Dirty Headlines(88)

Eight weeks had passed. Four weeks after he’d shown up at my doorstep with flowers and chocolate, Célian had invited everyone into the conference room and announced that he’d taken a position at a competing network in Los Angeles and would only be staying for another month.

After he made that announcement, he’d shot me a look, searching my face. Whatever he found there made him ask me to stay after the meeting was over so we could talk about it.

I’d wanted to, badly, but I knew nothing had changed.

I wasn’t going to move to Los Angeles, and we couldn’t even make it work when we lived in the same city. So there was just no way we could pull it off if he lived across the country.

Besides, I still loved him more than he was capable of ever loving me back, and an unbalanced relationship was a doomed one.

“Sir, I have a lot of work. I’d really rather not.” My fingers had twitched under the desk.

His bottom-of-the-iceberg blue eyes had run down my body to see my shoes. I’d worn generic black flats. I couldn’t bring myself to show him how I felt every day. It felt too intimate, now that he knew what each color meant.

I’d also refused to unfold the little Post-it notes he’d started shoving into my desk drawer about a month after everything blew up. It wasn’t every day, but whenever I found one, my mood would turn sour.

Even so, I knew he was not seeing Lily anymore, and that was official. The wedding venue had been canceled, Ava and Gray had reported to me excitedly one day, and after losing her beloved grandmother and her fiancé in the same month, Lily had decided to check into a Utah-based rehab center to treat her addiction to alcohol.

Ava and Grayson were obsessed with my post-Célian life. They seemed to know every single detail I wasn’t privy to—like how Milton had been fired from The Thinking Man and was now working as a researcher at some local newspaper nobody had heard of. Or how Célian was packing his things and getting ready to move away. I couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing Célian every day, but I also knew I didn’t have it in me to be hurt by him again.

Nevertheless today, a Friday, when he served his last day at LBC and everyone stood in line to shake his hand and thank him for what many considered a national service, I did, too.

He squeezed my hand. “Judith.”

“Si…” I started to call him sir, knowing he hated it, before sparing both of us more headache. “Célian.” I shook my head, offering him a timid smile. “Thank you for everything.”

“No need to thank me. It was only a fraction of what I was planning to give you, anyway,” he said dryly, but his eyes were two pools of misery. It felt like I was drowning into their depths, unable to come up for air.

I shuffled a little to the side, making room for Jessica behind me. He squeezed my hand harder. “Read the notes, Judith.”

“Safe travels.” I ducked my head and went straight to the bathroom.

Brianna waited for me there with two open mini bottles of Jack Daniels.

The burn of the alcohol barely touched my throat. It slid straight to my chest. Standing there, in the unsanitary women’s bathroom, made me realize what having good friends was all about. And I was darn glad I’d made a good friend in Brianna.





In the end, it was a Sunday afternoon when everything changed—when I changed. I realized it really didn’t matter how Célian had treated me, because love was not a chess game. It was Twister. You got all wrapped up and stumbled over your own feet, but that was part of its charm.

I had holed up in the library, as per usual. I knew Célian had been spending time with Dad every Sunday, religiously, and how it was important to both of them. Dad had Mrs. Hawthorne and me every day of the week, but he missed the buddies he’d once had at work, and Célian was his dose of testosterone. I tried not to be bitter about how easily and quickly he’d forgiven Célian, but the sad truth was, even I couldn’t hate him. Not really. Not all the way. Not the way I so desperately wanted to hate the man who’d quite ironically made me realize I could love.

Phoenix found me at the library. He was the one to sneak us in some candy this time. He looked perky and mischievous today, and better than he had the last few weeks.

He seemed like the guy I’d met the first time, when he’d approached me at this very library.

“What’s with you? You look different.” I stole a handful of Sour Patch Kids from his bag.

He chewed on his candy as he began to flip through the pages of The Times. “Different how?”

“Hmm…” I looked left and right, feeling uncomfortable. “Happy?”

“I am happy.” He laughed. “It’s not a foreign concept. You should try it, too.”

“Maybe it’s contagious and I’ll catch it from you,” I mused.

But that was wishful thinking, and I knew it. I was operating on autopilot, going through the motions, when really, all I could think about was the fact that Célian was probably in my apartment right now, and possibly for the last time, leaving his scent and testosterone and sexy air all over the place. Ugh.

“Actually, I’m also pretty happy because I have a lead to give you.” Phoenix snapped the paper shut, his eyes zeroing in on mine. I closed my copy of The New Yorker and arched an eyebrow. He leaned across the table between us and squeezed my hand. “I think you’re going to appreciate this one.”