Defensiveness.

“Pardon my French, Barb, but this is complete bullshit.” I stood and began pacing, biting my already ragged nails. Barb’s sharp brown eyes followed my erratic movements, but she said nothing. I had never been this unhinged, but damn if what I’d just read hadn’t given me cause to drink. And eat. It was almost a given that I’d have a date tonight with a box of craptastic wine and a medium supreme pizza.

Fisting my hands, I paused in front of the window and stared down at the busy street seven floors below. “I just can’t believe this is happening again,” I said robotically.

Amanda Truthslayer had not only taken another question one of my readers had sent to me—she’d once again flipped my advice, turning it into an all-out bitchfest.

And somehow, her current bitchfest had garnered eighty thousand hits and was now trending on social media.

“How can people even like that sort of thing?” I asked myself aloud.

“Avery!” Barb snapped. I turned to face her, cringing at the sight of her thinned red lips and narrowed eyes. “This is an office, not solitary confinement. Stop talking to yourself and sit down so we can discuss this.”

She swept her hand out at the seat across from her. Reluctantly, I sat, smoothing my flowy black skirt beneath me.  “How do I fix this?” I whispered. “What do I do?”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk. “Look, Avery. Your column is good, and your advice is sweet, but hers is edgy and entertaining. You just have to be ...better. Spice up your column, add a little sass, make readers want to hear what you have to say.”

Was my boss telling me to add a dose of bitchiness to my column?

When I’d gotten the job last year, Barb had given me the history of The Azalea Post. The lifestyle and entertainment paper had been established by her grandfather a few years after World War II ended. It wasn’t until college, when Barb had stumbled upon old copies of the paper that had snagged her interest had she wanted anything to do with her family’s legacy.

“Your advice,” Barb had told me the day she hired me, “reminds me of the Resolutions from Ruth feature that was in my grandpa’s paper.  Your view is that sweet throwback this paper desperately needs.”

Apparently, that sweet throwback had gone stale at an alarming speed.

“Avery, are you paying attention to anything I’m saying?” Barb demanded.

I swallowed the tennis ball-sized lump lodged in my throat.  “Of course. And I apologize for my brief moment of insanity.” Barb smiled at me like I was a certified fool and clasped her hands together, patiently waiting for me to give her a play-by-play on how I could turn my sugary advice into something that was ... edgy and entertaining. Something that would get our site a gazillion hits overnight.

Something that wasn’t my advice at all.

“I’ll do some research and see what the public is looking for, and I can revamp if necessary,” I promised, standing. I didn’t want to wait for her response. I wasn’t ready for more ultimatums or bad news. Reaching the door to her office, I grabbed the knob, took a deep breath, and then looked over my shoulder. “I’ll let you know what I come up with.”

Barb had returned her attention to her computer, but I noticed her dismissive smile. “You’re a brilliant young woman, Avery. I’m sure you’ll do just fine!” For a moment, I waited for the “Or else” but it never came, so I crept into the hall with my shoulders hunched like an admonished child leaving the principal’s office.

I headed back to my corner cubicle and plunked myself down in the chair. Turning off my screensaver—the not safe for work shirtless picture of Henry Cavill—I checked my email. After seeing that vomit-inducing blog, the full inbox was somewhat of a relief. My column was still a success. Just because some pseudo-advice giver had been twisting my work for the last few months for a website that catered to the miserable didn’t mean my career was over.

Even so, I wanted to kick Amanda Truthslayer’s ass.

Pulling up her page on Snarkjunkies.com, I re-read her advice to my reader once again, and then compared it to my answer to the same question, which had been published three days ago.

Dear Confused,

I know that relationships can be difficult at first and they require a lot of change and compromise. I would say that maybe you should address these feelings with “Ed” and let him know how you feel. Sometimes guys, like girls, can feel torn or shy and they don’t want to put themselves out there for fear of being rejected. I wish you the best of luck and feel free to update us on any new developments.

Lots of love,

Avery

Beneath my answer, the number of hits on my own post curled my lips into a harsh frown. Thirty-five hundred. That wasn’t even a tenth of Amanda’s hits for this week’s bashing.

Crap.

I couldn’t lose this job. I had just moved into my condo and bought a new car. I needed the income. But most of all, I liked my job. I loved giving advice. I’d been doing it for as long as I remembered, and I enjoyed the emotions that came with helping women feel empowered and confident in their relationships. For Amanda to do this to me—again—well, it was enough to knock me down a few notches.

Disgusted at how easily a woman I didn’t even know had managed to shake me, I slammed my laptop shut and closed my eyes.

Massaging the bridge of my nose in a useless effort to ease my pounding headache, I checked the clock on my desk. One-fifteen. I’d already missed the first fifteen minutes of my lunch obsessing over Amanda Truthslayer. Sighing heavily, I shrugged on the purple cardigan hanging on the back of my chair, grabbed my oversized purse, and headed down the hall. I ignored the knowing looks of my coworkers who’d probably already read and shared a chuckle over Amanda’s post. To avoid any awkward conversations, I opted for the stairs instead of the elevator, taking them two at a time because I was so desperate to get outside.

As soon as I exited the building, I stopped on the sidewalk and inhaled deeply. Even though it was the dead of winter, Charlotte was warm. It was a far cry from Grand Forks, the North Dakota town I’d grown up in.

I first fell in love with Charlotte while attending Queens University, but it wasn’t until a year after I graduated—when I came back to visit my friend Tessa—that I decided to make it my home. Tessa had helped me get started with The Azalea Post when she’d introduced me to Barb, who was a friend of Tessa’s mother. I was beyond excited to move back to Charlotte and, up until a few months ago, this job had been everything I could ask for. The public—well most of them—had responded well to my advice.

So who in the hell was Amanda Truthslayer anyway to downgrade my opinions?

Shoving my hands into the shallow pockets of my cardigan, I walked slowly down the sidewalk, being careful not to get my stilettos stuck in the cracks as I made the six-block trek to the little café on East Trade Street. The place had the best milkshakes I’ve ever tasted, and this was definitely a sugary dairy kind of day. Screw the diet.

When Gabby, my favorite waitress, spotted me settling into a booth at the front of the shop, she bounced over, pen and pad in hand. “Told you resolutions were meant to be broken,” she teased, reminding me of my declaration that I was taking a break from their addictive shakes and fried pickles a few weeks ago. “I’ve missed seeing you around, Avery.”

“Yeah, I’ll give that resolution another go next year.” I shook my head when she offered me a menu. “Can I just get a blueberry shake?”

“You got it, babe.” She winked. “For what it’s worth, you so didn’t need that resolution. You’re gorgeous, girl!”

A flush crept across my skin. “Thanks.”