When the camera cuts to a commercial, she thanks me, a technician removes my mic, and I say goodbye. Making my way out of the studio, I meet up with Jennica, who waits in the hallway. She stares at me like a teacher about to reprimand a student. “Who is she? Is it your mystery girl? And how long were you going to keep her from me?”
I smile, a grin that can’t truly be contained. “I was going to tell you.”
“You were? I’m getting ready to beat you over the head with the broom for not serving up the deets.”
I love that Jennica has something of a mom in her, that she looks out for me. She’s taken on this role since we’ve been working together. She’s one of the people I’m lucky to have in my life, and as we stand in the concrete hallway to the TV studio, with crews rushing by, guys with headsets, women with clipboards, I decide it’s time to truly understand if I can take this chance.
“Let me ask you a question. How do you think we’re doing? With the rollout of Haven? And with the competition?” I need to hear it from her. From someone who won’t bullshit me.
“It’s going even better than we imagined. Everything is working great. It’s coming together, and we’re far ahead of ShopForAnything.”
“Are they having us for breakfast?”
“Cornflakes we are not.”
“Is one article in one magazine going to make or break us?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think we’ll live or die by one piece of publicity. But if you’re asking me how you’re going to deal with the fact that you’re falling for the reporter from Up Next, I would tell you that, while the story matters, your happiness matters more.”
My jaw comes unhinged. “How did you know it was her?”
Her smile is soft and kind. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Sabrina. I’ve never really known any article to require five or six interviews. And when she came by the office the other day, there was a sort of glow in your eyes. I saw it again at the softball game. You’ve never looked at anyone like that.”
“Not Annie?”
Jennica shakes her head. “This seems like something that makes you happy here.” She taps my sternum.
I smile. “Yeah, it does. She does.”
I wipe away the smile. I have a job to do, and employees to look out for. I’ve studied our numbers. I know we’re doing well. Still, I’m the kind of guy who likes to check and double check. It’s what I did on all my math tests, and it served me well. “Does that mean I’m not totally messing up our company if I pursue things with her?”
Jennica leans against the wall, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “We’re stronger than that at Haven. We’ll be fine.”
And if that’s the case, that means I can reconsider the approach to this math problem.
My hypothesis has changed when it comes to Sabrina. At first, I’d been so focused on what I might lose at work if I got involved with her. Would our rollout falter? Would we lose ground? Would my edge fade? But at this point, my company is solid and the shark circling us appears to have retreated. Since the hypothesis has changed, the expected result should too. Perhaps falling for her and managing my business can go hand in hand. “You’re sure?”
She laughs. “Yes. And listen, I know you’ve tried not to get involved with people you work with because you love the company so much. I get that. You’ve wanted to keep everything separate, devote yourself to Haven, and not let anything distract you. But look what you’ve done,” she says, gesturing to the hallway, and presumably to the piece we just finished. “You built another amazing company, and there’s a part of you that still believes if you don’t give it one hundred percent, we’ll get lost or hurt. But Flynn, fifty percent of your focus is the equivalent of two hundred percent of anyone else’s.”
“Oh stop. You’re too good to me.”
“You’re too good to us. And if she’s the one for you, you have to take the chance with her. You’ve given so much of your heart and your soul to the businesses we’ve worked on together. I think it’s time you take care of yourself.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I want you to be happy.”
“And this is when I remind myself that whatever your bonus is, it’s not big enough.”
“Precisely. Just remember that when it’s holiday time.” She takes a deep breath and fixes me with a serious stare. “But what will happen to her and her story? Frankly, that’s a bigger concern at this point—what impact will it have on her?”
“You’re right. She has more at stake. I have more cushion.”
She squeezes my arm. “Be her cushion, then.”
That’s the next problem to solve—how to be her cushion. How to turn Sabrina’s risk into our reward.
22
Sabrina
It’s three in the morning. I’m bleary-eyed. I’ve drunk all my tea. I’ve consumed enough caffeine to power a small planet.
I’m pretty much done with the first draft of my article. This is a dream. This is what I’ve always wanted to write. Something deep and rich that tells a thrilling tale, with ups, downs, conflict, and hope.
As I lean back in the tiny chair at my tinier kitchen table, staring at the laptop screen, satisfaction flows through me. This is a good piece. This is a fair piece.
The next step is to show it to my brother. I don’t have enough distance to know if I’ve done the job. If I’ve been critical enough in my observations.
I email him.
Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to apply those finely tuned ethics to my piece. Let me know if I’ve been fair. Let me know if it’s patently obvious I like the guy, or if you can’t tell one iota that I have a massive crush on him.
He must be up late too, because his response is swift.
Mission accepted. I have a test tomorrow, so let me read it later in the day. Also, I knew you had a crush on him. And I’m glad you’re being so introspective and thoughtful about whether you can even do this piece.
I blink. Whether? No, I’m doing it. I’ve done it. It’s done. All I want to know is if I pulled it off, or if it needs more wordsmithing.
