by L.H. Cosway
This news should have been a relief. Instead, it just made me feel more like a spineless asshole. “But he’s not the problem. I’m the coward. I’m the one who left. I’m the one that overreacted when I found out…when he told me about the thing with the thing.”
“The thing with the thing? Are you having a seizure? Suffering from aphasia?”
“No,” I huffed, pulling my hand through my hair and scratching my scalp. “He found out who I really am.”
“He found out about your home life? When you were a child?”
“No. Not that, I told him about that.” I waved her question away. “He found out about who I am now, what I do when I’m not at work or working. Actually, he knew all along, and I didn’t know. And now that I know that he knew…I just don’t know.”
“Annie, stop speaking in code. I can’t help you see reason and get your shit together if you don’t tell me what’s really going on. Why is it that you left Mr. Fitzpatrick, the man that you supposedly love and trust?”
I peered at her from between my fingers and shook my head. “I can’t tell you. If I tell you, then you will fire me.”
Joan frowned at me, her gaze feeling remarkably penetrating and shrewd.
Then I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise as she said, “Oh, I think I understand. This is about your stolen laptop and hobby blog, isn’t it? You should know the laptop was recovered before it could be hacked—Ronan told me on the phone. Your secret is still relatively safe.”
I straightened. My hands dropped as I held her gaze but said nothing. I couldn’t speak. The news that they’d recovered my laptop before I was exposed should have eclipsed everything else. It didn’t. The fact that Joan knew my secret was the only take-home message.
Her lips curved into something resembling a smirk, and she shook her head. “He knew all along, did he?” Then she added as though speaking to herself, “Ronan Fitzpatrick is smarter than I thought.”
Again, and for the second time in a half hour, I wondered into what bizarre universe I’d just stumbled.
“Wha-wha-what do you mean?”
“New York’s Finest. The Socialmedialite,” she said plainly. “Well, of course I know. I’ve said it to anyone who will listen—you are the best. You’ve built a social media empire over the course of three years. Your contacts are invaluable. Your influence priceless. Why do you think I pay you so well? It’s not for those irritating infographic emails, that’s for certain.”
“But…how? How did you—”
Joan interrupted me. “That’s not relevant. And, just to ease your mind, no. No one else knows or suspects, as far as I’m aware. The issue here is that Ronan Fitzpatrick knows.”
I swallowed mostly air. The fact that Joan had known my secret all along circled my head like chirping birds. I couldn’t quite grasp it…. I seemed to be having this problem a lot lately.
“Although….” Joan’s smirk flattened. “I was quite irritated by that Dara Evans article you published over St. Patrick’s Day. I surmised you did it to draw attention away from Mr. Fitzpatrick. Nevertheless, Becky and Ian had a hell of a time convincing her to get rid of that infernal baby seal coat. You know what she said? She said seals sexually assault penguins and deserved to be clubbed. That woman is nuttier than a Snickers bar.”
I snorted a shocked laugh and then clapped my hand over my mouth before I could completely embarrass myself. Joan’s smirk was back. She looked…more human somehow. Not quite approachable but not the Wicked Witch of the West, either.
She twisted and glanced at the couch behind her and then took a seat, smoothing her black skirt as she sat. “Let’s get to it. Ronan did what exactly? Why did you flee Ireland? It’s such a lovely country, and the people are so accommodating.”
I gaped at her, still overwhelmed by her recent revelations, but found myself talking regardless. “Nothing…really. You’re right, I completely overreacted.”
I proceeded to tell her about what had happened—the emails exchanged, how I’d kept the secret from him and he knew the whole time, how he’d told me he loved me but I hadn’t reciprocated. I felt myself deflate as I spoke. Obviously, I left out the heavenly kinky sex part and the more intimate details. When I was finished, I found my voice steady and calm but tired, recent events coming into distinct focus.
She nodded thoughtfully and paused after I finished my tale, surveying me with squinted eyes.
I watched her for a bit then volunteered, “I guess I’m worried that he won’t take me back. I mean, I made such a mess of things.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have emailed The Socialmedialite under false pretenses, though I certainly understand why he did it. That’s a gray area. Also, I understand why you didn’t tell him about your blog, but you shouldn’t have been such a ninny about your feelings.”
“But how could I tell him how I felt when I was lying to him?”
“Because the blog isn’t any of his business, that’s why. It is, in fact, your business. It’s how you make a substantial amount of your income. It’s not illegal, and your identity is a secret for obvious reasons. You weren’t lying to him. Has he told you about all the ways he makes money? About all of his investments? Certainly not. What a silly thing to expect.”
“Joan….”
“You know I’m right. But it’s neither here nor there since he does know. As I suspected would be the case, he doesn’t care.”
“What if I’m too late? What if he doesn’t want to marry me anymore? What if he won’t take me back?”
“Do you want to marry him?”
“Yes,” I answered without giving it much thought beyond how my heart swelled and danced and felt ready to burst.
She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you’ll find out tomorrow. You and he are scheduled to attend the premiere of Accidental Assassin.”
I heaved a watery exhale, crossing my arms and letting my head fall to the chair behind me. “I’m so afraid.”
