Say the Word (8 page)

“Oh, crap. I completely spaced. I’m sorry, Des. Really, I mean it.” I cleared my throat lightly. “I just had a crap day, and came straight home after work to try and get my head together.”

“And here I thought you were excited about my mac and cheese,” he teased lightly, clearly unaffected by my memory slip. “Don’t worry, though. Since it’s the only thing I know how to cook, the statistical probability of you getting to try it at some point in the future is highly in your favor.”

I smiled into the phone. This was why I liked Desmond — no guilt-trips or underhanded barbs. No manipulations or mind-fuckery. He was surface-level: what you saw was what you got.

“I’ll look forward to that.”

“Good. Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“No can do,” I told him, the smile slipping off my face. “Tomorrow’s Friday, which means—”

“Girl’s night. I know, I know. Can’t fault a guy for trying though.”

“Hey, take it up with Fae. She actually hacked into my Google Calendar app and programmed herself in for every Friday night for the next five years. Seriously, my iPhone screen flashes little ‘Fae Friday — Attendance Mandatory’ alerts every 20 minutes in the four hours leading up to girl’s night. I can’t figure out how to turn the damn things off.”

Des laughed. “Yeah, but babe, technology is really not your strong suit. Need I remind you of the TiVo incident?”

“Oh, of course you’d bring that up!” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll have you know that
anyone
could’ve made that mistake. The ‘delete’ button should
not
be located right next to ‘record.’ It’s just not practical. Poor planning by the manufacturer,” I noted. “And, really, what man needs immediate access to every single rerun of
SportsCenter
ever broadcasted? With your ass fused permanently to your couch, all those pretty arm muscles you spend your days building would’ve shriveled right up. So I’m pretty sure in the long run I did you a favor.”

Desmond didn’t respond. He was laughing too hard.

“Good logic, babe. Really stellar,” he choked out when he’d finally regained control.

“I certainly thought so. And at least you can laugh about it now,” I reflected. “At the time, I thought your head might explode.”

“I’ll call you soon,” he promised, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“I might just answer,” I teased.

“Oh, you’ll answer,” Desmond said, ever confident.

I smiled. “Night.”

“Night, babe.” He clicked off.

Desmond was a good guy. Decent and kind. Funny and handsome. I should’ve been glowing after that phone call, dancing around my apartment in an unchecked display of glee because such a pretty-damn-close-to-perfect man was interested in me. And yet, the happy bubble that had formed in my chest as I’d joked and laughed with Desmond was dissipating rapidly in the face of the immense guilt I felt for leading him on.

Sure, technically I was single. There was nothing — no one — holding me back from dating Desmond. But I knew that while I could give him my body and maybe, if enough time passed and we really grew to care for one another, even a piece of my heart, he’d never get all of me. I’d given away the innermost bits of myself eight years ago, and I’d never collected the missing parts.

And Desmond was the kind of man who went all in. He gave everything — his body, his mind, his heart. He’d give me his soul in good faith, not knowing that mine had already found its mate and that I could never return the favor.

But what did you do when you’d lost your soulmate, and there was no chance of ever having him again? Did you move on, even with the knowledge that nothing would ever be quite as good? Did you try to fill the empty holes inside yourself with the misshapen parts that someone else could offer?

And, if you did these things, could you bear to look yourself in the eyes at the end of the day, knowing that you’d allowed someone to love you, to bind himself to you, in a way you could never reciprocate?

Or was it simply better to isolate yourself — to grow old alone, rather than subject an undeserving man to your own emotional inadequacies?

I didn’t know the answers to these questions.

All I did know, was that no matter how much I wanted Sebastian Covington — and I
did
want him, whether it was today, yesterday, eight years ago, or eighty years from now — I couldn’t ever have him again.

So for now, I’d carve out my own little slice of happiness.

I’d skip the tough questions I hadn’t quite figured out the answers to yet.

I’d ignore the bleeding crater in the left side of my chest.

I’d write my column and laugh over margaritas with Fae.

I’d fill my apartment with pretty things, and maybe even get a pet.

I’d live in the light.

I got to work an hour early the following morning to compensate, at least in part, for skipping out yesterday afternoon. The imposing steel and glass skyscraper that housed the
Luster
offices was a modern architectural gem, with fifty floors and a gorgeous asymmetrical design that sliced into the Midtown skyline like a knife. The building, known best as Harding Tower, served as the global headquarters for Harding Corporation, the largest mass media conglomerate in the United States and, consequently, the owner of
Luster
and about 300 other popular magazines. From television talk shows to magazines and newspapers, Harding Corp’s combined subsidiaries alone accounted for nearly 20% of all media consumed by American citizens.
Luster
was just a small piece of that pie — namely, the piece that targeted women in the 18-35 demographic, who cared about things like cellulite, sex positions, and celebrity meltdowns.

