How Far She's Come: A Novel

Prologue

They’re watching me, I know that. And I’m not talking about the viewers at home, though it’s no coincidence that ratings are up.

If they killed once, they can kill again. No one’s loyal to me. Conspiracies are real.

I can feel my knees buckling, about to give way. While the past two months have been a crash course in power and paranoia, the truth is, I don’t have any real journalism training—or nearly enough life training—to stand up to . . . who? Who’s the real puppet master? How deep does it go?

At least I have the diary.

I can do this. I will do this, because I have to. They need to be stopped.

This can’t be the end of my story.

Chapter 1

Eight Weeks Earlier

Has he already seen me naked?

It’s usually my first thought when I encounter a new male.

This time, though, it’s not about my professor or a stranger walking toward me on the street or the cashier or someone who was supposed to be my friend but it turns out really only tolerated me for Chase’s sake and who might very well be posting anonymously behind my back. This time, I’m thinking it about billionaire Edwin Gordon, he of the ordinary name and the enormous wealth, who helms INN, the Independent News Network (Because independent thinking is the only way out).

I almost didn’t come here today, figuring the invitation was most likely a cruel joke. One of the internet trolls decided to get creative and was nearby filming, ready to expose me as I craned my neck, searching for the private jet that supposedly had me listed on the manifest. He was waiting to catch me in the act, guilty of the ultimate hubris: believing I’d been marked as special, that Edwin Gordon actually wanted to meet me. But I decided that I wasn’t going to pass this up, on the off chance it was real. It wasn’t until I was in the Lyft headed for the Palo Alto Airport that it occurred to me that humiliation might be one of the better scenarios. A pro-rape activist who’d targeted me online could be luring me to the airport to kidnap me and carry out his sick fantasies. It might not be a joke but a trap.

Four months ago, that would have seemed beyond paranoid. Four months ago, I didn’t know that pro-rape activists existed.

For the most part, I don’t need to worry about the trolls anymore. About being heckled or threatened. About being photographed or followed. About my phone being hacked and my private texts and photos made public. That’s because I shut it all down. I let them run me off the internet in exchange for some peace of mind. It wasn’t a fair deal, but it was the only thing on offer from the police, and while I don’t really have peace yet, I’m a lot closer than I was.

But this is no joke. I’m really here, on a private plane as sumptuous as I imagine a suite at the Ritz-Carlton would be, not that I’ve ever been in a Ritz-Carlton. I’m a twenty-four-year-old recent college graduate, and granted, that college is Stanford, where silver-spoon kids have been on many private planes and in many Ritz-Carltons, but I’m not one of them. I was raised in Tulip, Montana, a small town two hours north of Missoula, where my father ran a grocery co-op frequented by ranchers and aging hippies. The mother I never knew must have thought it hilarious to name me Cheyenne, so I could spend the next however many years I’m on this planet telling people that I’m not actually from Wyoming but from a state nearly as underpopulated.

Yet none of those silver-spoon kids are here, on a silk couch, across from Edwin Gordon. My legs are crossed chastely—has he already seen in between them?—while Edwin has his shoes off, his navy-blue-striped shirt untucked and unwrinkled, and a bourbon in his hand. When asked by a flight attendant, I declined not only alcohol but water. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep anything down. I’m glad my long red hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, so I can’t fidget with it.

Edwin is in his early forties, his dark hair silvered in a way that looks strategic and a ridged forehead that’s supposed to signal he’s eschewed Botox, though the rest of his tanned face is suspiciously boyish. He’s not exactly handsome, but his level of power makes up the gap so that he’s just about the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in the flesh.

Not that it matters, because I have a boyfriend, and everyone knows that, to his credit, Edwin dates women his own age or older. They’re entrepreneurs and philanthropists and humanitarians whose accomplishments are matched only by their immaculately preserved beauty, as if they’ve been cryogenically frozen and revived moments before their latest public appearance.

Edwin smiles and says, You want to know why you’re here?

I’m too nervous to smile back, sweating in the summer-weight light gray blazer and skirt I bought for interviews, of which I’ve had only three since last month’s graduation. My GPA was a 2.9, and my major was sociology. Every time a prospective employer googles my name, autofill will suggest the search Cheyenne Florian naked.

Yes, I definitely want to know why I’m here.

You’re my dream girl from when I was a twenty-something, Edwin says, and my green eyes widen in shock. Plenty of men hit on me—and worse—but this is Edwin Gordon. I’m hoping that you’ll speak at some point in this conversation. That would be what defines it as a conversation, as opposed to a monologue.