“There is nothing wrong with being afraid, Annie,” she said, standing and sighing. “But there is everything wrong with being only afraid.”
***
Everything happened as I feared it would.
Ronan slipped into the limo, his face blank, his eyes hooded as he settled into his seat. He then took stock of the interior of the limo, his gaze moving over me with no trace of interest. I recognized this look from our first night in Ireland, how he’d inspected me before the Sportsperson of the Year dinner, except this time it felt more permanent, less premeditated.
“Ms. Catrel.” He nodded at me. His tone wasn’t aloof. It was polite.
Ugh.
I twisted my fingers and tried to swallow the building lump in my throat. “Ronan, can we—”
Before I could finish my question, Beth opened the opposite door and poked her head in, her efficient gaze sweeping over both of us.
“Oh, good, Annie, you’re wearing the dress Joan picked out. Remember, at least three big kisses on the red carpet—at least—and hold hands the entire time, okay? Since the sudden separation in Ireland, you two really need to lay it on thick. Also, put these earrings on.” Beth handed me a velvet box.
Ronan seem to be watching our exchange with bored indifference.
At a loss, I opened the box and glanced at the contents. Within were diamond studs, at least a carat and a half each. Expensive but understated. They would have been perfect for me, except—
“She can’t wear those.” Ronan leaned forward, grabbed the box from my fingers, and passed it back to Beth, who was still hovering outside the limo.
“Why not?” Reluctantly, she accepted the box.
“Because her ears aren’t pierced,” he added as he settled back into his seat, looking irritated and impatient. “Time for us to go.”
Beth nodded, her eyes moving between us, then stepped away from the car and shut the door, leaving us in an odd, strangled silence. The car moved. We were on our way.
I stared at him.
He look
ed out his window.
I was afraid.
Fear clawed at my throat.
But for once, I wasn’t only afraid. I was hopeful.
“Ronan, can we talk?”
“What about?” He didn’t look at me. He sounded completely indifferent. I felt my hope shrivel a little.
“F-first, I n-need to apologize for…for s-so many things.”
“Apology accepted.”
I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes, resting my elbow on the window sill and holding my forehead in my propped-up hand. “Please let me say this; please let me—”
“There’s nothing to say, Annie. You left. Again. After I asked you to marry me. And you didn’t return my phone calls. That spoke volumes.”
I cringed, glanced at him. “I didn’t want to talk over the phone.”
“Then invite me over for fucking tea.” His voice was hard.
“Ronan—”
“No.” The single word was steel, echoed in the limo. It spoke volumes. “No. I know what you’re going to say, and I find that I don’t have it in me to care. There are some things, some people, worth fighting for. You would be worth fighting for, you would, if you wanted me like I…like I want you.”
“But I—”
He lifted his voice over mine, his bitterness a tangible third being in the car. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re an excellent fuck, because you are the best lay I’ve ever had.” He said this with an acrimonious laugh, and I winced at his harsh, vulgar words. He continued, “I’m saying it because you don’t believe it. You’re not invested, Annie. Not in me, not in yourself. And I can’t fight that. I can’t make you fight.”
“But I am! I am invested—” I leaned toward him, and he flinched away when I reached out to touch him, causing a giant stab of pain to pierce through my heart and radiate up my neck, throb in my brain.
“Really?” His gaze slid from my outstretched hand to my eyes. “For how long? Until…what? My ma says something you don’t like? I expect too much? No, no. I should have listened to you when you said you didn’t want me enough to change. At least in that you were honest.”
I pressed my lips together. I didn’t trust myself to speak without crying, and I couldn’t cry. We were about to walk the red carpet at a mega event. We would be photographed over and over. If I cried, then it would interfere with the image we’d been building for him. So instead I closed my eyes as he continued.
“I was mad, crazy, thinking we were suited. I see clearly now that you’re always going to be too afraid to do anything meaningful that isn’t anonymous. Your job—cleaning up arseholes’ images? That’s shite work. It’s dishonest, and it’s beneath you. But what you do on your blog is meaningful. The charities that benefit, the way you raise awareness about things that matter? That’s meaningful. But you’re too much of a fucking coward to take credit, to take the good that you deserve. I’m not going to waste my time trying to convince you of what you deserve. That’s a losing battle. And I won’t be with a coward.”
My heart didn’t shatter. It cracked. Then it just hung out there, all crumbling and ruined. He was right. I was a coward, and I didn’t know how not to be. He was also right; I didn’t know how to deserve him. I didn’t know where to start.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. We arrived, and he helped me out of the car. He gave me the prescribed kisses, perfectly timed, very passionate, entirely for the benefit of the cameras.
We didn’t speak again. Instead, I did what I knew was expected. I smiled.
What I wanted to do was the opposite. I wanted to frown. I wanted to cry and scream and push him around. I wanted to demand that he not give up on us, on me. As the evening wore on, I felt my smile grow more and more false until it slipped completely from my face.
***
He put me in the limo and muttered something about taking a taxi just before shutting the door.
