The Fastest Way to Fall(89)

“Nothing so formal as that, but I think it’s best we put the project on hold. The concept was so solid, and you built it beautifully, but Claire can continue to talk about health and fitness on her own, in some other way.”

The scattered and pulsing remnants of my heart shot outward in all directions. Her own segment. Claire threw me under the bus to get her own segment, and it worked. Tears pricked the back of my eyes, but I blinked them away, tapping my foot. I had no proof it was Claire, so there was no point bringing it up.

“It’s not personal, Britta.” Maricela reached across the desk to touch my arm. “I have to protect this company.”

It was the best I should have hoped for. She could have fired me. “I understand. Should I . . . do I need to leave, then?”

“Take a week or two off, and hopefully things will blow over. Then you can start up again with solely your editorial assistant role.”

Not writing. I nodded again. “Okay. Thank you.”

I stumbled out of the building, my heel catching on the sidewalk. At least it didn’t snap. So, one win. I traveled to Wes’s apartment in a daze. How could Claire do this? How mad is Wes? What am I going to do?

I rode the elevator to his place, my heart rate bumping up with each floor. I felt as nervous as I had the first time we met at the gym.

It’s Wes. It’ll be fine. Over the weekend, he’d given me access to the building, saying he wanted me to be there a lot and planned to get a key made for me. Standing outside his door, knocking, I wondered if I should have just waited in the lobby. He didn’t answer and still hadn’t responded to my text. I glanced at my watch—it was twelve fifteen.

The weight of the morning fell on me as I fumbled with my phone. I accidentally tapped my notifications bar and was struck with post after post lambasting me, mocking me, calling me all kinds of names, and trashing FitMi. Memes with my face photoshopped onto lewd photos filled the screen. Unbidden, tears streamed down my cheeks, a sob wrenched from my chest. I stood in the hallway outside Wes’s door, unable to look away from my phone and unwilling to stop scrolling.

The elevator dinged, and Wes stepped into the hall. He was looking down, hands shoved in his pockets. Air filled my lungs in a heaving sigh at the sight of his posture, the way he tensed his shoulders. He didn’t look mad. He looked broken, and that was so much worse.

“Wes.” My voice cracked.

His head snapped up, expression pained, but he closed the distance between us, scooping me into his arms. That he hugged me without question, brought me to his warm body, made me cry harder into his shirt, because I’d worried he’d hesitate, and of course he didn’t. “It’s okay,” he said near my ear.

“It’s not,” I croaked, pulling back, and he searched my face before answering.

“Let’s go inside.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, attempting to catch my breath as he guided me through the door.

“Are you okay?” He sat close to me on the couch, rubbing circles on my back.

Taking care of me, because I found the world’s most caring man and then this happens.

I laughed. “No, I am decidedly not okay.” I sucked in a deep breath, raising my gaze to meet his hazel eyes. “It’s just . . . I thought you knew. I wasn’t trying to keep the truth from you any longer. When I told you I was a journalist, you acted like you knew. I planned to talk about it more, but I thought we had time . . .”

“I thought you were writing a short piece about mentoring for a kids’ program I’m running. It was put in motion a couple weeks ago.” He looked down at his hands. “I know you didn’t intentionally mislead me about that, but you’ve been writing about FitMi and me since we first interacted. Britta, you have to know how shitty that feels. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I dropped my head to my hands. “At first, I didn’t want my experience to be any different. I was trying to be an honest reviewer. Then I got to know you.” I angled my body to him, looking up and wringing my hands. “And, look at you, you’re . . . you. I had a crush on you, okay?” Color rose on my cheeks at the admission, even though he’d been inside me less than six hours earlier.

I peeked at his face, but his expression gave nothing away.

“But I couldn’t scrap my project, my first real break at Best Life, for a crush.” I paused for a second and reached for his hand. “I justified it to myself that I was focusing on my journey and that talking to you in person wasn’t that different from online.”

His eyes met mine again, his expression tired.

“I know. That’s bullshit, but it’s what I told myself. You didn’t tell me the truth either, Wes.”

He nodded, jaw flexed. “It’s what I told myself, too,” he conceded. “I convinced myself we could do both, coaching and being friends.”

“This weekend, though . . . Wes, I couldn’t let you say you . . .” I choked on the words, because I was about to remind him he’d said he loved me, and I hadn’t said it back. I’d wanted to so many times over the weekend, but I wanted to work everything out at the magazine first. I wanted a plan before I admitted what I’d felt for him for a long time. He looked so tired, so betrayed, that I wanted to say it then, but that wasn’t fair. “I couldn’t let you say you felt the way you felt and have you not know.”