Caught Up In Raine

by L. G. O'Connor

  I take a bathroom break.

  I resume writing, continuing to empty my well.

  My eyes grow bleary, and I push ahead.

  The sun rises.

  I take another bathroom break and throw up. I settle back down, and my fingers fly frantically across the keyboard.

  Once the nausea passes, my stomach growls. I take my prenatal vitamins, eat, and resume writing.

  At midday, I curl up on the sofa and sleep for three hours.

  When I wake, I shower and then write some more.

  I “rinse and repeat” this schedule for the next few days with a heavy emphasis on writing and crying, punctuated by throwing up and eating, but lacking, for the most part, an adequate amount of sleeping and showering.

  By Saturday afternoon—I think it’s Saturday—or maybe it’s Sunday? Whatever day it is, I’m done. I’ve syphoned every thought, feeling, and regret into a new manuscript. I hit SAVE for the last time, print a hard copy to edit, and make a backup copy on my external hard drive.

  I drag myself upstairs, take a quick shower without washing my hair, and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep the moment my head hits the pillow.

  Chapter 44

  Jillian

  DING DONG! Ding Dong! Thud! Thud! Thud!

  My eyes cracks open in the darkness. My cheek is wet where drool collected on the pillow. I wipe my face and snap on the light next to the bed.

  “Jillian! Are you in there?” Brigitte is screaming through the front door.

  I stagger downstairs, turning on lights as I go. I click open the lock.

  “Come in,” I say, still groggy and half-asleep. I step aside for her to enter.

  “I’ve been calling you for days! I thought you were dead!” she screams at me. Her face is ruby red.

  “I’m sorry, B. I was working,” My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper from not using it for however many days it’s been.

  “You look like shit,” she says, and strides past me into the hallway. Dressed casually in high boots, jeans, and a turtleneck under her Burberry cashmere pea coat, she looks great—as usual. “Don’t lie to me and tell me you couldn’t take my calls because you were finishing the Twisted manuscript. Damn you, Jillian. I was picturing you with slit wrists on the goddamn bathroom floor!”

  “Come on, B. Don’t be so dramatic. You know me well enough to know I’m not the suicidal type.”

  She frowns deeply. “Well, what was I supposed to think when you missed your deadline and didn’t return any of my calls? Besides, you’ve never been this much in love, and depression can be deadly.”

  I wipe my hand over my face. “I’m not depressed, B. I’m emotionally distraught. There’s a difference.”

  She paces to and fro and then stops and plants her hands on her hips. “Fine. I really don’t mean to push you, but what the hell, Jillian? I even waited an extra day before I barged in here.”

  I take a deep breath. “How about I offer you a glass of wine, and show you?”

  She narrows her eyes and gives me a sideways stare. “Show me?”

  I nod. “Yes. Show you.”

  Interest sparks in her eyes. “I’m intrigued,” she says begrudgingly and follows me to the kitchen.

  I make some hot water for a cup of tea in the electric teapot Raine bought for us after he moved in and then open a Cabernet for Brigitte.

  “Aren’t you joining me?”

  “Long story,” I say.

  When she takes the glass, I notice the sparkling diamond on her ring finger.

  “B, you got engaged!” I gush.

  Her face softens, and she smiles. “Richard proposed on Friday over dinner. If you had called me back, you would’ve already known.”

  I ignore her barb. “I’m so happy for you.” My heart floods with warmth. She sets down the glass, and I give her a hug. “I want to hear all about it.”

  “Um . . . yeah. Right after you show me what you’ve been doing,” she says, wearing a determined frown.

  I sigh, and pour hot water over a teabag. “Take your wine and let’s go to my office.” After picking up my mug, I lead the way.

  “Have a seat.” I motion toward the sofa and retrieve the hard copy of the manuscript from inside my desk.

  Her eyes light up and she holds out her hands. “What’s this?” Her question dies when she sees the title, and her eyes go wide. She rapidly flips the page, and I watch her eyes dart over the opening paragraphs. Her gaze meets mine, and her lips part. Without a word, she takes a sip of wine and sinks back into the couch to read.

