Come As You Are(52)

Giving myself to Flynn would be easy because he wouldn’t hurt me.

That’s what I let slip through my fingers for a possibility.

But I had to. I had no choice.

I keep running the water, and the blood spills into the sink.

I don’t think Flynn would hurt me like Ray did. I don’t believe he’s like that. I believe he’s a man of his word, a man I can trust, and saying those words to him—we need to stop seeing each other—hurt way more than this sliced finger.

When the blood ceases to flow, I wrap a towel tight around my finger, find a Band-Aid, and put it on the cut. Giving the sewing a break, I settle back in with the article, review Kevin’s notes, and make my final tweaks. Then I stand and pace like a lion in the zoo. Cross the kitchen. Walk to the futon. Cover the same path again.

I draw a deep breath and scan my little place. The walls seem to hover, to sway. This apartment is suddenly too tiny. It can’t contain me and all these rampant emotions pinballing through my chest.

I call Kevin and tell him I’m taking the next train to come see him.

A couple hours later, the train rattles into the station in the sleepy little New England town where he goes to divinity school. He meets me at the depot, and his smile is magnetic. It hits me in a raw, visceral way. I throw my arms around him, and he hugs me.

A strange relief works its way into me as we reconnect. He’s my person. I needed to see him. I desperately need to talk to him. I can’t stand trying to sort out all these feelings on my own.

We leave the station and head into town where we settle in at a café and order tea.

He slides my cup toward me. “It must be good if you came all the way out here to see me.”

I heave a painful sigh, emotions clogging my throat. “Tell me what to do. Tell me what’s the right thing to do.”

He leans back in his chair, parking his hands behind his head. “It’s the guy, isn’t it?”

I give him more details. “I know I won’t get the job if I’m seeing him. I can’t cover his sector if I’m involved with him. Who would give that gig to me? That’s crazy. It’s one thing to disclose at the end of a story that you’re involved with somebody, the way a publication would disclose you own stock. Jane Smith has stock in Company X. Jane Smith is in a romantic relationship with Fred Jones. It’s another thing to assign someone to cover an industry on an ongoing basis when their boyfriend or girlfriend is a key player.”

Kevin nods thoughtfully. “What happens in other situations though? What if a reporter already has a job, is covering the business, and she falls for somebody she covers?”

I’ve seen this situation happen at my old paper, and I’ve seen it happen to journalists I know. “He or she is reassigned usually. Our job is to be fair. Our job is to be accurate. I’m not curing cancer or saving the whales, but at the very least, I’m trying to write something unbiased.”

His blue eyes are piercing as he stares at me. “Do you think, then, that you should tell Mr. Galloway?”

He’s tossing ethics back at me, perhaps treating me as he would a parishioner someday.

“I have to tell him, don’t I?” I squeak out. “Even though I’m not involved with Flynn, I have to tell my editor.”

He rests his palm on my hand, giving a gentle squeeze. “I read the piece. I think you did an amazing job. But I’m not unbiased either. I love you to the ends of the earth and back, and I think everything you do is amazing. I tried to give it a critical eye, and I think it’s incredible. But what if my take on it is colored by how much I love you? And what if your approach was colored by your feelings for Flynn?”

I groan and drop my forehead onto the table. “This was such a big chance for me. And I blew it by falling for this guy.”

He rubs my forearm. “I don’t know that falling for someone is ever blowing it. I don’t know if I have any answers as to what you should do. But I don’t think letting yourself feel something real and true, especially after what happened to you, is a bad thing.”

I raise my face. “But it is. I have bills to pay.”

“Sabrina,” he says, his voice firm and strong. “We’ll stretch out the loans longer.”

I shake my head vehemently. “No. I made a promise to myself when Mom left that I’d look out for you. I made a promise to the state too. A legal promise.”

“I can look out for myself. I don’t have a ton of debt from college. I can handle all the loans from grad school.”

I shake my head. “This is your dream. How many men today want to be pastors? It’s noble and beautiful, and you’re mine,” I say, pointing at him. “You’re mine, and don’t you forget it.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I know, but being yours doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice your happiness.”

I bristle at his characterization. “I’m not sacrificing my happiness. Dude, I have other bills too. Rent, and utilities, and food. That stuff you need to fuel your body every day. You’ve heard of it?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Sabrina.”

“And living. Subways aren’t free. Nor is internet access. Who can live without that? See? I need a J-O-B regardless, so don’t start thinking it’s all about you.”

“Your tough-girl big-sister routine is as entertaining as it was when I was fifteen.”