just a couple of sentences. A mention. Garrett laughed and kissed me on the nose and told me that as much as he’d love to do it, his editor would never approve of the story. I knew he was telling the truth—after all, he wrote primarily for a site that addressed national business and financial news, and we’re a small community organization—but his condescension stung all the same.
And then, when the Center was struggling, when we were trying everything we could think of to bring in more funds, we contacted a number of local publications. The only ones that bothered to respond just sent over their advertisement rates. I want to ask Mr. Asher Julian where he was when we desperately needed this attention, but the truth is, we still need it. We might be on the upswing now, but we can still use all the help we can get. Intown Voice is a small, local publication—the sort that you find for free on racks outside of bars and coffee shops—but to my admittedly-limited voice reminds me. I smile as I squeeze the man’s hand in return. “What sort of questions did you have for us?”
Dad leans forward. “I’ve already chatted with him for a bit, given him the basics about our history and programs. But he’s especially interested in the changes we’ve made around here recently, and since you were the brains behind all of that, I told him he should talk to you.” To Mr. Julian he adds, “She’s cleverer than me too. And a much cuter subject for any photos you need to take.”
“Dad,” I say, fighting down a blush. It doesn’t matter how old you get—parents always like to dote on you in the most awkward way possible.
“I’ll be right next door,” he says, ignoring my warning glare. “Just holler if you need anything.”
He retreats back to his office, leaving me alone with the smiling, eager reporter.
I take a deep breath. “So. What is it you want to know?”
“It’s not an interrogation, I promise,” he says, pulling a small digital voice recorder out of his pocket and propping it up on the desk. “And I won’t take up much of your time.”
I realize I sound less-than-enthused about all this, so I quickly put on a smile.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just been crazy around here this morning. And I’m afraid I’ve had some bad luck with journalists in the past.”
“Ah, yes. Your dad told me that you used to date Garrett Afton.”
Great. That’s Dad—always the blabbermouth. Things just got a whole lot more awkward.
“Are you two, uh, friends?” I ask. I don’t know if I can deal with this.
But Asher shakes his head. “I’ve only met him once—in an entirely professional capacity.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Honestly, I thought he was a bit of a snob.”
My surprise must register on my face because he adds, “Don’t worry—not all writer">But Calder shakes his head.
In spite of my concerns, I find myself returning his smile.
“That’s a very noble goal,” I say.
“The same one you have here, I think.” He crosses his legs. “What do you say? Do you trust me enough to answer a few questions?”
“Ask away, Mr. Julian.”
That seems to satisfy him, and his grin widens. “Call me Asher, please. Don’t think of this as some formal interview. We’re just talking.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Do you mind if I call you Lily?”
“Oh, no. Go ahead.”
He clicks on the digital recorder and leans back in the chair, as if we really are just two friends having a chat. I don’t know why, but I automatically feel a little more comfortable myself. I feel my shoulders relax.
“I really do love this place,” Asher says, glancing around my office. “I can tell that you two have poured your heart and soul into it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “We do everything we can for the Center.”
“It shows.” He flashes a charming smile and scoots forward. “You were practically raised in this place, weren’t you?”
I spend the next half hour talking to him about my life here—about everything my dad has poured into this place over the years, about all the programs and classes and events we’ve planned. I grew up in the Center. My entire life has revolved around this place.