  “I’m going to take a shower and wash my hair. Will you be okay here?” I ask.

  Her head bobs absently as she dives into the manuscript.

  Two hours later, Brigitte’s glass is empty, and she’s midway through the pages.

  “B, do you—”

  She holds up her hand to silence me, and shakes her head.

  . . . want another glass of wine? I guess not.

  Smiling, I fire up my laptop and open Twisted Up in Drew. An hour and a half later, my final revisions are complete. I email the file to Brigitte’s account, and take a moment to bask in relief.

  I look up when I hear a tissue being removed from the box next to the sofa. Brigitte is on the last few pages of the story. Tears cascade down her face in tiny streams. Her lips move as she reads.

  “Holy Mother of God, what a story,” she says and closes the manuscript. She mops up her cheeks and then dabs at the black mascara smudges under her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re pregnant. Oh, my God. Congratulations.” She comes over, pulls me into her arms, and squeezes me tight. “We have to find Raine. He has to know!”

  “I don’t know, B. Maybe it’s for the best he doesn’t know right now,” I say, after having given it some serious thought over the last few days.

  She jerks away. “What? Why? How can you say that? After the story you just wrote?”

  I touch my abdomen. “Maybe this is his chance to find the life he really deserves. You know what I mean, with someone . . . younger. At least the baby will never leave me.”

  “What? You’re not making any sense, Jillian,” she says with a wild look in her eye. “What are you saying?”

  Anger wells up inside me. “I’m saying that if he could leave me this easily, what’s going to stop him from doing it again? From hurting me all over again? Don’t you understand? He ripped my heart and lungs out by leaving me, and the only thing keeping me sane is this baby inside me—the one piece of him that I’ll always have. The only piece of him I’ll ever be guaranteed to have!” I sound insane, and I know it. I may have gotten over the hurdle to keep the baby, but I underestimated the lengths Raine would go to disappear from my life.

  Her fingers graze my shoulder. “That’s not fair, Jillian. Not to cast stones, but you made this bed. He loves you. You owe him a chance,” she says softly. “Don’t throw it all away on a misunderstanding.”

  “Brigitte, he dropped off the face of the planet so that I couldn’t find him. Who does that?” I scream as my grief turns to anger.

  “Someone who’s hurting as much as you are, Jillian,” she says softly.

  “You’re right.” I expel a breath and clasp a hand to my forehead. “It’s my fault. I did this. But I need some time, B. I just need some time to figure it out.”

  “Fine. But I want to publish this as soon as possible. Jillian, this is the best novel you’ve ever written, and I want to get it out there before Twisted.”

  I eye her suspiciously. “Why?”

  She paces and draws her hand to rest on her chin. I recognize that look. Oh, boy. Brigitte’s on a roll. “Because it’s better, and it will help the sales of Twisted when it comes out. I’d like to see this in print in the spring. It will be tight, but I can pull some favors to get accelerated reviews and a book tour scheduled. I already have a smaller press in mind that can get us the distribution we’re looking for, while allowing us to retain a better percentage on ebook sales. You’re never going
to hear me say this again, but this draft can go to proofread after a minor line edit.”

  I stand and look at her with my mouth hanging open. “It’s that good?”

  She stares me down. “Yes. It’s that fucking good.”

  Chapter 45

  4 months later . . .

  Raine

  OUR ADMIN SHELLY pops her head in the room where I’m working. “Raine, there’s someone here to see you.”

  I look up from my computer, unhappy at the interruption. I’m working on designing a campaign for a client and I’m on a deadline.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Her name is Brigitte Young. Mid-forties, if that helps.”

  The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. I get up and follow Shelley through the busy hallway, past the marquee with our company name, Conrad Designs, and into the quiet waiting area off the lobby. A slender, dark-haired woman stands, wearing a nice suit and heels and carrying a courier-size manila envelope with thick contents.

  I don’t recognize her. I thought I would, but I don’t.

