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then?”
    “Why journalism?”
    “I like to write.” She casually announced.
    “Try again. Why journalism?”
    “Excuse me?” She shifted in her chair.
    “People who like to write keep journals. They don’t decide
to spend their life going after the truth.”
    “Teddy, I write a gossip column for a silly small town
paper. Please tell me why you think I care about the truth.”
     
    I swear, the next thing I said to her set in motion the
remaining events of the evening. It was the reason we had three more drinks,
the reason we stumbled into her apartment at two in the morning, the reason I
left with a slap across my face, and the reason she called me out, yet again,
in her column.
     
    “I’ve read every single article you’ve written about me. You’re
passionate, you’re accusatory, and you’re giving. But you’re hiding something. You’re
hiding your heart. You’re saving that for something bigger: bigger than me,
bigger than you, and definitely bigger than that paper. So what is the truth
you’re searching for, Ashley?”
     
    If I’m being completely honest with you, it was a total
bullshit line. Deep down, and four drinks in, I meant it, but seeing it again,
I knew it was a line. With that amount of alcohol in my system, all I was
thinking about was stripping her down and fucking her any way possible. I
wouldn’t deny that for a second.
     
    And it worked… as all my lines did. But it was her answer to
my question that caught me off guard. If there really was a rhyme or reason to
these flashes, this specific encounter was the one that proved to me that
Ashley was a real person. She wasn’t just some manic pixie dream girl that was
placed into my life to show me the error of my ways. She wasn’t there to help
me get over some issue I had been struggling with for a time. And she wouldn’t
disappear when I didn’t need her any longer. Ashley Leigh was a flesh and blood
woman with her own goals and her own life.
     
    “…So what is the truth you’re searching for, Ashley?”
     
    She stared at me; at the time, I wasn’t sure why. But once
she finally confessed, I knew she had been searching my eyes to see if she
could confide in me. She was searching for a friend.
     
    “My father was killed about ten years ago.”
    “Oh God, Ashley. I’m so sorry.”
    “No, I’m not looking for your pity. I just…” I could tell
the alcohol was going to her head. She slouched in her seat, her words began to
slur, and her ability to hold eye contact became outstanding, if not slightly
awkward. “He was working for the government. In what capacity, I am not sure. Then,
he, umm…” She kind of laughed as she spit out her closing. “Well, he died. They
say he was in an accident. I’m not sure what kind. They paid for the funeral
and everything, and we never asked any questions. Another shot?”
     
    She stood up and ran to the bar, no doubt retreating from
her sudden burst of honesty. When she came back, she was balancing four shot
glasses in her palm. I gladly took two and toasted her with each one. But now,
instead of just regarding her as some dumb reporter who was out to ruin my
life, I saw her as a person.
     
    “Ashley,” I lightly placed my hand on top of hers, as she
had done for me, “thanks for telling me your story.”
    She quickly smiled, but deflected just as quickly. “Race to
the bottom?” She held up her last beer to mine.
    “Ready, set, go.”
     
    The rest of the time at the bar was a blur, even in my
flashback. We talked about the requirements for a Master’s in Journalism:
     
    “Do you have interest in being on television?”
    “No, it’s just a class I’m required to take.”
    “You should be on television.”
    “I’m not looking for fame. I’m looking for the truth.”
    “It’s annoying me that you’re such a good person.”
    “Is it because you’re not?”
     
    We talked about the requirements for a law degree:
     
    “This silly writing project has to be about