Then suddenly, the flattery wears off, and I get it. I want to ask if this plane is taking off or if I’m just a stopover. A quickie. I’ve been sexualized by strangers, without my consent or my intent, for months now.

I’m going to get off now, I say. Then I turn red, realizing that my language itself was inadvertently sexualized. Minefields everywhere. I stand up. Nice meeting you.

Wait, what just happened?

Like you haven’t seen the pictures. Maybe you saw the video that sparked it all, maybe not. But I’m not who people have made me out to be. I’m an actual flesh-and-blood human being and not anyone’s fuckbot. So, nice meeting you.

I start to head for the door, pushing past the two men who could be most accurately described as goons and who are standing sentinel on either side of Edwin’s couch.

Edwin gets up and makes a move as if to block me. I can’t help it, I flinch. I never used to flinch when a man was in my path. These months have changed me, which makes me even madder.

Edwin steps back and raises his arms in the air, like he’s a hostage. As if he knows anything about that. About having to restrict his movements out of fear. About making his world small. Making himself small. Wishing for invisibility.

I’m sorry, he says in a low voice, for the terrible things people have done to you.

I look at him and find that he does seem truly sorrowful. But as much as I never wanted to be a sex object, I never wanted to be an object of pity either.

I want to help you turn it all around, he says. To use what happened to you to make a difference.

What are you saying, exactly?

I’m here to offer you a job. I watched your videos. All of them. I was following you for months before everything happened. Scouting you.

Honestly, this is one scenario that never crossed my mind.

Could we sit down? I’m an old man. I’ve got bad knees. He smiles. Please?

I pause a few beats, just trying to push through the absurdity of all this. Besides, it never hurts to make ’em wait. Slowly, I nod.

We retake our seats. He’s on his silk couch, I’m on mine. It’s really a very feminine jet. Is it possible it’s borrowed? Or maybe one of his many women decorated it.

Focus, Cheyenne.

When I said you were my dream girl—bad leadoff, by the way, I apologize—that was when I was what would now be called a millennial, though I was Generation X. Not that it matters. He shakes his head, impatient with himself. Is Edwin Gordon actually nervous talking to me? I almost want to smile. I believe that the under-thirty set hasn’t changed that much in their tastes. I want that demographic for INN. But I think you’ll appeal to all males, really, including the old-timers who remember Rita Hayworth. Right now, the elderly watch the news. Fox, especially, is watched by men over sixty. Based on the originality of their programming, MSNBC and CNN seem content to let news die a natural death along with its viewers, but I have other plans. INN’s going to succeed by trying where no one else has.

I thought INN was already successful.

We’re not making the money we could.

I thought it was a passion project. I like challenging him. Keeping him on his toes, after I’ve spent so much time lately off-balance.

In my experience, passion equals profit.

I’m oddly disappointed. I’ve never watched much television, choosing to get my information from a handful of fact-checking websites and trusted blogs until the past few months, when, in addition to shutting down, I’ve been tuning out. That means I’ve barely seen INN since it launched a year ago, but I’ve been rooting for it. Its stated mission resonates with me: context-rich journalism, a pursuit of the truth, and a nonpartisan commitment to the public good. Other networks are as beholden to special interests as the politicians themselves, but INN isn’t beholden to anyone, because Edwin is its owner and only funder, putting principle above profit.

So much for that. I should have fact-checked INN’s propaganda before this meeting.

If I have to keep funneling my own money to stay in the game, he says, I always will. Because this is the cause of my life. Because I’m a patriot, not in any partisan sense of the word. A well-informed electorate is the only thing that’ll save this country, and INN is the only network that’s really invested in creating that. I want those advertising dollars because that means that I’m getting to the demographic that can change the future.

You think only millennial men can change the future?

I think millennial females have done all they can, and now the men need to get on board. I know you care about the direction of this country. That’s why you made those videos, right?

I used to care about the country. Lately, all I’ve cared about is myself, and staying safe.

After all, you are the independent vlogger with the red-state name.

So he didn’t just watch my videos; he read the comments. And that’s before the one went viral. I’m not a vlogger anymore.

I was sad when you let those assholes run you out.

Let them? Like I had any choice. I give him a stony stare.

I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I just meant I’ve missed your videos. I’ve missed your voice.

Our eyes meet. It’s a loaded moment. An intimate moment.