    The
Luster
offices spanned three floors of the building, with the different departments — art, photography, production design, advertising, fashion, and marketing — dispersed among them. My fellow columnists and feature writers claimed the 39
th
floor, which was essentially just a large open plan crammed full of sleek dark-stained wood cubicles. There were no solid walls, only floor to ceiling windows that looked out over Central Park on one side and the rest of Manhattan on the other. Screw the corner office Jeanine occupied — my lowly cubicle had arguably one of the best views in all of New York. 

On the left were the editor
s’ offices — Jeanine’s included — and a large conference room, partitioned off with glass-block walls to maintain the illusion that we were suspended in the air above the city. The only windowless wall, adjacent to the bank of elevators, served as a living, ever-changing storyboard for future editions — chock full of photo proofs, notes, drafts, and ideas. Placements were always shuffling as the timeline came together; I’d leave for the night with one of my columns slotted on page 27, next to makeup application tips, and return the following morning to find that same article close to centerfold, framed by the “Who Wore It Better?” and “Best Dressed” sections. Nothing was ever permanent until the entire draft was sent off to the presses, and even then things could be pulled at the last minute, if the higher-ups ordered it.

It might not have been my dream job, but I couldn’t deny that working here was an adrenaline rush — the thriving atmosphere bred the feeling that things could change at a moment’s notice. The fashion industry was constantly evolving; what was
in
last month could be passé within the span of a week. There was also the problem of our readers who, for the most part, possessed the attention span of goldfish. Keeping up with the demands of the masses took strategy, time, and commitment for anyone who chose a career at
Luster
.

Trend-spotting was a priority.

Daily Tweets and Facebook updates were a must.

Ferreting out the competition’s material was a necessity.

Professional clout was determined by number of Instagram followers, not one’s work ethic.

In the old days — also known as the pre-internet era — a columnist might’ve written a few stories in the span of a month, which would be sent out all at once for the next print edition. Now I wrote a few stories in a week — sometimes in a single day — to release on the
Luster
website and social media pages, with one or two larger stories set aside exclusively for print. What didn’t get put into circulation via
Luster
’s outlets was posted on my personal blog, “Georgia On My Mind,” where I detailed all of my hilarious, somewhat embarrassing culture-shock testimonials. The blog had amassed thousands of followers in the past year alone. Apparently, people loved to read about — and laugh at — the trials and tribulations of a country girl adapting to city life.

Point was, the workday didn’t end at five or start at eight anymore. Before I’d even slurped down coffee — hell, before I’d even gotten out of bed in the morning — I’d checked my social media accounts at least once.

The world had changed. The entirety of the publishing industry had changed. And you could either adapt alongside it, or be left to the wayside — hell, it was practically the company motto. Fae and I liked to say that there was an invisible, implied contract along with the paper ones we signed before our first shifts here — a set of expectations never voiced, but harshly enforced:

You don’t want to work
10-hour days?

That’s fine — there’s someone else who’s happy to, and probably at a lower pay grade.

You don’t want to come in on weekends?

Hey, that’s cool — so long as you don’t mind when someone else is given that promotion you’ve been wishing for.

You don’t want to spend your entire paycheck on designer heels?

Good for you — go get a normal office job where you can wear all the comfortable shoes you want because image isn’t important. 

This was
Luster
. It was materialistic, catty, competitive, and trendy. Darwin would’ve loved to spend a day observing my coworkers: it was survival of the fittest at its very best. High school reincarnated.

There was a good reason Fae was the only girl from work I associated with.

Ever punctual, she arrived at her cubicle fifteen minutes early. She stopped abruptly as she caught sight of me at my desk, her eyes wide with surprise. For once I’d gotten to work before her. Most days, I made it in with seconds to spare before the daily morning briefing, rushing in as though the devil himself were on my heels — hair flying out of its fastenings, hastily-sipped coffee charring my tongue, and a half-done face of makeup that Fae would bully me into fixing in the bathroom at some point during the morning.  

“You’re here early,” she noted, dumping her large Louis Vuitton hobo bag onto her desk. “Thought you’d be battling a hangover or calling in sick, after the way I left you last night.”

“I’m surprisingly bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning.” I smiled at her, standing up to hand her the steaming latte I’d purchased only moments before her arrival. “Here.”