  She gives me a smile filled with trepidation and extends her hand as I walk toward her. “Raine? I’m Brigitte Young.”

  I shake her hand, struggling to place her. “I’m sorry. Do we know each other?”

  Her smile turns hopeful, and she motions toward the cushioned seats. “Sit and I’ll explain.”

  My eyes are drawn to the envelope she clutches on her lap, and I get an uneasy feeling in my gut.

  “I feel like I know you well, but it doesn’t surprise me that you haven’t made the connection. I believe we were supposed to meet in early December. I’m Jillian’s agent . . . and also her friend.”

  It takes a second for her words to sink in before my heart kicks in my chest. Despite my anger at Jillian, and having endured the hardest four months of my life because of her, next to my mom’s death, I can’t help but think the worst. I shift to the edge of the seat and push down the bile rising in my throat. “Is Jillian okay? Has something happened to her?” I ask in a rush.

  Brigitte’s shoulders droop in relief, and she places her hand on my shoulder. “She’s fine, but she’d kill me if she knew I was here. That said, it took me some time to find you.”

  “How did you . . . find me?”

  She gives me a tight smile. “Private detective.”

  My fingers dig into the arms of the chair. “Why were you looking for me?” I feel like my life has just taken a turn onto a surreal highway. It’s taken me months to get over the agony in my heart and replace it with numbness. Something stirs and then awakens in my chest.

  Brigitte lowers her head and shakes it while her hands grip the envelope as if her life depends on it. “Forgive her, Raine. She made a mistake. She loves you. You’re truly the love of her life.”

  My stomach jumps. Brigitte’s words make no sense, and my anger bubbles to the surface.

  “How could you say that?” I grit out through my clenched teeth. “She aborted my baby and pushed me out of her life.” My heart hammers and I suddenly have trouble breathing.

  Brigitte shakes her head. “No, she didn’t. She didn’t abort the baby,” she says softly, and when she looks up, her eyes glisten.

  The air leaves my lungs entirely and I feel faint. “What?” The reserve I painstakingly built around my heart begins to crack.

  She offers me the package. “It’s all here, Raine. The whole story—Jillian’s love letter to you.”

  I hear what she’s saying, but I don’t really comprehend it. I take the package.

  “Open it,” she whispers earnestly.

  My fingers move without my direction. I slide the book out of the envelope and freeze. My hands tremble. I bite my quivering bottom lip to contain the emotion welling deep in my chest.

  I stare at the cover. It’s a picture of me looking at the camera with my hair blowing. I’m surrounded in multicolor rain. At first, I think there’s no mark of Jillian anywhere on the cover until I notice the lacy scrollwork under the title. It’s the design of the tattoo she has at the base of her spine. My vision blurs as I read the title of the book right before I feel hot tears roll down my cheeks.

  Caught Up in Raine.

  I wipe them away with the back of my hand and try to swallow past the lump in my throat.

  “Give her a chance, Raine. You both deserve it. Here, take this.” Brigitte places an event card in my shaking hand. “It’s in two weeks.”

  “She’s keeping the baby?” I manage to whisper.

  Brigitte nods. “It’s the only part of you she thought she’d be able to keep.”

  I cover my eyes and try not to release the sob dying to burst from my lungs. She could have had all of me. I’ve never given myself to someone the way I gave myself to her. She threw it all away. She threw me away.

  My anger flares again and I force myself to suppress my emotional reaction. I stubbornly wipe my eyes and try to pull myself together.

  Brigitte stands. “It’s an amazing story, Raine. I think it’ll be a best seller.”

  I stand, feeling shell-shocked and not knowing what else to say. “Thanks.”

  She walks toward the elevator, and then looks back one more time. “You still have a chance to write the ending.” She adds, “I like your haircut. It suits you.”

  I follow and watch in a state of shock as the elevator doors close, and run my fingers through my spiky hair. I cut it all off when I lost Jillian. A mental fog envelops me in a protective layer, and I stuff the book back into the envelope. I return to the waiting area and sit immobile in a chair for another five minutes, and then I do the best I can to erase any evidence of my breakdown. I clear my throat and head back to my work space.