But I don’t need to get into those details yet. I send him a thank you.
It’s funny how feedback from my little brother is what I needed. He’s been my benchmark for how to behave for the last several years, and I needed his input after the kiss with Flynn.
My stomach drops with guilt.
But it’s more than a morsel of guilt. It’s snowballed into a too-tall boulder.
I don’t regret kissing Flynn.
How could I? When he kisses me, I feel it in my bones, it radiates to my soul. He kisses me like I’m cherished. Like I matter. Like I could matter for a long, long time.
My regret comes from the work.
From my fear that somehow my feelings for him could hurt the reputation of Up Next. Bob Galloway put his neck on the line for me, and I want to deliver. I don’t want to bring scandal or gossip to his publication.
As my stomach dive-bombs in a nervous loop, a part of me thinks I should tell Mr. Galloway I have feelings for the subject of my piece.
But as I stare at the mail on my table, and the bill for divinity school, I can’t. I can’t risk this assignment, and really, it was only one bone-shatteringly good kiss.
What happened before doesn’t count.
What happened at the costume shop was a mistake, and I can’t let it happen again.
I can’t have both Flynn and the job. Mr. Galloway would ax the piece if he knew I’d been involved with the subject. Editors love to wield their scepters of impartiality and fairness. I get that—it’s the foundation of the field.
That’s why my best bet is to make sure there’s nothing to know. It was one kiss, and it’s over. Nothing more will happen now. Maybe one day in the future, a year down the track, if we’re both still single. But that’s a lot of what-ifs and you can’t plan for what-ifs.
I click on the website for Up Next, hoping that it will remind me of my new dream—to work there full
-time. I read a few articles posted online, including a gripping piece on new trends in wearable technology. That could be me next.
Not wearing technology, per se.
But writing a gripping piece for Up Next.
It’s a dream job, and I can’t let one kiss derail my attempts to land it.
When I’m done, I fire off emails to other editors I know, sending in clips, checking on work, and pitching potential stories. If Up Next doesn’t pan out, I need to be prepared. No one writes back yet, since it’s not even dawn, but at four thirty a new email rolls in.
The name makes me tense.
The message makes me tenser.
To: Sabrina G
From: Kermit LF
Sabrina, I think it would be in your best interest if we set a time to talk.
My stomach dives painfully. I wonder if I can be eaten alive by worry. Maybe it is possible.
I write back, asking when he’s free. That ought to buy me some time. That’s what I need right now. I shove Kermit out of my mind when he doesn’t reply right away.
As the sun begins to rise, I read my article one more time.
I’ll be ready to turn this in once I have Kevin’s feedback, and after I meet Flynn for my final fact-check.
I have to fact-check in person. There is no other reason for me to see him, especially not the memory of that kiss I can’t get out of my mind.
We are nearly done.
This time he chose another one of my favorite places. We stroll along the Central Park Mall, one of the many beautiful places in this park that’s home to countless beautiful places. The walkway runs through the middle of the green land, with huge beds of flowers south of us and a gorgeous bridge north of us. I can imagine that years ago on this path, carriages filled with glittering men and women, perhaps heading to masquerades, clip-clopped across these stones.
We walk and we talk, as has become our custom, while I check the final details for the piece.
“My T’s are crossed and my I’s are dotted.” I turn off the recorder and a wave of sadness wallops me out of nowhere. Like I’m standing on the shore, and a tsunami clobbers me without warning.
This is the last time I can devise a reason to see him. We might run in the same circles, we might even wind up talking more regularly if the job comes through, but this is the end of the line for us.
For whatever we’ve been.
For Angel and Duke.
For this pretend-not-pretend brief little New York love affair. A lump rises in my throat, and I try mightily to swallow it down. But it lodges there, and I hate that a dumb tear forms in the corner of my eye. I glance toward the trees, towering canopies hanging over the walkway, and blink away the thoughts of how much I want this to continue.
I hate my lot in life right now.
I hate my last newspaper and the fact that it couldn’t survive.
I hate my mother and her inability to take care of the two of us when she was supposed to. I hate that I had to do it before my own time.
What I hate most, though, is that I was assigned a story that invigorated me professionally and shredded my heart personally.
But I’m a big girl. I’ve been through tougher times.
Raising my chin, I suck in the emotion and tell myself I’ll live off the memories of this man and how he made me feel like my life was easy, because being with him is the easiest thing in the world.
He sighs. “So, this is it.”
I smile sadly. “I wish I had something else to fact-check.”
He licks his lips and steps closer to me. “Me too. Maybe next time we could fact-check at the Met. Another one of your favorite places.”
“I feel like we’ve gone to all my favorite places these last several days. What about yours?”
“I have new favorite places now.” He reaches for a lock of my hair, running his finger over the end as it curls.
Something inside me melts. The final piece of ice that encased my heart when Ray left me cracks, splitting down the middle, leaving me raw but also ready for another chance.
