Violet didnāt think sheād ever heard Chris laugh like that. Heād always seemed a bit nervous to her, always a bit uncomfortable. She couldnāt help but laugh, too ā it was a contagious sound. If she were honest, he was one of her favorite authors that she had worked with lately. She wouldnāt tell him that, but she likedĀ how uncomfortable he seemed. She could tell that writing was cathartic for him after suffering trauma ā some authors that she met with simply wrote to be whimsical, and Violet couldnāt find it in herself to work on a manuscript that had no heart. She wasnāt God ā she couldnāt give a manuscript a heart if it lacked one. That had to come from the author themselves. That being said, sheād always felt heart in Chrisās work.
She leaned over to pull open a drawer on her desk, from which she produced two glasses and a bottle of scotch. Violet shrugged as she poured her glass.Ā āSometimes you just need it,ā she explained. She pushed an empty glass towards him and set the bottle down within his reach ā she didnāt want to force it on him, so she didnāt pour any for him to feel obligated to drink.
āI guess I canāt complain much,ā she responded, taking a sip.Ā āI appreciate that youāve never called me little lady.ā Her wrist turned slowly, swirling the amber liquid in a gentle motion as she eyed Chris.Ā āI donāt think I understand why you do it,ā she finally spoke up.Ā āYou put yourself in the worst of the worst places, in battlefields, far away from anyone you love, and itās not like youāre a solider. I donāt think itās patriotism. So what is it?ā
At the sight of the scotch, Chrisās eyebrow rose. He had not been expecting that, but it did seem to fit the informal feeling of their meeting.Ā āGoodness, I would never call you little lady. My sisterās about your height and I can just imagine how much sheād hate me if I ever called her that so Iād never do it to you. Plus, Iām starting to feel as if all short women have fire in their veins. Iām too smart to mess with that.ā He smiled as he picked up the scotch bottle and poured some of it into the glass sheād provided.Ā
He was doing well kicking his smoking habit ever since giving it up for Lent (maybeĀ there was some sort of divine intervention involved), but he still took a drink every now and then. After all, Chris wasnāt a saint, and he didnāt make a habit out of lying about that.Ā āI was wondering when youād ask.ā
Chris smiled. His choice to become a war correspondent wasnāt one that was easily understood. Even his parents, both journalists in their own right, hadnāt understood why heād chosen that career path.Ā āItās got nothing to do with patriotism, I assure you.ā Chris wasnāt patriotic in the least. He was grateful for the opportunities heād been afforded having lived in the United States for the majority of his life, but he didnāt feel obliged to the country enough to give his life for it.Ā āJournalismās in my blood. Both of my parents are now retired journalists. Itās how they met. I considered going the investigative route. For a few years, at the beginning of my career, thatās what I did. I wrote some pieces on gang activity, met with a few whistleblowers, but nothing that would get me a Pulitzer. Not that thatās what this is about.āĀ
Chris wasnāt usually one to talk about himself -- he found it difficult to explain his motivationsĀ in a way that didnāt seem reckless.Ā āThen I stumbled on this. As much as weād like to believe that our media isnāt biased, itās a lie. Journalism is incredibly skewed, especially when it comes to wartime reporting. Americans canāt understand what warās like because weāve never actually seen or lived through it. I wanted to get to know the other side, to give those people a voice and a name so that they were more than statistics and monsters. Itās not all noble, though. Iām no saint. Iām just an adrenaline junkie and have a tendency to find myself in dangerous situations.āĀ