I stare at my computer screen. I’m suddenly sick with dread wondering what he’s read too. Is this how he thinks of me? A bitch? I’m a bitch and a slut, who “whored” myself into his bed for information? I’m stunned to realize that even when I poured my heart into my article—it was, like Helen says, a love letter to him—the words I wrote didn’t matter. My actions trumped it all.
Saint values truth and loyalty.
I can’t take it.
I open up an email and search through the several emails of his I’ve got.
Even if it’s suicidal.
Even if he’s the most unobtainable thing in the world, placed so far off, I’d need a satellite to hoist me up high enough to snatch him. He’s my own personal moon . . .
In End the Violence, I’m always waiting to see what I can do to help those who’ve been exposed to loss. I always seem to be waiting to see if my mom’s health is stable. Waiting for the right story.
I don’t want to wait anymore.
I don’t want to wait for the story, wait for the right time, wait for the muse, wait to forget him, wait to be wanted by him, wait to see if time will be on my side and help me fix things with him.
With all the nerves in the world but a determination to match it, I select his M4 email. The early one we used to use when I started to interview him. I have no idea who will read this email, but I keep it business and type out a message, knowing that keeping it simple is the best chance I’ve got.
Mr. Saint,
I’m writing to let you know how much I appreciate your offer. I’d like to discuss it further with you. Would you please let me know if there’s any convenient time I could stop by your office? I will adjust my schedule to yours.
Thank you,
Rachel
WORK & WRITING
I’m running on three hours of sleep, but I’m determined to make something good out of my day the next morning. I even smile at a few strangers as I get out of the cab, take the building elevators, and walk into Edge. I chitchat with a few colleagues as we get coffee, call my mother to say good morning, answer a few emails from my sources.
But there’s that tiny little buzz still in my body.
I still stare at green eyes whenever I stare at . . . anything, really.
I see a full mouth.
A full mouth, smiling in the way he used to smile at me.
I exhale slowly, do my best to push the thought of yesterday aside, and stare at my computer screen.
My very blank, very white computer screen.
Keyboards are clacking, reporters talking over their cubicle walls. Edge has been doing a little better after my love letter to Saint. The job cuts have stopped, two new journalists have been hired, and although there are only a dozen of us, we still somehow manage to make noise. Oh boy, do we make noise. We’re the specialists of making every event of the day seem more monumental than it is. It’s our job to hunt for news, after all. Create stories.
Write something¸ Rachel.
Inhaling, I put my fingers on my keys and force myself to write one word. And one word becomes two and then, my fingers pause. I’m out of juice. Out of ideas. Empty.
I read what I wrote.
MALCOLM SAINT
It’s the first time in my career I’ve hit a dry spell. All the love I had for telling stories—a love that was born when I was very young, piecing together stories about my mother—left the day one of those stories took something priceless away.
Something called . . .
MALCOLM SAINT.
I’ve been begging Helen to give me the good stuff. A good piece that could motivate me, make me realize the words I write can make a difference. But she’s been stalling and popping out excuses by the dozen. She tells me that if I’m having trouble with the little pieces, then it’s definitely not the moment for another big one.
Hitting the backspace, I watch the name disappear.
MALCOLM SAIN
MALCOLM SAI
MALCOLM SA
MALCOLM S
MALCOLM
Oh god.
I squeeze my eyes and erase the rest.
On impulse, I reach for my bag, slung on the back of my chair, for the folded paper I carry inside. Taking it out, I unfold it and scan right to the bottom. To the very elaborate, male signature on it.
Malcolm KPL Saint.
The guy who sends my world into a tailspin. The sight of this signature on the page gives me all kinds of aches.
“Rachel!” Sandy calls from across the room. Tucking the paper back into my bag, I peer out of my cubicle and see that she’s pointing into the glass wall separating Helen, my editor, from all of us.
“You’re up!” she calls.
I grab my notes that I also emailed her recently, then go and stand by Helen’s open door. She’s on the phone, signals for me to wait.
“Oh, absolutely! Dinner it is. I’ll bring my best game,” she assures, then she waves me in as she hangs up, beaming.
Well. She’s in a good mood today.
“Hey Helen,” I say. “Did you look at the story options I sent?”
“Yes, and the answer is no.” Her smile fades and she levels me a look. “You’re not writing that.” Sighing, she shuffles the papers on her desk. “Rachel, nobody wants to know about any riot.” She says the word riot like one would say excrement. “You have a lively, energetic voice!” she goes on. “Use it to bring happiness, not focus on what’s wrong in the world. Tell us what’s right. What’s the right thing to wear when dating a hot man? Use what happened with that hot ex of yours to teach girls how to date properly.”
“I’M SINGLE, HELEN—hello? Nobody wants dating advice from someone who screwed her only chance at . . .” I trail off and rub my temples. “Helen, you know I’m having a little problem.”
“That you can’t write?”
I wince.
It hurts because for twenty-something years, writing was all I wanted to do.
“Go on.” Helen points at the door. “Write me something on how to dress for the first date.”
