As Taryn fought the early morning NYC traffic, she thought about the events of the previous evening. They were unbelievable to her on several levels.
First of all, she had gone out, at least sort of, with an 18-year-old. Secondly, she had truly enjoyed his company. Thirdly, she had told him it was okay for him to call her for a second date and she had not only agreed, but was looking forward to his call. And 
lastly, she had come home to find her mother waiting up for her and had gotten a good talking-to.
“Taryn,” Camilla Mathews had said to her daughter, “I know you’re an adult. I realize that you have an important job and that you’re going to be late some nights. But you have a cell phone, for heaven’s sake. If you’re going to be late, I expect a call. I had Iris, you know.”
Taryn decided the only way to make her mother understand was to tell her the almost unvarnished truth.
“Mom, I met somebody,” she said, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.
Taryn had proceeded to tell her mother everything … everything, that is, except for the minor detail of Isaac’s occupation and age. She simply told her mother she had met him at work.
And now, here she was, driving to the office to write a feature story on this amazing man and his brothers. She didn’t know how she was going to write an article that wasn’t slanted toward how great Isaac was.
As she was preoccupied with this thought, she wasn’t paying too much attention to the traffic. Still doing 40 miles per hour, she ran her Stratus into the back of a Suburban that had stopped in front of her.
The crash itself wasn’t as much of a jolt as the airbag, which felt like a full throttle punch in the face. As soon as she fought her way out from under it, Taryn’s hands immediately went up, and she could feel her eyes, nose and mouth swelling.
“Shit!” she exclaimed.
In what seemed like mere seconds, the traffic was stopped and the sirens were blaring.
A paramedic was sticking his head through the hole where Taryn’s driver’s side window had once been.
“Ma’am, are you okay? Can you hear me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Taryn said. “I just need to get out of the car.”
“Hang on just a second,” the paramedic said. “The front of the car is pretty banged up, and the hinges are bent. We’re going to have to pry the door open.”
“Whatever,” Taryn said. “Just do it.”
Half an hour later, the reports had been filed, Taryn’s car declared totaled as a result of a bent frame and towed away, and Taryn was sporting six stitches above her left eye.
She sat on a gurney in a hospital emergency room, and punched the number for the Idol Talk news offices on her cell phone. Bryan, the harried senior editor, answered halfway through the first ring.
“News offices,” he said.
“Bryan, this is Taryn,” she said.
“Taryn! Where the hell are you? We need the Hanson piece by noon, and then you’ve got an interview with Monica at 2 p.m. ..”
“Bry, hang on,” she said. “I got into a little accident.”
Bryan paused.
“Oh, my God. Are you okay?”
“I think so. My car’s totaled and my face is a mess … the airbag and I got into a scuffle and I lost … badly.”
“Wow. Do you want to take the rest of the day off? I could extend your deadline on the Hanson piece, and I could get someone to do the Monica thing for you.”
“No, I’ll come in and do the Hanson article; I can just hide in my office,” she said. “But getting someone else to do the Monica interview might not be a bad idea. My eyes are almost swollen shut and I have a pretty serious fat lip. I look pretty scary.”
“No problem. What time do you think you’ll make it in?”
“Well, it’s almost nine now, so if you just put me through to Cam, I’ll have him come pick me up and take me to get a rental car, and I should be there in about 45 minutes.”
“Oh, right, I forgot you had the boss in your back pocket,” Bryan said with a laugh.
“Hey, screw you and just get Cam on the phone, okay?"
