Like me? LIKE ME???
His words push me over the edge and send Sam heading in my direction. I yank the box from his arms, put it on the floor, open the door and point out at the street. “Get out.”
He reaches out and takes my shoulders but I twist away like his hands are on fire. “Cassidy, don’t take it personally—”
“You heard my sister,” says Sam, rolling to a stop a few feet from Jamison and glaring at him. “Get the hell out of our house. Now.”
My boyfriend looks at my brother, who was a six-foot-two black belt in karate before the accident and has tremendous upper body strength from life in the chair. Jamison knows Sam would have no qualms about kicking his ass. He nods and turns back to me. “Well, know that I wish you the best.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, as he heads out the door. When he’s on the way to his car I turn to look at Sam who has a gleam in his eye. He cocks his head at the pile of snow on the porch.
“Do it, Caz.”
I know exactly what he’s thinking. I step outside, grab a handful of the white stuff which has almost turned to ice, pack it into a ball, rear back and fire. It nails Jamison in the head.
“Ow!” He turns around. “What the hell was that for?”
“That’s for the snowball’s chance you ever have of coming back to me!” I flip him the bird, throw in the Italian salute for good measure (that’s the hand slapped in the crook of the opposite elbow, for those not versed in Sicilian sign language), step back inside, slam the door and get a high five from Sam.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“A little.” I feel my eyes start to well up. “Not really.”
Sam reaches his arms up, I lean down and accept his warm hug. When we break the embrace we start the rehab ritual, which, unfortunately, I have gone through too many times.
Like I said, I’ve been around the block known as Breakup Square.
He rolls into the kitchen, I follow him. He reaches into the freezer, grabs a pint of Haagen Dazs rum raisin and hands it to me, already sitting at the kitchen table with a spoon. He wheels his chair next to me and starts stroking my hair. I lean my head on his shoulder as I savor the rich ice cream.
Sam kisses the top of my head. “Hey, wait till he finds out you got another job.”
And wait till he finds out who I’ll be working with.
***
“Yo, Twitter Girl!”
The words from a young hardbodied bike messenger greet me as I emerge from the cab in Brooklyn. I smile and wave at him as he pedals by, slows down to check me out head to toe, and returns a sexy grin. (If I didn’t have an important meeting I’d grab a CitiBike and go after him.)
I head into the seriously out of the way tavern and pause a minute so my eyes can adjust to the very dim light. I walk past the ancient oak bar, empty except for a burly bartender wheeling in a keg, and spot Frank Delavan at the last table near the kitchen door. He stands up, much shorter than he appears on television, maybe five-six, and extends a hand. “Cassidy, nice to meet you. Thank you for coming.”
I return the handshake. “Thanks for inviting me.” I take a seat and adjust my chair as I take a look at the New York sports photos that cover every inch of paneled wall space. “This place is a little off the beaten path for you, huh?”
“Well, I thought in light of the publicity you might want to keep a low profile.”
“That’s not really possible when you’re a six foot tall redhead who’s been on network television for seven years, but I appreciate the thought.”
He laughs a bit. Delavan has a nice smile which goes well with his short and portly look, but I know his reputation as a gunslinger. He may look like a bald, middle-aged lawn gnome, but every politician wants him in a foxhole. “Well, the food’s excellent here. I actually try to get by once a month. This is one of the city’s best kept secrets. I grew up down the block. Used to come here as a kid for the cheeseburgers and never stopped.”
A young waiter arrives at our table, hands me a menu, and his eyes light up with recognition. “Hey, you’re Twitter Girl!”
I put my palms up and shrug. “See what I mean?” I say to Frank.
“Nice to have you in our restaurant,” says the waiter. “For what it’s worth, I thought you got a raw deal from the network. I sure miss those tweets. You’re funny as hell.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, I wish you’d start again. Anyway, I’ll give you guys a few minutes to decide.” He turns and heads back to the kitchen.
“See,” says Frank, dark eyes gleaming. “Not everyone is mad at you.”
“Nah, only about four hundred thousand people. And everyone in the state of Mississippi.”
“Well, I’m not one of those people. And neither is my candidate. He’s a big fan.”
“Really? Will Becker’s on Twitter?”
“Yep.”
“I thought politician’s accounts were actually managed by staffers.”
“Most are, but he actually likes being in touch with real people. He feels it’s more accurate than an opinion poll and it’s instant. Anyway, he loved your television stories and your Internet sarcasm. That’s why I asked you here today. You have a unique talent the campaign needs.”
“Not sure I understand.”
“Cassidy, I don’t know where your political views lie…”
“Well, I’m one of those old school journalists who actually keeps my opinions private, so I’m not gonna tell you. I know it’s fashionable to be biased, but that’s not me.”
“That’s very admirable in this day and age and the Senator will respect that. But he’s hoping you like him enough to join the campaign.”
“Let’s just say that considering his views I wouldn’t mind working for you. But I’m not sure you need someone who’s toxic with half the general public for your press office.”
Frank leans back in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. “That’s not the position we have in mind for you. And, as I said, it’s your unique talent we need. In fact, it’s a position that’s never existed in a campaign, and you’re the only person who could do the job. This new digital world offers interesting opportunities. If you don’t accept our offer for this position, one will not be made to anyone else.”
Now I’m getting confused. “I’m not sure where you’re going, Frank. If you don’t want me for your press office, what would I do? Produce videos?”
“We need Twitter Girl.”
I furrow my brow. “Okayyyyyy…”
“We need your unique brand of snark. Those wicked, sarcastic one liners that can cut people down to size and go viral. You may have lost four hundred thousand followers the first day after that tweet but you’ve picked up a quarter million new people since. Sarcasm is a valuable currency on social media. We want to hire you to do what you did for the network, only your targets will be the people we’re running against. We could spend millions on TV ads but 140 characters from you could be more effective, cheaper and a lot faster. And let’s face it, politicians are fair game. You couldn’t possibly offend anyone.”
“And those targets you mentioned would eventually include the current President.”
He nods. “Assuming the Senator wins the party primary. But until he does, there are a host of candidates challenging him who