No more ice. My heart is open.
It’s telling me to take a chance with him.
I can’t let the heart fool me though.
Life isn’t a fairy tale. The modern-day maiden must be practical above all. I might want to toss responsibility into the breeze like dandelions, then skip and tra-la-la my way home with him, but I have bills.
And, more importantly, bills have me.
But if I keep looking at his handsome face, his square jaw, his gorgeous green eyes, I’ll buckle.
I tear my gaze away from his magnetic eyes, and something catches my attention on a nearby park bench—the plaque on the top slat of wood, shining as if it has been polished today.
I point to it. “What’s that?”
We walk closer and we read it together out loud, our voices forming melody and harmony. “Tony, win, lose, or break even, you always have me. Love, Karen.”
I look at Flynn. We both shrug then smile.
“One more adventure?” I offer, a note of hope in my voice. “We need to know what that means.”
“Clearly.”
We whip out our phones in unison, and we google like it’s a race.
“It’s an inscription,” he says excitedly.
“A wife surprised her husband,” I say, the words piling up in a rush.
“For his sixty-fifth birthday,” he adds.
And we laugh as we each read the details from an article on the many benches in this park. We learn Tony was a retired investment banker. When he came home from work, his wife, Karen, used to ask him if he won, lost, or broke even.
We spend the next hour or two on a treasure hunt around Central Park, searching for more of the four thousand inscribed benches, reading quirky details of the memories and loves and lives carved into plaques in this park, each inscription costing about ten thousand dollars.
“We rarely notice them. We sit on these benches and we read, drink coffee, make phone calls, or maybe we just text or tweet,” I say.
“Maybe we feed the pigeons. Or wait to meet a friend and meanwhile, we’re surrounded by memories of other people and things that were important to them.”
I spot another one with a fantastic inscription and tug his sleeve, pulling him closer to read. “We would make the same mistake all over again! Vic and Nancy Schiller. Still best friends.”
He finds the info. “When they told her they were getting married, her mother said it would be a mistake,” he says, smiling.
“Guess they had the last laugh. Still together and happy. Okay, this is seriously the coolest thing I’ve ever discovered in New York City.”
“I think so too.” He sets his hand on my arm, running his fingers down my bare skin. “I want to keep discovering them. I want to go all over the park and find the best ones. I want to do that with you.”
My heart soars, terrifying me with how much longing is in it, so much I feel like I’m going to burst, to drown in it.
I meet his gaze.
The look in his eyes is different than I’ve seen before. It’s vulnerable and hopeful and perhaps the slightest bit nervous.
23
Flynn
In front of the Schillers’ bench, I have to float the next question. Despite the risks, despite my own fears, now is the time to ask.
I didn’t plan to ask her here. But here is the right place.
“Sabrina,” I say, my voice gravelly with nerves, “what happens when the story is done?”
The nerves aren’t from how I feel for her. They come from whether she’ll allow an us to happen. Whether she’s willing to take a chance. That’s the great unknown. That’s the uncontrollable factor.
“What do you mean?”
I reach for her hand, sliding my fingers through hers. “Do you think there’s any way we could do this?”
“Do what?” Her voice is barely a breath on the air. “I need you to spell it out.”
I love t
hat she wants utter clarity. It’s so her. “Be together. You and me.” I point from her to me and back. “Have a real go of it.”
“Be together,” she repeats, as if she’s making sense of what I’m saying.
I loop my fingers tighter through hers. “I’ve had a great time with you over these two weeks, and I want to see where we can go. The article is almost done, so does that mean we can have a new beginning?”
She sighs, a melancholy sound. I want to hit the rewind button, go back in time ten seconds, and turn that sigh into one of contentment.
“Flynn,” she says, and my name sounds like an apology. Tension flares through me, and I wonder how I’ve read this wrong. How I’ve completely misunderstood yesterday’s kiss and everything else. “You know I wish it was different. You have to know that, right?”
There’s heartache in her voice.
“Yeah, I know that,” I say heavily.
Her fingers slide tighter through mine, and her touch has become an epilogue, the last reminder that we were always pretend. We were each better off not knowing who the other was, when we slipped on our masks and made believe we could be people we weren’t.
“I want that more than anything. But this is a big chance for me at Up Next. If I can impress Mr. Galloway with this piece, there could be a whole new beat writing deep features on companies—including yours. And you know it’s not only my career,” she adds, her voice a bare plea. “I have to support Kevin. I want to support Kevin. He’s my brother, but he also doesn’t have anyone else who can look out for him the way I do.”
“I understand.” And I do. I understand deeply he’s the world to her, and that’s how it should be. She has to put him first.
She has to put herself second.
That means we won’t turn into anything more. We’ll keep fading into less.
If I believed in fate, I’d say it was meant to be this way.
But I believe in math and on the surface, we don’t add up.
The One Love Collection Page 72