  It’s two o’clock, and I’m mentally shot for the day. I’d planned on working late and chilling for the weekend. So much for peace and tranquility. I pack my laptop and all my paperwork into my backpack and then head to my boss’s office.

  “Jen, I need to leave. Personal emergency,” I say, a heavy frown carved into my brow.

  She looks up and flinches when she sees my face. I must look worse than I thought. “Uh, sure. Let me know if you need any help on the campaign. Will you be in on Monday?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I’m planning on it. I’ll call you if anything changes. Thanks.”

  She gives me a weak smile. “See you then.”

  I’m back in my Brooklyn apartment in thirty minutes. It will be hours before my roommate, George, returns. After changing into sweats, I set a glass of water next to me on the nightstand and open a new box of tissues. I have a feeling I’ll need them as I rip the bandage off my emotional wound. Part of me wants to burn the fucking book, and the other is so eager to read it that I’m having trouble breathing. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m going to be a father. That’s the part of me who’s sitting here on my bed, eager to read the story with my name and image on the cover.

  I take a deep breath and slip the book out of the envelope. The cover design touches me, and I wonder if the publisher gave Jillian final approval to use the one we chose for Becca and Drew’s story. A pang of sadness tears through me as I remember those days . . . the happiest of my life. The book shakes in my hand, and I put it down, wondering if I have the strength to re-live it without shredding my heart all over again.

  I’m going to be a father, I think, and pick it back up. Inevitably, I’ll see Jillian again if that’s true. Even if she won’t let me be part of her life, she can’t deny me the right to see my child.

  Another deep breath and I open the book. It doesn’t take me long to need the first tissue, and I’m only on the dedication page.

  To Raine, the father of my child.

  Thank you for sharing your heart.

  I will love you . . . always.

  The lump rises hard and fast in my throat, and the pain I’ve kept buried rips through me. Tears trickle down my cheeks and along the side of my nose, dripping onto t
he page and raising wet patches on the paper. I make no move to brush them away. The words blur until I can no longer read them.

  Why hasn’t she tried to find me? Why hasn’t she told me any of this? My heart beats painfully next to my rib cage. I don’t understand why it’s only here on this page and not something I already know. If she loves me this much, why hasn’t she come for me?

  My emotions consume me as the book lies frozen in my hands until the tears slow and finally stop. My breathing comes back under control, and the wetness dries in tight salty trails down my cheeks. I wipe my face with my hand and blow my nose as I wait for rational thought to return.

  It’s true. I didn’t make it easy for her to find me . . . afterward. I admit it, I hid from her, leaving my old life behind and running to Brooklyn. I quit my internship and found the job I have now. My freelance work experience and my portfolio were enough to secure me a part-time spot while I finish school. From the extra money I saved while living with Jillian and the insurance money, I had the means to accelerate my curriculum and take more classes this semester. At this pace, I’ll finish by the end of the summer. Conrad Designs has already offered me a full-time position when I graduate.

  For a brief moment after the breakup, I toyed with the idea of reapplying to Princeton. Then I realized . . . I’d changed. More accurately, being with Jillian changed me. I’d moved on and let go of that dream, trading it for the dream held within these pages.

  After I blow my nose one more time, I’m ready to turn the page.

  Chapter 46

  Raine

  IT TAKES ME UNTIL three in the morning to finish the book, and half a box of tissues, which now lie in wet, crumpled balls on the floor next to my bed. My roommate came home with his girlfriend two hours ago, and they finished having sex thirty minutes after that. I really wish this place had thicker walls.

  All is quiet in the apartment.

  My eyes are puffy and sore. I close the book and wonder how something so right could go so wrong. How two people could love each other so much and fuck it up so badly.

  I sigh and slump back into my pillow. Brigitte was right; the ending has yet to be written, and I’m the one who has been given the task to write it. The God’s honest truth is that I want to go home. I want a life that includes Jillian and my unborn child.