Then I realized that’s where I come in. You went viral once, so you can do it again, on a much larger scale, with the INN machinery behind you. You’ll be unstoppable.

A much larger scale. That sounds . . . terrifying.

That video was an aberration, I say.

No, it wasn’t. I loved your videos. I loved that you weren’t right or left. You’re a true homegrown independent, Cheyenne, and that’s what I’m looking for.

I’m my father’s daughter. I believe ranchers and hippies should be able to talk politics, and everything else. I believe in solving problems through information and discourse. But that doesn’t make me a broadcaster.

I see some of Ty Fordham in you, he says.

I haven’t watched much INN, but everyone knows about Ty Fordham. He’s the Angry Independent, INN’s biggest star, combining Sean Hannity’s vitriol with Rachel Maddow’s brains. I’m not really very angry.

You could have fooled me.

Well, I wasn’t, before.

He doesn’t have to ask before what?

You’re not angry by nature, which is good. No one wants to see women truly angry. But they like to see fire. Did you ever watch Megyn Kelly at the height of her power, back when she was still on Fox? That was barely contained fury, right there. That’s righteous indignation. There’s an appetite for that sort of thing that you can fill.

I’m not that righteously indignant anymore. When your energy is wrapped up in survival, outrage becomes a luxury.

You sure know how to sell yourself, don’t you?

I’m not the one doing the selling. He smiles. He likes my fire. I used to like it too.

You’re a natural, and a critical thinker. Everything else can be taught.

It’s a good line, sure, but can it really be true?

I know what I’m looking for, and I know what you’ve got. You’re gorgeous, with a true independent streak. That’s a devastating combination from where I’m sitting. This time around, you’re not just going to withstand controversy; you’re going to reap the benefits.

Last time, I had to retreat. It was the only way to feel safe. I didn’t have a news organization behind me then, but still. Do I need to be controversial?

You will be, because of how you look and because you’ve come out of nowhere. Right out of the gate, there will be the Tomi Lahren comparisons.

After my viral video, I endured plenty of those. Tomi Lahren vaulted to fame (or ignominy, depending on your perspective) straight out of college with her big blond hair and big boobs and conservative views, expressed in the most provocative and incendiary ways. Some call her the next Ann Coulter, others White Power Barbie. She was referenced in a Jay-Z song, and not in a good way. But then, for Tomi, there seems to be no bad way. All press is good press.

I’m nothing like her, I say.

I know. If you were, you’d have capitalized on your video instead of pulling it. So we need to work on thickening your skin.

I don’t like being followed by strange men. I don’t like being the object of their rape fantasies on Twitter. I don’t like women calling me antifeminist, or a traitor. I don’t like—

Learn to like it. It means you’re part of the conversation. People are interested.

I don’t want that kind of interest.

In response to my raised voice, he drops his, scooting closer. It’s a platform. You did those vlogs for no other reason than because you cared. You were crying out for a mission, and I heard you. That’s why I’m here.

It’s harder to think now that I can smell his cologne, warm and earthy and a little bit spicy. Or maybe that’s just him.

You weren’t ready for the barrage last time. This time, you will be. INN will protect you.

He’s close enough to touch. What would I be doing at INN? I ask softly. We haven’t gone anywhere, so there’s no roar of engines to overcome. It’s like no one else is here—not the flight attendants or the goons. It’s just Edwin and me.

You’d start out as a cross-show correspondent, which means you’d be everywhere. The viewers will get to know you, and that’s just the beginning. There are no limits.

When everything went down four months ago, all I wanted was to be anonymous again. Now I’d be putting myself directly in the line of fire. But who could turn down a chance like this? Who doesn’t want to be unlimited?

Can you work hard? he says. I nod. Like I said, what you’ve got can’t be taught. But you have a lot to learn. You’ll need to take full ownership of a story, and then you’ll be the network expert across the shows.

What story? I ask, a touch suspiciously.

We’d need to figure that out.

Would you be the one figuring it out with me?

No, that would be your supervising producer. We’re going to take very good care of you, Cheyenne. That grin again. His teeth must be regularly whitened. He could be an anchor himself. I’m not around all the time, but whenever I am, my door is open to you.

Is there much security at INN?

It’s tight. And if you need your own, I’m happy to provide it. But none of my other anchors have needed it, including Ty. With online trolls, it’s all bark, no bite.

That’s not true. They hacked my phone. Speaking of which, do you really want a news correspondent with a bunch of naked pictures online?

Yes, I really do.