“You’re a godsend,” she muttered, taking a delicate sip so as not to ruin her flawless lipstick with unwanted foam.

“Not quite,” I said. “And I’ve never really understood that phrase. I mean, who wants to be a god
send
? Wouldn’t you rather just be a goddess?”

“So, I’m giving you thirty more seconds,” she told me, completely ignoring my musings as she moved around to take a seat at her desk.

“Oh?” I asked. “What for?”

“Thirty seconds to tell me who in the hell
Sebastian
is and what happened to induce the Merlot bath you took last night.” She glanced at the dainty silver watch on her wrist.  “Make that twenty seconds.”

“Thanks for tucking me in before you left,” I said, smiling down at her.

“Fifteen.”

“Really, I appreciate it.”

“Ten.”

“So do you think Jeanine will make us do a column on that new
jazzercising techni—”

“
Lux Kincaid!
Do not make me drag you into the bathroom by your hair and torture you for information,” Fae whisper-yelled at me, her eyes glaring daggers. “You know I’ll do it
.
” She crossed her arms in front of her chest menacingly.

“Oh, relax.” I grinned down at her, leaning
a hip against the cubicle partition.

She arched one eyebrow and cast an impatient look at her watch. I held my hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Fine, fine. It’s just…” I took a steadying breath. “This thing with Sebastian… It’s complicated.”

“So
un-
complicate it.”

“Sebastian is—” My words cut off abruptly, drying up in my throat as I caught sight of the man stepping out of elevator banks. The tempo of my heartbeat stuttered erratically, before thundering to twice its normal rate.

“Sebastian is
what
?” Fae snapped impatiently.

“Here,” I whispered, feeling the blood drain from my face. “Sebastian is here.”

In my peripheral, I saw Fae’s head spin around so fast she’d probably have whiplash for a week. My eyes, however, were locked on the shiny gold elevator doors that were sliding shut, and the man now standing in front of them. His eyes swept the space, taking in the office layout with a shrewd composure born from his years as a politician’s son. When they skimmed over me, halting for only the briefest of moments, I thought they may have narrowed in disgust or suspicion, but they moved away too quickly for me to be sure.

He was a fortress. A stony castle with walls so high no army could breach them, let alone one solitary woman. I couldn’t read him at all. Yet my own expression, I feared, was unguarded; cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide with surprise and maybe, if you looked a little closer, the faintest remnant of longing. I’d been caught unawares by his abrupt entrance and hadn’t the time to gain composure or don any number of the schooled expressions that would be considered appropriate when one saw a distant acquaintance or a stranger. If he looked now, he’d see it shining from my eyes, radiating from my pores, and saturating the room — a yearning, a need that hadn’t been filled in all our time apart.

I needn’t have worried.

His eyes swept over me, through me, as though I were just another piece of the colorless office furniture littering the room. Either he was the best actor I’d ever come across, or he was sincerely unaffected by my existence. There was no emotion in his eyes, save the cool disinterest of a stranger taking in his surroundings for the first time. He looked like his mother, I realized, both startled and saddened by the thought. There was a tightness around his mouth that hadn’t been there in the years of our youth — lines weathered not by laughter but something far more trying.

One look at him, and I’d known that the boy I’d loved — the one whose very essence seemed a product of light and laughter, who’d grinned freely and joked as easily as he breathed — was gone. The man before me was a hollowed out husk, his carefree soul scrubbed clean from his perfect frame, leaving a heartbreakingly foreign doppelgänger behind.

Physically he was nearly the same. His muscular frame may’ve filled out considerably, but those clear hazel eyes and that mop of burnished gold hair remained achingly familiar to me even after all these years of distance. And yet, at the same time, he was now a stranger.

My throat worked against the lump that had lodged itself painfully in my airway and I studiously ignored the lance of pain that shot
into my heart as thoughts tumbled through my mind unchecked. I wanted to tear my eyes from him yet, being an eternal glutton for punishment, I couldn’t look away as he made his way toward Jeanine’s office without a backward glance at me.

“So that’s him, huh?” Fae’s voice snapped me out of my trance, and when I turned my eyes to face her she was looking at me with more than a little concern. “He’d be sexy if he weren’t so serious.”

I nodded slowly, my mind reeling with thoughts.

Why was he here?

Did Cara send him?

Was he going to report me to Jeanine?

Was I about to lose my job?

“I take it the break up didn’t go well?” Fae asked.

I nodded again.

“I have a feeling this particular Fae Friday is going to call for extra tequila.”

“You can say that again,” I agreed, collapsing into my desk chair with a deep sigh.