Come As You Are(51)

She has to put herself second.

That means we won’t turn into anything more. We’ll keep fading into less.

If I believed in fate, I’d say it was meant to be this way.

But I believe in math and on the surface, we don’t add up.

We’re an inequality.

One has more than the other. One needs more than the other. One can’t give what the other must have.

But what if I could balance the equation? A surge of energy shoots through me. I’ve built companies my whole adult life. I create jobs. I can make one for her. I can solve this math problem. “Wait. What if I gave you a job?”

She furrows her brow. “What? Why on earth would you give me a job?”

Be her cushion. “Maybe we can come up with something.”

“I don’t even understand what that would be.”

I hunt for an idea. Anything at all. “Writing a newsletter or marketing copy or something.”

She shoots me a look—one that says she can’t believe I offered that. One that says she’s slightly offended. “You can’t solve this for me by coming up with a job you don’t have and don’t need,” she sputters, flapping her hands.

“What if we needed that?” I posit.

She narrows her eyes. “But you don’t. You don’t really need to hire me. Also, that’s not the kind of job I want or am good at.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck, frustrated as hell to be back to an equation with no answer. “That was kind of ridiculous and insulting.”

“It’s fine,” she says softly. “I know where you’re coming from. I just want you to understand. I’m not a marketing writer. Or a newsletter writer. I’m a reporter.”

“I know. I wish I could help.”

She nods, her expression softening. “I appreciate the sentiment, but right now the job I want is covering your business. I’ve tried to convince myself every night that I can feel how I do about you and still do my job objectively,” she says, and my heart sits up, hoping. “But I can’t. And I think maybe it’s best if we stop . . .” She takes a beat, swallows, and seems to gird herself to say the harder part. “Stop seeing each other like this.”

A kick in the gut. I saw it coming, but it still smarts like a screaming demon. Only, I don’t want her to know how much this hurts. I don’t want to let on for a second that I’m in pain.

“Absolutely. I absolutely agree.” I drop her hand, making it clear I’m 100 percent on board with this.

That’s a lie.

But I’m not interested in letting the truth shine through. Not when there’s a hole in my chest from the punch she delivered.





24





Sabrina



Kermit writes back that afternoon. He wants to see me later this week.



To: Sabrina G

From: Kermit LF





Had to catch a flight to Palo Alto. I’ll call you, or text you, or really, you should make time for me on Wednesday.





It’s not presented as optional.

I don’t know why, but I can guess. I suspect he’s going to aim that Nerf gun of his in my direction and blow my cover.

Reveal my dirty little secret.

He’s going to topple the vase, like a destructive cat, and gleefully watch as the glass shatters.

Writing back, I tell him I’ll see him on Wednesday.

It’s like scheduling an appointment with the executioner, and the only thing left is to decide how I want my neck sliced. Do I do it myself, or let Kermit the Douche drop the blade?

My stomach churns as I pace my tiny apartment, wishing for answers. Wishing for someone to swoop in and tell me what to do.

But the thing is—that’s my job.

It’s been my job since I was eighteen and my mom up and left. Since she grabbed her fake Louis Vuitton and said, “See you later, kids, I’m outta here.” Once it was clear she wasn’t coming back, I secured guardianship of Kevin, somehow juggling college and official surrogate parenthood at the same damn time. The balancing act was no fun at all, but it was so rewarding to see my little brother turn into the finest of men.

I’d do it all over again, even the hard parts, even the not-fun parts.

I’ve learned something else that’s no fun at all.

This.

This is what it feels like to fall in love, have your gut punched, and miss the man you can’t be with.

For the record, it feels like complete and utter crap.

As I work on a new design for an adorable skirt made from a dove-gray patterned fabric with script-y French words across it, I cut my finger. I curse, and blood spurts all over my hand, making a beeline for the word reve. Fitting, that dream should be bloodied.

I jump from the table, run to the sink, and wash the blood off my finger. More crimson pours and the slice hurts. This should feel symbolic, but it mostly feels annoying. Because everything is irksome now.

A man like Flynn Parker came into my life at exactly the moment when I didn’t just need him, I wanted him. He came like a beautiful summer day, like blue skies and sunshine, a walk along the beach, and peaceful easy times. He’s evenings under the stars too, nights spent dancing, laughing, tumbling together and kissing, hot and fevered and sweaty.