The Story of Us Part XII: (aka "The Agony and the Ex-tacy")

I should have listened to Lois Lane.

She lived by three rules: Never get involved with your stories; never let anyone get there first; and never sleep with anyone you work with.

Covering ASWSU for The Evergreen pretty much negated the first rule since I hardly had a burning passion for the allocation of funds for the student recreation center.

I didn't have a choice when it came to the second rule since Chris was two years ahead of me in school -- and therefore in the newsroom hierarchy.

The third rule is where I got in trouble.

No, I hadn't slept with Chris, but in a profession where debunking lies and searching for the truth wins you big, fat Pulizters, as far as our co-workers were concerned, I may as well have gone over to his apartment and showed him exactly what Victoria's secret was.

The damage was done without Chris saying a word or me taking off a single article of clothing -- and it was only September. All that was left was to revert back into the icy silence that had consumed the majority of the last time we had worked together.

Chris took up residency in an empty office in the main newsroom to avoid me, Candace and pretty much anyone else with a pulse, and I continued learning the ropes of reporting from our fearless leader and her assistant cohorts. I was on a mission. I had put myself in this position, and now I HAD to prove my professional worth.

As the weeks and months passed, my hard work started to pay off. I was being taken seriously as a reporter. I even got called to be on notice to cover an Al Gore rally in Spokane if they weren't able to locate the staff political reporter in time. (It ended up falling through, but the request spoke volumes.)

And then everything changed.

Ryan won the election to be editor for spring semester. He was a senior, he had been on staff for several years, and oh yeah, he was Chris' best friend. I was screwed before I even walked into the office.

During staff interviews, Ryan flat out said that he wanted me to continue on the ASWSU beat, but that he had reservations over my personal relationship -- or more specifically lack thereof -- with Chris, his choice for assistant managing editor. He felt that our apparent inability to get along would negatively impact the paper. I swore up and down that I would be professional -- and apparently, Chris did the same -- and we set off toward spring.

I had zero desire to sit next to Chris' desk, nod obediently and apologize profusely as he told me everything I had done wrong in a mere 10 inches, but I had no choice. And to my complete and utter shock, he was wonderful in a managerial/mentoring role. Unlike his predecessor, his criticism was constructive. His tone was congenial, not reproachful. Instead of punctuating his changes with sighs, we worked together to make my stories better.

It was like alimony in its purest form -- support for your ex.

He taught. I learned. The ice began to thaw.

Oh crap.

I knew that with every click of his mouse, we were inching closer to our familiar slippery (deadly) slope, so I backpedaled, fast -- and right into Ryan's office.

No, I didn't like Ryan. If anything, I found him annoying and arrogant 95 percent of the time. But he could hold a conversation, and I knew that my being in there bugged Chris. He maintains that it didn't, but I knew he was watching every time I walked into the office -- and he has admitted he wondered if I liked Ryan.

But that wasn't enough. I developed a crush on a friend in my Com Theory class -- and talked about him to the managing editor -- who just so happened to sit right next to Chris. In retrospect, I wonder how much of my crush on King Kentwood was actually about him -- and how much of it was about Chris. I wanted to keep things safe, and safe was away from him.

Don't get me wrong; we were getting along. So well, in fact, that late in the semester we started referring to each other as "my ex-husband" and "my ex-wife." We had somehow found a way to coexist not only peacefully, but almost affectionately. Go us.

And then the Murrow Symposium rolled around.

The annual event celebrated the best and brightest in the communication school: award winners, scholarship recipients -- and the lucky person being honored with that year's Edward R. Murrow Achievement Award. In 2001, it was CNN anchor Bernard Shaw, and the icing on the cake was that I had won two scholarships: one from the Blethen family (owners of The Seattle Times) and one from the News Tribune/Tri-City Herald. Sweet.

I ordered a dress, enlisted Emily and Megan to do my hair -- and asked King Kentwood to go with me. Not a date, per se, but two friends attending an event together ... and if he just so happened to be captivated by the scent of Heavenly perfume and the way the flowers on my dress sparkled in the light, I wouldn't exactly complain.

But I wasn't the only one going. Chris had also won a scholarship, and in the spirit of our newfound rapport, we congratulated each other in the newsroom. I suggested with only a tad of snark that he may want to look into getting a suit jacket if this was as ornate an affair as it was being presented by those who had gone the year before.

That balmy April night, King Kentwood and I walked down to Beasley Coliseum (what the hell was I thinking walking that far in heels?!) for the prestigious event. White lights twinkled in the air; waiters in crisp shirts circulated with silver trays; and the state's media elite shook hands and sipped wine. I was in heaven. It was clear that what the Kerth Awards were to Metropolis, the Murrow Symposium was to Washington. And in little Pullman, no less.

King Kentwood went off to talk to some fellow broadcasting majors, so I took the opportunity to make a quick call to The Evergreen to let them know my Mom's Weekend stories wouldn't be in until after the symposium -- later than expected. As I slipped my cellphone back into my black beaded purse, I spied Chris taking his seat at one of the ornately decorated tables. My my heart skipped a beat as I realized he was wearing a black suit and a tie. Score one for the ex-wife. He looked good ... No, make that GOOD.

And sitting down next to Chris ... was a woman. One with long brown hair.

A brunette bitch in a blue blouse. Say that 10 times fast. I didn't have a clue who she was, but I hated her already. Where on earth had Chris found a date?! Since when was he dating?! And did I ... care?!?

I was both thrilled and horrified that my sitting in Ryan's office and talking about King Kentwood had actually worked. He had a date.

Wait, he had a date.

I was totally safe -- and nauseated in a way that I couldn't blame on dinner, since it hadn't even been served. I needed to give myself peace of mind, and then I could focus on how hot King Kentwood looked in his black suit.

So I did what any good journalist does: investigate.

After buying some time by locating my own seat in the cavernous room, I took a deep breath and approached Chris' table, stopping behind his chair and leaning in to put my hands on his shoulders. The scent of his cologne flooded my senses and my voice took on a flirty(!?) tone as I said, "I see you took my advice."

He shifted in his seat and smiled. "I did."

Our eyes locked for a quick second before I shifted to subtly check out his date. Maybe because he's a fellow journalist, or maybe because he was my ex-boyfriend, he seemed to know exactly what I was doing.

"Jennifer," he said, following my gaze to the unsmiling woman seated next to him, "I'd like you to meet my mom."

Like I said, hate at first sight.

To be continued ...