I get it: He doesn’t think the pictures will hurt me; he wants to use them. They’ll help lure more millennials.

I should be offended, yet strangely, I’m not. Edwin said that it’s my turn to reap the benefits, and it’s an enticing idea. I didn’t like being silenced.

I’ll keep you safe, Cheyenne. You’re not just going to be a star; you’re going to be an influencer. You’re going to change the world.

This is too heady. I need to talk to someone. My father, or Chase.

Come to New York, Edwin says.

When?

Now. I’ll take you straight to the studio and show you around.

So I’d have to move to New York. I mean, if I took the job.

Yes.

I have a boyfriend. As soon as it leaves my mouth, I realize how stupid it sounds. A boyfriend is not a mission. Chase has his own mission. He’d never give it up for me, and I’d never ask him to.

Edwin doesn’t even dignify my comment.

Let’s go, I say.

Chapter 2

Dad, can you hear me?" I’m in a bathroom stall, and though no one else is in the room, I’m whispering. If anyone tries the locked outer handle, I can apologize and say it was an accident. Fumbling fingers, first-day jitters, though it’s not really true; it’s not a job yet, just the world’s strangest job interview, more seduction than interrogation. It’s like I have nothing to prove, already, and somehow, as the day has worn on, that’s become scarier than the inverse. Edwin the Billionaire has already bought shares in my stock, and he’s the one trying to demonstrate that INN is a sound investment. The whole thing is—well, surreal is an understatement. I have to invent a new word. Transreal.

That’s why I need my dad, the most levelheaded, best man I could ever hope to know.

But first, I have to ask. How are you feeling? I always get slight butterflies before his answer.

It’s a good day, he says.

No pain?

Not much. I’m breathing easy. Got the energy of a man only twice my age. He chuckles. He’s had it rough and yet he’s so appreciative of everything, and—he tells me often—most of all for me. His beautiful, brilliant daughter.

His words, not mine. But suddenly, they’ve been pretty much echoed by a mogul. I lean my head against the cool silver partition between stalls. It’s just too much.

And how’s your day?

Deep breath. Well, you’re not going to believe this. I still don’t believe it, but . . .

Even with no one around, I lower my voice further. It’s superstition, a knock on wood. It’s the same way I tell people that Dad’s cancer is well controlled by the clinical trial.

I try to convey the initial conversation with Edwin, his offer, and the five-hour plane ride that followed where we were basically hanging out. Our conversation was wide-ranging, and included my experiences at Stanford and his (much earlier) at Yale, and then we relaxed into where we grew up, and after that it was places he’d traveled and where I want to travel, which is everywhere, a list I’ve never been able to even start because of my father (though of course I don’t relay that part; Dad already feels guilty enough about how his illness has impacted my life). Edwin found my desire to experience everything to be a reasonable ambition, one that he intimated he could help me fulfill. Then the plane was landing, and I could have vomited with anticipation. What if I don’t want to buy what he’s selling? What if I do, desperately? Then there’s the fact that New York is so much farther from Montana than California. Not to mention it’s so much larger than Tulip or Palo Alto, the only places I’ve ever lived. So many people, so much danger.

So you’re dating your future boss? Dad sounds bemused. Or maybe he’s just as thrown by all this as I am. As smart as he is, he’s not exactly worldly. He’s never been to New York City. I’m pretty sure he’s never watched INN.

It definitely wasn’t a date.

It doesn’t sound like any job interview I’ve ever heard of. Is this really how things are done?

I have no idea how things are done.

Do you have time to find out? Can you slow this down?

I don’t know what the rules are. I just know that Edwin is giving me the shot of all shots. What if while I’m taking more time, he has a change of heart?

Then it wasn’t meant to be. But he doesn’t sound convinced.

He says he sees something in me, Dad. He really thinks I can do this.

You can do anything. The question is, do you want to do this? It’s not like you’ve been talking about being on TV your whole life.

I made those videos on my own. I mean, I was moved to do that. It could be that there really is a divine plan, and everything does happen for a reason, like those über-religious people used to say in the waiting room of the oncology center.

Growing up, I’d suspected a certain preordination of the nonreligious variety. In Tulip, everything had come easy to me. Effortlessly, I did well in school, both academically and athletically; I was popular with people my age and with authority figures. Everyone thought I’d go on to do something big, even though I never had a clear notion of what that would be. College was where I planned to figure it out. Life felt like a smooth conveyor belt, delivering me to Stanford. But once I arrived, I found out what I was really up against, and my faith was sorely tested.

