Trina

“Trina Rockwell?” I’m tempted to run. At the very least I should consider changing my name. Katrina has suited me well over the years, but it might be fun to try Marigold or Joslyn for a while. You know, a name with no impending sense of doom attached to it.

I continue to sit in my chair as a twenty-something-year-old woman enters the lobby. Her gaze shifts about like she’s a hunter and I’m her prey. She’s short and appears athletic enough she could probably lift me over her head without breaking a sweat. She also seems annoyed. Welcome to my world, sister.

I used to love coming to the production offices of Midwestern Matchmaker, but that was back when I was part of a production I was proud of. Pushing up onto my extra-high espadrilles, I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from my skirt. Then, with a deep breath, I wave my hand in the air. “Right here.”

The woman’s mid-length bob seemingly lengthens as her chin cranes upward to take in my over six-foot stature. I’m only five-ten on my own, but I’m hoping the added shoe height will make me more intimidating to my pint-sized producer. Either that or it might give me the internal boost of courage I need to get through this meeting. With any luck, both.

“I’m Tom Meranda’s new assistant, Phil,” the woman says. At least, I think she’s a woman—maybe she only identifies that way.

“How’s that going for you?” My tone is full of derision. I used to like Tom, back when he was producing the version of Midwestern Matchmaker I was proud of. But we got into a tiff when he tried to force a more salacious agenda. That’s when I lost all respect for him. Then we lost our show.

Phil ignores my question, turns around, and marches with military precision down the hallway like a little dictator. I’m tempted to call out orders drill-sergeant style. “Lift those knees, soldier! Chin up! Shoulders back!”

Tom’s assistant opens his door without knocking and gestures for me to sit down on one of the chairs across from his desk. Meanwhile, he’s staring out the window at the Chicago River below, talking to someone on the phone. “That’s right, Ginger. Yes … uh-huh … she just came into my office. I’ll call you back when our meeting is over.” He hangs up and spins his chair around. His expression is deadpan. He waits several long beats before breaking the silence. “You look well, Trina.”

“Your bald spot is getting bigger,” I tell him.

Resting his chin on the teepee he’s made of his fingertips, he states the obvious. “Still mad, I see.”

Crossing one leg over the other, I reply, “You can take full credit for the change in our relationship.”

He narrows his beady eyes. “You were told at the beginning of last season that if we didn’t make some changes, there would be no chance of getting picked up.”

“Yes, Tom, but change doesn’t always mean pandering to the lowest common denominator. Change can be good.” I sound like a schoolteacher trying to talk sense into a bully hellbent on beating the snot out of a weaker kid. In this instance, me.

My producer kicks his feet onto his desktop as though the tediousness of this topic is exhausting his precious limbs. “We’re in the reality programming game, Trina. Change for us always means a move toward the more titillating.” I know he’s right, but before I can concede as much, he adds, “You’re the one who decided you were too good for that and now we’re all up a creek without a paddle. But I have an idea than can save us all..."