“Helen . . .” I take a few steps forward instead. “Helen, we discussed this before. Remember? How very much I want to write about things that are wrong in the world, in Chicago. I want to write about the underprivileged, the violence in the streets, and while you promised me opportunities, you have given me zero. In fact, lately, the Sharpest Edge column is all about being single and dating in the city. I have no boyfriend and no dating life. I’m not interested in the dating life, especially after what happened. I keep wondering if maybe you gave me a story that impassioned me again . . . I’d hit my stride. In fact, I’m sure I would,” I plead.
“We can’t always write about what we want, we must think of others, and your audience,” she reminded me. “The loyal audience who’s followed you throughout your career is interested in dating advice from you. You dated a very physical and renowned man; don’t throw all that life experience away. Other opportunities will come, Rachel. We’re barely catching our first breath of fresh air. And I need you on more stable ground before we shift your direction again.”
“But weren’t we all about taking risks now in order to take us somewhere?”
“Nope. The owners don’t want more risks right now, while things are stabilizing. Now please. Can I get a break from this riot and safety talk for a few weeks? Can you do that for me?”
I force myself to nod, pursing my lips as I turn to leave. I try not to feel angry and frustrated, but when I come out and hear all the keyboards clacking and watch all my colleagues writing their stories, some with bored faces, some with happy or engrossed faces, I can’t help but ache to write something that gets to me so much, you could see it on my face too.
“Hey. You, there. With the golden hair, gorgeous body, but absolutely gloomy face,” Valentine calls from his cubicle as I walk by.
“Thanks,” I say.
He motions me forward to his computer and I end up standing behind him and bending over t
o peer at his screen.
And there’s Sin.
A video, which shows the power in even his smallest gestures. I’m melting when I hear him answer a question in some sort of interview about his opinion on the state of the oil prices. Stupid, stupid melting bones.
After we both watch for a moment, Valentine says, “Your ex.”
He’s not my ex, I think sadly, wishing that even for a blink I’d have had the courage to wear that title.
“He really knows how to fill up a room. He’s keynote speaker this weekend at McCormick Place. I’m thinking of asking Helen to let me go. Unless you want to?” Val peers at me over his shoulder.
I shake my head, frustrated. Then shrug. Then nod. “I’d love to, but I couldn’t.”
Valentine’s eyes cloud over at that; I’m sure it’s because he remembers all the hate mail that came through the servers after Victoria’s article. “You need to get out more. Want to come clubbing with me and my current this weekend?”
“I’m going to camp out this weekend. But proceed living dangerously for me. I’ll find a way to bail you out of jail.”
He laughs as I go back to my corner and settle down in my chair. I’m determined to work past this glitch. I want this to be an excellent dating piece, one that can help every girl like me meet and attract the guy she wants.
Inhaling, I pop open my browser and search the dating forums. I mean to find out the most major concerns girls have when going out on a first date, for starters, but before I know it, I’m opening another tab. Then a press conference link. Then I plug in my earphones and hike up the volume and stare at Saint on the video.
He’s behind a podium erected outside. People are standing in the back—every chair is occupied. Most especially with businessmen. Though I spot a few fawning fangirls nearby too.
His hair moves a little with the wind. His voice comes through the speaker, low and deep. Even though he’s talking through a computer and not talking directly to me, my skin prickles in response. Stupid, stupid skin.
When the camera zooms in, I look into his eyes as he connects with the audience, and feel an ache. The look in his eyes as he talks to all those strangers, so much more personal than the wariness in his eyes when he looked at me yesterday.
But I think of how his eyes would burn so hot when he peeled his shirt off my body that I’d be in cinders by the time I lay naked and waiting for him to touch me . . .
And the way his eyes would glimmer with teasing, boyish hope as he looked at me when he asked and asked, patiently and ruthlessly, for me to be his girlfriend.
I hate that I will never, ever be his “little one” again.
I play the email roulette all day . . . and there’s nothing from him.
I end up with two sentences for my dating article. Valentine and Sandy are hitting a nearby sandwich place and as we cross the building’s lobby, Valentine says, “Come with, Rachel.”
“I think I’ll just . . .” I shake my head. “I’m going to try to get some work done at home.”
“Bullshit,” he says as we hit the sidewalk.
Sandy stops him. “Let her go home, Val.”
“I worry about this girl. She’s been kind of blue lately.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’m perfect,” I assure them as I flag a cab. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.”
FRIENDS
Valentine isn’t the only one “concerned.” So are my friends. And later that night, they insist on Girl Time.
Wynn was adamant we discuss this “job issue.” I assume Gina’s told her about the job offer on the table from Malcolm since nobody else knows about my other writing problem. Not even my friends. I just really dislike being the one knocked-out on the floor after life struck her out. I’m trying to get back to normal even though I don’t know what normal is anymore.
But at least one of the fixtures in my life is drinks with Wynn and Gina during the week. We sit at a high table near the windows. It’s comfortable.
Still, I’ve been refreshing my email like mad.
“I don’t know why you thought he’d want to talk to you about what happened so soon, it’s only been four weeks and what happened was kind of . . . well, it could take years,” Wynn says.
“Wow, Wynn,” I groan.
“Well, I’m being honest, Rachel!”
