Chapter 146 - The Big Reveal (1/2)
Despite having had very little sleep since he'd taken over Patrick's workstation yesterday morning, Gary Smulder feels good today. His big story has undergone a few revisions, thanks to Patrick's keen editorial sense, and now he must only apply the few finishing touches. Maybe quite unnecessary, but this is for his ego: he'd insert a few ”Easter eggs” here and there throughout the article, just for sh1ts and giggles.
And nothing could kick-start a late morning than a hot, steaming mug of brewed coffee, courtesy of the Muckraker magazine's old trusty Mr. Coffee coffeemaker. If there's anything good about this office, Gary ponders, it's these little freebies. If only Patrick could include an unlimited supply of donuts to go with the coffee, though. But perhaps that would be for another time, when the magazine hits paydirt.
He glances at the wall clock—it's nearly ten in the morning. Patrick would probably come in late today, while all the other staff are at the printers. They'd all come in late. Which means he has the entire office, small as it is, to himself. He could even pretend he's the lord of this domain. He could sit on Patrick's big boss chair, and prop his feet up on the table, without anyone looking down on him. So that's what Gary actually does. He sips his coffee, closes his eyes, and hums his favorite song, whose title he forgets at the moment. He could live like this forever. And if this article catapults him to the shining pantheon of the yellowest journalism, he would—
Gary is jolted back to the present, as the office's door swings wildly open. It's Patrick, red in the face, stomping through the threshold with murder on his face. ”I swear to God, I will—” he doesn't finish his words, as he snatches the TV remote control and smashes the buŧŧons. The old TV attached to the wall blinks to life.
”Is there any problem, Patrick?”
”Oh, I don't have a problem, Gary. But I think YOU have a problem so gargantuan I think you can just kiss that promotion goodbye.”
”What?” Gary tries to grin, as in ”You're freaking kidding me, Patrick” kind of grin. ”Are you serious?”
Patrick points to the TV. ”Watch.”
So Gary, as told, looks at the scene unfolding on the TV. At first it seems nothing important is happening; a bunch of reporters in a room, with a lovely woman sitting by a long table and thanking the press for coming. A tent card on the table right in front of her says her name is ”Catherine Buenavista, TXCI.” Gary's brow furrows—TXCI? Isn't that Gabriel's—
And as if on cue, Gabriel Tan appears and sits beside Catherine. He's wearing a gray suit over a white, crisp-looking shirt. No tie. The suit is unbuttoned. And yet, Gabriel's face is all serious, but still ”pretty”—Gary could see why women swoon over this man.
”Thank you all for coming,” Gabriel begins to say, making eye contact with the members of the press who at this point have fallen silent, awaiting his words with bated breath. ”As mentioned by Miss Buenavista, what I'm letting you know this morning is not business as usual. This is not about a new product, or a new business, or my bold predictions on the business outlook of the world's industries for the coming year. This is about something old, as old as time itself.” Gabriel pauses. He glances to the side, as though looking with longing at someone standing unseen in the corner. Then he turns to the press. ”This is about love.”
”What in hell is he doing?” Gary asks, not that he's expecting an answer.
”He's cramping our style, that's what he's doing.” Patrick paces the floor, shaking his head, pointing a finger at the computer screen, where Gary's draft of a write-up is open on a word processor. ”He's basically making that masterpiece of literature du jour totally irrelevant.”
Gary's mouth hangs open; he couldn't believe it. A part of him hopes the next time Gabriel opens his mouth, lies and more lies would tumble out. The kind of lies that would only make his Muckraker write-up much more compelling for people on the streets.
The reporters rise in excited chatter. ”What do you mean love?” ”Do you have another new fiancée?” ”What do you really talk about when you talk about love?”
”Yesterday morning, my brother, Miguel, had an accident,” Gabriel says, gazing at each of the reporters' faces. ”It was an accident that was largely because of the love he had for a woman he, or rather 'we', only met less than a month ago. In any other context, falling in love at first sight would have been fine; our movies and all literature is rife with such kinds of inexplicable romances. But Miguel's love only had one little, and yet vital, curve ball: the subject of his affection is the same woman I call my fiancée. Claire Monteverde.”