I met people whose entire existences had been focused on getting into Stanford, who’d attended high schools where everyone shared that same goal. They were used to intense competition, while I’d gotten inured to being unparalleled (no one else from my high school had even applied to schools the caliber of Stanford). In my dorm, there was a guy who admitted, without shame, to doing something called rednecking: his family moved from their Silicon Valley neighborhood to an uncompetitive school in Nowhere California so that he could become the valedictorian, and then they moved back to their multimillion-dollar house just in time for him to be an incoming college freshman. I was the only one who found that shocking.

At Stanford, I felt like a wet stray among the Westminster show dogs. I was woefully underprepared—not only for the academic material, though there was that, but also for the competition. Everyone seemed to fall into a rank and order immediately, and I was a marked woman. People could be scathing once they decided you didn’t belong, that you’d stolen the spot from someone more qualified, and for the first time in my life, it was hard for me to find friends. While it might have been a matter of acquiring better study skills and applying myself, it felt like I simply wasn’t good enough. All my life I’d been lulled into a false sense of security, and now the lie had been exposed.

I had no practice being an underdog. The only thing that buoyed me was Chase. He was a golden boy, and he didn’t just like me for how I looked; it became much more than that.

I should call Chase. His start-up, Until, is a darling of Silicon Valley, which is where Edwin made his first billion, and Chase is the darling of Until. He’s a unicorn, the rarest of the rare: a brilliant computer programmer who’s also great with people. Chase knows how to handle himself around the rich and powerful, around anyone. He’d be much better for advice than Dad, honestly.

But somehow, I can’t bring myself to call him.

Did Edwin give you a tour? Dad asks.

Yes.

The newsroom is an ocean of workstations with no barriers between them, and when Edwin and I had first walked in, everyone had been talking on their phones. The hubbub was incredible. I have no idea how anyone hears themselves, or the person on the other end.

There are offices surrounding the newsroom that belong to the executive producers of each show and to the anchors. The broadcasting studios are on another floor.

As we walked through, people barely looked up at Edwin, they were so engrossed in their tasks. At other cable news networks, Edwin explained, shows are trying to scoop each other. Their staffs are often at each other’s throats. Here, there’s teamwork. We all rise and fall together. We fail or succeed together, as a network. So the staff shares leads and follows them down. There’s openness and transparency, as there should be in other industries like, say, government.

It’s a utopian ideal, but I think of what I learned at Stanford about people who are that intelligent and that driven. They’re not built to pool their resources.

Edwin took out his cell and sent an email or a text or some form of alert, because within five minutes, everyone was hanging up their phones and filing into the glass-walled conference room abutting the newsroom. Edwin was shaking hands and slapping backs.

There were fifty or sixty staffers in a conference room meant to hold a quarter of that number. The whole scene looked like a fire hazard, some sort of disaster waiting to happen, or maybe that was just my anxiety talking. The enormity of the situation had hit me hard, and while I knew what Edwin thought of me, his staff was another matter. They were packed in, standing, with an air of blasé anticipation. Most didn’t seem much older than me, but they were rumpled in a hip/intellectual way. They wore the right glasses.

How many of these people have seen me naked?

My fifteen minutes of fame were a while ago, but these are the type of people who would remember. The viral video, like all my vlogs, was basically an opinion piece with some research behind it; I’ve never claimed to be a journalist. I don’t know if that works for or against me in their eyes.

This is Cheyenne Florian, Edwin began, and she’s going to be a star. INN wants in. Oh, Lord. I just sprang all this on Cheyenne this morning. I had her meet me at an airstrip, propositioned her, and flew her here. She’s handled it with great aplomb, but if she looks a little shell-shocked, well, you know why, and you know who to blame. They all laughed, like they were familiar with Edwin’s antics, as if this was how he got all his correspondents. I would have preferred if he’d used a different word than propositioned.

One of the things I like most about Cheyenne, Edwin continued, one of the things I like most about anyone, is raw, untutored presence. I like a lack of calculation. All our on-air personalities radiate authenticity and integrity. They’re not afraid to be emphatic and to take a position against dishonesty and corruption. I’ve kept Cheyenne a little off-kilter today because to me, that reveals character, and she gave it right back to me, which also reveals character. So the day’s been an audition after all. She’s everything we value at INN. Cheyenne—he turned to me—would you like to say a few words?

Another test. I forced myself to look out at the expectant faces. Some were more frankly evaluating than others, but not in a sexualized way.