What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny things compared to what lies within us. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Falling in love with a married man is never a good idea, particularly when that man is also your boss. When it happened to me, I remember a friend’s husband telling me, “Well, you can kiss that job good-bye.’’ It took five years but eventually he was right. A top editor later confided, “Your best work will not be at this newspaper.’’ What he meant was this: “Your career here is finished.’’ He was right, too. I gave my heart and soul to that job - and many of the best editors knew it - but it didn’t matter. I had sinned and I was finished. Listening to reason was never my strong suit. I followed my heart and I paid the price.
The truth is I had no choice. I’m not proud of what I did. And I never, ever wanted to be one of those women. But I see now that this man was brought into my life for some very important reasons. Without him, I’m not sure I would have made it out of my own mind alive. He became my best friend, confidante and protector. No one should have to play so many roles for a woman but he did it all with more patience and love than I’d ever imagined possible. I still marvel that he stuck it out as long as he did.
What began as a solidly professional friendship ended up becoming the most intensely passionate relationship I had had up to that point. I’d always had boyfriends – usually nice, sweet guys who wanted nothing more than to take care of me – but this man was the first to connect with me on a level that I’d always craved. I knew I could never be one of those women who settled for a stable guy with a good job and a house in the suburbs. I needed someone to rock my world and he did. He had no idea how I would eventually rock his.
It began, as affairs often do, as a deep and intensely intellectual friendship. Physical attraction did not enter the picture for many months. I was a young and aggressive reporter, determined to make my mark in the small bureau and blast my way downtown. He was the editor who encouraged my enthusiasm by giving me the freedom to write longer features and dig up offbeat news. I did well and editors noticed. After only two months on the job, I found myself in Washington, D.C. writing front-page stories on the events there. Other reporters looked at the dateline and said, “Who is this person and why did we send her to D.C.?” Most of it was pure luck – I happened to be in Fort Worth, less than four hours away, on another assignment – but I took the opportunity and ran with it.
I continued pitching bigger stories and downtown editors began to call me for out-of-town assignments – chasing hurricanes and murder suspects. I jumped at everything they offered. Professionally, I was on my way. Personally, my life was in shambles. I was calling in sick on days I couldn’t face the editor I adored or the rest of the staff, who were obviously suspicious. I was crying long distance to friends who struggled not to say, “I told you so.” I stole every moment I could with the man I loved, only to watch the tail lights of his Blazer recede as he headed home to his wife and kids, just a few blocks away. “I love you but I just can’t leave’’ was a painfully familiar refrain.
Within six months, my delicate house of cards collapsed. Someone had seen us in a parking lot. The bureau chief and top editors downtown were informed. Meetings were held and, over a weekend, I found myself in a new town and a new office, being lectured by a new editor. He said he didn’t care what I’d done or with whom. All he cared about was that I was going to have to work my ass off to prove myself – again.