My heart broke for her…all over again. “And you’re okay with his choice? No more treatments?”
She nodded, her lips turning down slightly as she answered. “The treatments made him so sick, and when he wasn’t sick, he was exhausted. I’m not going to pretend that the decision wasn’t hard, it was. But watching someone you love be miserable is really unbearable.”
I squeezed her hand, feeling my eyes grow damp. “You’re an incredible young woman, Pippy. I am so glad to know you.”
Her smile spread wide. “I’m so glad to know you too, sis.”
Grinning together over melted ice cream, I submitted yet another beautiful moment to memory. There were some people that just couldn’t be replaced…Pippy was in a category all by herself.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“So have I been replaced—is that why I never hear from you these days?”
I rolled my eyes at Rosie’s dramatics, though I knew she couldn’t see me through the phone. Some things never change.
“Yep. As we speak, I’m actually bursting at the seams with itty-bitty Latino women for best buds,” I joked, slumping down onto the couch in my temporary apartment.
She huffed. “Very funny, chica. The only acceptable replacement would be in the form of Mr. I’m-a-hot-brooding-CEO.”
I laughed—hard. “Well, even he couldn’t replace you.”
“Good answer. So…I want details. I’ve waited long enough.”
I put my book down on the coffee table in my mini-living room. I filled Rosie in as best I could. She, of course, had a lot to say. It was strange to talk to her about Jackson, stranger still that she had never met him. Up until my trip to New York our lives were very similar. We lived in the same town, knew the same people, were invested in the same things. The only big difference was the fact that I had a son—one she had practically adopted as her own.
“I need to meet this man. Are you sure there are no secret siblings? Another brother you could throw my direction?”
“Oh, Rosie—I wouldn’t hold out on you if there were. I promise.”
“Alright.” She sighed in true Rosie-fashion. “So what’s gonna happen after you come back? What has he said? Are you going to try and do the whole long-distance thing until someone gives in and moves?”
I shook my head, wishing I had that answer. I had hoped that we were going to discuss the future last night on the yacht, but the search for my necklace had put quite a damper on such a conversation.
“I wish I knew,” I said. “I think he feels for me what I feel for him—though he hasn’t said it yet.”
“Well, of course he does! Maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment. You said he’s a writer—they’re usually dramatic.”
I smiled. I hadn’t told her about the whole Everett Jr. scandal. I wasn’t quite sure if it was my secret to share. I’d joked with Jackson about what Rosie’s reaction would be, but hadn’t actually asked him if I could let the cat out of the bag. When I did—she would flip.
“I don’t know. He’s not super-dramatic—but he is calculating So, maybe it’s that. Or maybe he just really doesn’t know how it’s going to work out between us?” I said, more to myself than to her.
“You love him,” she stated.
“Yes. I love him,” I confirmed for the first time aloud.
She went quiet. I was beginning to think she had fallen asleep on me—payback for our last phone conversation.
“Rose?”
She sniffled. “It’s like a chick-flick. So romantic.”
Oh golly. She’s crying.
“Well, we don’t know the ending yet,” I reminded her gently, touched by her love for me.
“Endings are only as great as the journey that made them.”
“Where did you hear that?” I asked.
She snorted. “How do you know that I didn’t just make that up?” I opened my mouth but she cut me off first. “Fine, I read it in one of the tabloids at the supermarket.”
I shook my head. Apparently God had given me several irreplaceable people in my life: those who had wisdom beyond their years, those who wrote brilliant pieces of literature, and those who could quote tabloids.
**********
After eating a dinner supplied by the convenience store next to my building, I curled back into bed to finish my book—finally! Things had gone from bad to worse for sweet Reagan. Not only had she nearly died in the front seat of her car at the hands of a horrible mongrel named Chaz, she was in a no-win game of blackmail. If she did not destroy some very particular evidence against their main suspect, she would be dead within twenty-four hours.
And so would Quinton.
There was no choice. Her own life she would risk—but not his.
I bit my nails as I turned each page faster than the next. As she went inside the precinct to search Quinton’s computer, I was literally sweating.
She leaned over his laptop, and carefully entered his password, which she had memorized a long time ago. Her hands shook as she glanced over her shoulder several times. She scrolled through the pictures they had uploaded earlier that evening. If he submitted them to evidence, Quinton and she were as good as dead. But he’d been as tired as she was, and the submission process was tedious. Reagan prayed he’d left the task for tomorrow.
He had.
Her eyes filled with tears—relief covering her like a thick, warm blanket. She cradled her left arm against her side, fairly certain her shoulder was dislocated. She moved quickly, deleting one picture after the next. She’d lose her job. She’d lose her good reputation. But she wouldn’t lose him.
She shook her head, correcting herself. The thugs wouldn’t kill him, but she would lose him.
With every click Reagan was breaking his trust, which in turn, was breaking her heart. When her job was finished, her breathing was rapid. Tears streaked her cheeks as she closed his laptop. It was finished, in every sense of the word. She texted the number that Chaz had given her—and prayed she had done enough.