Given our departing Ireland on two different flights, leaving in separate cars from the premiere, and my waning smile over the course of the evening, I knew someone would remark on the strained air between us. The ideal image of his I’d been working so hard to maintain would be tarnished.
Strangely, while I sat in the back of the limo watching but not seeing the lights of New York fly by my window, I couldn’t muster up enough professionalism to give two shits about his ideal image.
When I arrived home, I stomped into the lobby, feeling oddly furious. With the fury came an unexpected bravery, and I realized belatedly that, on the ride to the event, I shouldn’t have felt hope.
I should have been angry.
I should have pushed him. I should have yelled at him for lying to me and forced him to work things out between us.
I should have demanded it, for us, for myself.
Instead, I’d conceded because I didn’t want to mess up his goddamn ideal image. In doing so, I’d proved him right.
By the time I entered my apartment, I was so beyond pissed, I was in a rage.
I thought about taking a taxi to his apartment, banging on his door, demanding that he open up and kiss me for real. I played the scene over and over in my head. I’d race up the stairs in my evening gown, scream at him to open the door, be a complete lunatic….
Yeah, maybe not so much.
I wanted to demand what I deserved, but I wasn’t magically going to become loud where before I’d always been quiet. I couldn’t change overnight. Not only that, but being a lunatic at 2:00 a.m. would prove nothing in the long run.
I needed to prove—to Ronan and to myself—that I was invested, that I could and would be brave.
And it needed to be something big. And I had to do it soon, like right now. Right this minute.
I spun around my living room, my eyes searching for something, anything—a sign, a clue, a message from above. The fury was quickly giving way to frustrated despair.
But then my phone chimed, alerting me that someone had just messaged The Socialmedialite. It was WriteALoveSong.
I scanned her message which, strangely enough, had a snapshot of Ronan and me at the premiere from earlier in the evening.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Are you back in town yet? I know you don’t do the gossip stuff, but it looks like that rugby guy you like might be calling it quits with his girl. He looks pissed, and she looks petrified.
Quite suddenly, I knew what I had to do, and I found I had the bravery—or stupidity—to actually do it. Before I could lose my nerve, I responded.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: What if I told you that I’m Annie Catrel? What if I told you that I’m crazy in love with Ronan Fitzpatrick? What if I told you he already knows I’m The Socialmedialite, but I freaked out when I found out he knew, and, petrified, I left him in Ireland? And now he’s shut me out?
I hit send then waited, pacing my apartment. WriteALongSong, for better or for worse, was my closest friend. All my earlier reasons for not reaching out to her felt stupid. I suddenly wanted to know her, and I wanted her to know Annie. I was tired of hiding. I wanted a real relationship—with Ronan, with WriteALoveSong, with the world. I wanted to trust. My phone chimed almost immediately with her response.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Haha, funny.
I growled my frustration as I messaged her back.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I’m serious. I’m Annie Catrel. I work at Davidson & Croft. I graduated from Wharton School of Business. I’m still wearing the irritating formal dress from earlier, and it itches like hell. I AM HER! And I need your help. I need your help as my friend. What am I supposed to do? I love him. I want to fight for him. How do I fight for him? Tell me what to do.
Five minutes passed, and she didn’t respond. And then five became ten, then twenty. I was staring at my phone, willing her to message me back. I was concentrating so hard that when my phone rang I jumped.
I blinked at the screen and saw that the number was reserved; nevertheless, I quickly swiped my thumb acro
ss the screen and answered.
“Hello?”
I heard someone shift in a chair or on a couch before a male voice asked, “Annie?”
I hesitated, frowning at the air in front of me, but then answered, “Uh, yes. Who is this?”
“Annie who is also The Socialmedialite?”
I tensed as the deafening sound of blood rushed between my ears, and I demanded, “Who is this?”
“It’s WriteALoveSong.”
Um…what?
“I…what?”
He cleared his throat, and I heard him shift again in the chair. “I’m WriteALoveSong.”
I blinked at the air in front of me and blurted, “Oh my God! You’re a man!”
He chuckled, “Yes. I’m a man.”
“I thought you were a woman.”
“I figured you did.”
“But-but-but you’re a man.”
“Yes.”
A smile laden with incredulity tugged on my lips, and I shook my head. “I-I can’t believe—I can’t believe I’m talking to you. How did you get my number?”
“I looked up Annie Catrel; she—I mean, you—have an unlisted number, which is smart. But I have a friend who can get me any number I need, listed or unlisted.”
“Well, that’s handy.”
“Yes, it can be.”
We were silent for a long moment, and my heart was acting all wonky, my internal temperature rising then falling. Somehow I needed to get Ronan’s attention, convince him that I was all in. I needed my friend’s help—I needed WriteALoveSong’s help—and so I’d trusted that she would want to help.
But she was a he…and I didn’t know if that changed everything.
Ronan had been so right. The physical—for better or for worse—mattered. It was part of the person, and it was diluted, changed by the barrier of online interactions. I’d known WriteALoveSong for over two years, but…did I really? Obviously not.
I inhaled, intent on apologizing for bothering him with my girl drama, but he spoke before I could. “Annie, we’re friends, right?”
“Right.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a lot ridiculous. This was so odd and awkward.