I toss back the rest of my cocktail. My mind flashes to his hand, reaching for my leg under the table . . .
Twinkling green eyes, teasing me until I can’t bear it . . .
I love my friends; we’ve been together forever. They call my mom “Mom” and know everything about me, but now as Wynn asks me to relate the “job issue” and Gina tells her all about it, I keep draining my cocktail in silence, sadder than I’m letting on. My friends know everything about me, but at the same time, they don’t know it all.
They don’t know that as I sit here I remember all the ways he used to tease me about how I play it safe. He used to tease me to come out of my box, that he’d catch me. But would he catch me now?
“It doesn’t matter why he took four weeks,” I cut in when Wynn and Gina keep arguing over why he took so long to contact me. “I just want him to talk to me. I want to know if I hurt him so I can make it better. I want a chance to explain, apologize.”
“You doubt you hurt him?” Wynn asks, aghast. “Emmett told me there’s no way he’d give you the time of day right now if you weren’t under his skin.”
“Interesting,” Gina says. Then, looking at me, “You’re not the only one haunted by Saint, do you think that you’re haunting him too?”
“I don’t want us to be ghosts for each other. I want us to go back to the way we were when he . . . trusted me.”
Wynn whistles admiringly. “You can get that man in bed, maybe he’ll reluctantly love you, but you won’t get his trust if his life depended on it now.”
I wince at the thought of that. “True, trust is important to him; if I can’t prove to him I’m trustworthy I’m doomed to be one of his four-night girls.”
“Did you get the impression he’d give you another chance?” Wynn asks.
I stay quiet.
“Rachel?”
“No, Wynn. He doesn’t want me anymore. But I need to apologize. I just . . .” I shake my head. “I just don’t know what to do.” I look at Wynn when my refill comes, frowning as I realize something. “So you and Emmett have been talking about it?”
“Um. Well, yes,” she says uncomfortably. “Everybody’s touched on it, you know? It was public.”
I press on, “Did Emmett have any advice for me?”
Wynn shrugs. “He doesn’t think a man like Saint would give you another chance. But then, he did offer you a job, so . . .”
“What does Emmett the chef know about a guy who literally owns Chicago?” Gina tells Wynn, rolling her eyes. “Plus Emmett’s a guy. He’s telling you this so that you, Wynn, don’t turn out to be a reporter and reveal that he wears pink undies and shit.”
“Gina.” Wynn scowls.
Gina grins, then turns to me. “Tahoe says—”
“Tahoe?” Wynn and I say in unified shock.
“Tahoe ROTH?” Wynn asks. “The oil tycoon and Saint’s bestie?”
“He’s not Saint’s only bestie, Callan Carmichael is too,” Gina specifies, then she cuts me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Rache. I’m not supposed to talk to you about this. But he’s concerned and so am I. And . . . well, from what Tahoe told me, Saint’s pretty messed up. Colder than usual. Really withdrawn.”
I sit here listening, aching.
“He loves Saint as much as I love you,” Gina says, and when Wynn opens her mouth to ask about the obvious elephant in the room—her plus Tahoe—Gina holds up a hand to stop her. “I don’t care for Tahoe, but he hasn’t enjoyed your breakup any more than I enjoy watching you mope. He called me to ask what was up, ’cause of course Saint’s not talking and he says he hasn’t seen Saint like this since his mother died.”
Knowing wha
t I know—that his mother was the only one who probably genuinely cared for Malcolm while he was growing up, how he felt he’d failed her, how he’d failed himself in failing her, how he’s been trying to fill up an empty hole ever since—Gina’s words wreck me.
Wynn chides, “Stop talking to Tahoe, he’s just using this as an excuse to have sex with you.”
“I know, right?” Gina laughs.
“So? Are you going to let him?” Wynn asks, curious.
“No! He’s gross. I mean, he’s hot, but his attitude is gross.”
I stare at my cocktail and wonder if I’m already getting drunk to the point where I’m getting emotional too easily.
I’ve cried so much I don’t even have to try. The kind of crying where the tears just spill. With no warning. With no effort. They just come. I cry at the thought of never being with him again. And I cry because I know I hurt this beautiful, ambitious, intelligent, generous, caring man. I used to rest my cheek where I could hear his heart. Now it’s locked behind iron doors and ten-foot walls that I put there.
“Rachel, men like Saint never commit. Not for the long term. But . . . he reached out to you. Offered you a job. If you reach back, maybe . . .” Gina trails off and sighs. “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t know how to help you, Rache.”
“Saint is very physical. You know what would do you and Saint a world of good? Tyrannosaurus sex: mean, violent, delicious, painful, and cathartic.” Wynn adds, “That will lead you then to spooning. Emmett and I are still so new though, we can’t even spoon. It’s more like sporking.”
“What the hell is that?” Gina asks us, frowning.
“When they’re hard when they spoon you!” Wynn rolls her eyes. Then she looks at me and giggles. “Did he do that to you too?” she asks me.
“He used to . . . um, pull my ear.” I tug one of my ears absently, helpless not to be drawn into my memories.
“Now that’s because you have really small, cute ears. Emmett likes kissing my nose.” Wynn crinkles hers for emphasis.