Say the Word(68)
“But I want to go to lunch!” Cara began to pout, jutting out one hip and crossing her arms across her chest. I saw Sebastian’s shoulders heave upward in a deep sigh, before he turned to face her. “You have to take me,” she carried on in a childish tone. Reaching out one manicured finger, she poked Sebastian in the chest to further emphasize her words.
“Right.” Poke. “Now.” Poke.
Oh my god. I winced as Sebastian’s expression clouded over with annoyance.
The entire office held its breath in silence, waiting to see the fallout from Cara’s actions, and I could feel the beginnings of a laugh building in my chest. This girl was ridiculous. If I’d liked her at all, maybe I’d have warned her to quit while she was ahead, before she completely embarrassed herself. As it was, though, I’d happily watch her dig her own grave with Sebastian.
“Cara, I’m not going to lunch with you. Look around. What do you see?” Sebastian’s tone was cool, dismissive. “People are working. I am working. And you are causing a disturbance.”
“But—” Cara protested.
“And, for the last time,” Sebastian cut her off. “Don’t come here again until we need you for test shots next week.” With that, he turned his back on her and resumed his conversation, as though she didn’t exist. Cara huffed in outrage, whirled around on her heels, and stormed out in a Prada-patterned blur, leaving nothing in her wake but the faint, lingering scent of Chanel No. 5. I had to hand it to the girl, though — on her way to the elevators, she somehow managed to simultaneously throw a severe glare in my direction and mouth “bitch” at me as she trounced her way to the exit.
A solitary giggle escaped my lips as the elevator doors closed at Cara’s back.
My boring, bland life had somehow become a telenovela in the space of a week.
I’d reached my drama limit for the day — for the year, actually — and I could feel the hysteria coming on. My lips twitched until I could no longer contain myself. My giggles turned to full out laughter, then erupted into gasps. As tears gathered in my eyes, the two Jennys made identical concerned faces — no doubt worried I’d had some kind of psychotic break — which really only made me laugh harder.
I reached up to wipe my tears away and in the process locked gazes with a set of hazel eyes that were staring hard across the room in my direction. The laugh caught in my throat and I nearly choked, but not before noticing that Sebastian’s lips were upturned just the slightest bit around the corners.
He was almost smiling at me.
Of course, as soon as we made eye contact, his expression shuttered and his lips pressed into an uncompromising frown of disapproval. If not for the idiotic flare of hope that had erupted within me at the sight of his smile — which was still burning an uncomfortably optimistic hole in my chest cavity — I’d have thought maybe I’d imagined that expression on his face, or that it was some kind of deluded product of wishful thinking.
Delusions notwithstanding, I had to turn my face away to hide the private smile twisting my lips. Maybe my Sebastian was still in there after all, buried somewhere so deep down he’d been forgotten entirely. Perhaps I hadn’t destroyed him all those years ago and, somehow, he could be redeemed.
And that gave me hope.
Not for myself, not for my own future — but for his.
***
After work, I hopped on the subway and took the F train down through Manhattan and over into Brooklyn. I didn’t text Simon or Fae, knowing they’d either want to come with me or try to talk me out of going altogether. I would’ve been better off in a car, of course, but this was something I needed to do alone, without drawing unwanted attention.
I’d changed into my well-worn black UGA sweatshirt, flats, and a pair of dark skinny jeans in the lobby bathroom before leaving work. I had a feeling that I’d stick out like a sore thumb in my freshly pressed skirt, blouse, and heels on the streets of Red Hook, so I’d stuffed my work attire deep down in the small canvas backpack I’d slung over my shoulder. Plus, I’d be walking and, if I’d learned anything at all since moving to the city, it was to never risk ruining designer footwear if it could be avoided.
The Point was a dead zone — meaning that the subways didn’t run there and cellphone reception was spotty, at best. I rode the F as close as possible, hopping off at the Carroll Street station and hailing a cab to bring me the rest of the way.
“Red Hook, please,” I directed the driver, settling into the backseat and rattling off the cross street we’d tracked Santos to last night. “By the old waterfront.”
The gray-haired cabbie glanced over his shoulder at me, his thick Brooklyn accent booming through the plastic and metal partition dividing our seats. “You sure, lady?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, swallowing my nerves and pulling my hair up into a ponytail. “I’m sure.”
He drove for about ten minutes, the streets outside my window growing emptier the closer we got to the waterfront. When I judged that we were about a block away from the pier, I asked the cabbie to pull over.
“Thanks,” I said, handing him a few bills to cover the fare.
“You sure this is where you want me to drop you?” He accepted my money, shoving it into his pocket as he looked out his window and scratched at his graying beard. “Not the best neighborhood.”