Page 30 of Reptile Dysfunction

“Damn it,” I mutter to myself, crumpling the paper back up and inexpertly throwing it across the room in the vague vicinity of the wastepaper basket. “I don’t want to think about Derek right now. In fact, I’d be happy if his name and face were permanently erased from my mind. He still can ruin a good day, can’t he? It isn’t fair.”

I refuse to spend another second on him. But somehow, he manages to snake his way into my thoughts, even as I wash out the glass and pour myself some port.

The more I think about him, the more I realize something, and as it dawns on me, my eyes grow wide.

Everything that happened with Derek – the lies, the betrayal, the slander – these things not only ruined my life, they ruined me. When I think back, I see how I slowly became the worst version of myself after our breakup.

Every time I heard a colleague so much as question what happened, I cut them out of my life entirely. Every friend who tried to play devil’s advocate was as good as dead to me. And every paper I applied for that rejected me got put on my shit list.

I thought that leaving Chicago would mean leaving all that behind, but the problem with that plan was that I took myself with me, and that means all my pain and anger, too. Looking back now, I can see now that, in the two months since I lost my job at the Tribune, I’ve become bitter and cynical. And maybe even mean.

I take a sip of the port, still standing at the kitchen sink in the vain hope that the sweetness of the liquor will even me out a bit.

But the more I think about it, the worse I feel. There’s a glaringly obvious crux to all of this and that is my work at the Herald. With the benefit of a little distance, I can see that in the month since I arrived in Curiosity, I’ve made it my personal mission to take down Mayor Wendall.

“Mason,” I remind myself out loud, and I’m surprised how much nicer it is to call him by his first name, even when he’s not here.

Despite everything I’ve done to drag his name through the mud, he’s been exceedingly patient with me, and it’s becoming painfully clear that I’ve completely underestimated him.

I sigh, bringing the port to the couch and finally letting myself relax a little. My feet are thanking me for it after the long day, but even as I try to unwind, more thoughts come streaming in.

I can’t believe I nearly threw away five years of my career because Derek managed to get in my head. Though I suppose he can’t be entirely to blame. He may have ruined my reputation in Chicago, but I basically dug my own grave here in Curiosity. Luckily, I seem to have avoided throwing myself headfirst into it, but only just.

“Was I really about to ruin Mason’s life?” I wonder out loud to my empty apartment.

Another sip of port shuts me up, but my brain is still chattering away at full speed.

I think back to the first time I actually met Mason and cringe at how doggedly I pursued suspicions that I can now admit had no basis. I was willing to put everything on the line to prove this man’s guilt. Not even prove, fabricate.

“Oh, my God,” I mutter, shaking my head. “What an idiot.”

I wish I could just put it down to my desperation for a story, or even the trauma from the breakup with Derek, but if I’m honest, it was more than that.

The way Mason spoke about what happened in Sweetwater made me realize that, subconsciously, I was acting on pure prejudice.

My port glass is almost empty now, but I’m not ready for bed yet. I feel like I’m only just scratching the surface of what’s really been happening since I arrived in Curiosity. Downing the last sip, I get up and make my way to the kitchen to pour myself another glass.

I’m not sure if the alcohol is necessarily helping, but my mind certainly feels a little more fluid. As I make my way back to the couch, I’m flooded with memories of my actions over the last month. Each one is effectively a replay of every heinous act I’ve perpetrated against Mason, only now my own inherent bias against him is magnified.

I knew, even before I moved to Curiosity, that this town was run by a gorgon, so I can’t claim ignorance. Not even on that first day when Monsternet gave me cause for suspicion. Nor can I pretend my research of Curiosity’s government books was innocent. In the back of my mind, I must have believed Mason was, to use an unfortunate phrase, a snake in the grass.

I shake my head, taking a sip from my freshly poured glass of port. I’ve always prided myself on my impartiality as a journalist, but I see now my judgment was entirely clouded. The last four weeks have been a mess and that’s on me.

“Was I unable to trust him because of Derek’s smooth-talking, backstabbing ways? Did I think all men would do the same? Or was it because Mason is a gorgon and Derek was a shifter that I refused to trust him? I missed a perfectly decent man because I talked myself into believing everyone was out to get me,” I realize, and it hits me with painful clarity that I don’t want to be that person.

I reach suddenly into my bag, dumped unceremoniously on the floor next to the couch, and pull out my notebook. I’ve filled up pages and pages of notes from the last two days – quotes from residents expressing their gratitude, descriptions of every event, and even personal comments from every time I was surprised, impressed, or won over.

But as I read, I realize the article to come out of these notes will basically be one big marketing campaign for Mason. Given that I’ve spent the past four weeks writing the exact opposite, I’m not sure how to feel about that.

After shadowing him for the last couple of days, I know he doesn’t deserve those articles I wrote about him in the Herald.

“But if I write up what I’ve got here in my notes, I’ll be as good as admitting I’m a terrible journalist. In front of the entire world. That’s exactly the opposite of what I wanted when I moved here,” I muse to myself. “I can’t just settle for kissing the mayor’s ass. Charlotte the good reporter wouldn’t. Even if Charlotte the woman really likes Mason the gorgon. Right?”

The port has started to go straight to my head, though, and the more I look over my notes, the less inclined I am to read them. In the end, I decide maybe bed really is the best thing for me right now.

I abandon the remainder of my drink and get ready for bed, the whole time trying not to think about how I’m going to approach this profile. Even through the slight haze of the port wine, one thing is clear. I’m going to have to figure it out pretty soon.

18