I turned the page and was greeted with the words The End. I lifted my phone, checking the time so I could text Jackson, but as I held the cell, Jackson texted me.
Jackson: You still awake?
Me: You are evil.
The phone rang. I answered it immediately.
“What’s your problem? Not enough kissing scenes?”
“No! Not even close!” I mock-yelled.
He laughed. “Oh, I’m so glad I texted. I was afraid you went to bed already. I just got in for the night.”
“Jackson you wrote a horrible cliffhanger.”
“Makes you want to read the next book, huh?”
He had me there. Yes. Marketing-wise he was smart, but he was also a little evil.
“So…where are you?” I tested, changing the subject.
He sighed deeply. “I’m…in D.C.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was surprised nonetheless.
“You sound tired—how was your day?” I snuggled down into my covers.
“Well, let’s see…the last three minutes have been good,” he said coolly. “But yes, I am tired.”
I heard him yawn and instantly I wished I there with him. Just talking to him sent my heart rate into an erratic rhythm. Would be the first of many late night phone calls to come in our future? Was this what our relationship would look like? Calls and texts at the day’s end?
“Do you want me to let you go, so you can rest?” I asked reluctantly.
“Not a chance. You’re the only redemption to my entire day.”
I smiled. “Glad I can help you salvage the last few minutes of it.”
I heard some soft shuffling sounds in the background and figured Jackson was climbing into bed. My cheeks flushed hot at the thought.
“I should be back tomorrow evening. I have another meeting here in the morning, so I’ll plan on meeting you at the office tomorrow afternoon if you’re still there.”
I furrowed my brows in concern. “Ja
ckson, you’re okay, right?”
“Yes, sweetheart.” He sighed. “I’m okay.”
It was nearly two in the morning when we hung up, sleepy delirium finally cutting our conversation off. I had never seen the hours tick away so fast. I could have talked to him till morning…I couldn’t wait to see him again.
I fell asleep instantly; grateful that tomorrow evening would be closer when I awoke.
**********
It was almost noon when Pippy came into my tiny workspace and announced that I needed a new email server—one solely purposed for my fans and readers. Apparently, logging into my personal email account was no longer kosher. I stared up at her, confirming that I was indeed seeing stress on her face, a look I wasn’t accustomed to from her in the slightest.
“Hey—what’s going on? Can I help you with something?”
“I have a few things I need to get done before Jackson gets back, so I wrote down what you need to do to get it all set up under Pinkerton’s domain. Here is the info from the IT department. Can you do it for me?”
“Sure, Pip. Anything else—you seem a bit out of sorts.”
“I’m fine—there’s just a lot happening today is all,” she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“Oh…okay. Well, let me know if I can help with anything else.”
She nodded, gave me a quick hug and exited.
Weird.
I stared down at the note Pippy had given me and logged into my email—something I hadn’t done in about week. My mouth hung open as I saw the chaos before me.
So. Many. Emails.
Most of them were a carbon-copy of comments that were left on my latest blog post—The Forward—but many were direct, personal emails written to me. I gulped, scrolling through them, reading each subject line. I understood Jackson’s warnings now about reviews…some were wonderful, some less-than-kind, but others were just straight-up nasty.
I felt a slight pull at my conscience, remembering the promise I had made to Jackson about not reading commentaries…but I had promised that prior to our meeting with the PR department. That promise I had kept. There was no such promise on the horizon now.
I scrolled on.
One in specific caught my eye—a name I could almost feel as I read it—like salt to an open wound.
Divina.
I clicked on it, heat filling my body as I read her words.
Angela,
As I’m sure you already know, I have received a bit of flack regarding our interview. Though I will not apologize for my accurate research or for my resourcefulness in gathering it, there are those who feel you may have been a tad blindsided by my eager approach. If you would like a rematch—just say the word.
We will make the necessary adjustments to get you onto our Friday show if you respond by Monday. If not, I hope you enjoy Texas. I’ll be sure to comfort Jackson in your absence.
Divina
I clicked out of my email immediately, and pushed back against my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. Over my dead body would she comfort Jackson. I furrowed my brow. Okay, maybe the crime novels were getting to me a bit more than I thought.
I seethed as I looked at the date. She had written it last Thursday. Had no one read this? Had Pippy responded and forgot to tell me? No, the email had been unmarked. It hadn’t been read. A lot of these hadn’t been read, I noticed. Pippy was simply too busy to keep up with all of these—I could understand why.
I clicked into another unread email, bracing myself after reading the subject line:
Sick Publicity Stunt
Angie,
I am embarrassed to say that prior to the latest information about your domestic violence scam, I was a big fan. In fact, I got many of my single mom friends to follow your blog. We thought you stood for the same things that we did. We thought raising our kids to be moral, upright citizens, even when lacking a fatherly figure, was the ultimate goal—one you shared. We were wrong. I am disgusted by the helplessness you displayed during your interview and by The Forward for your new book which followed only days later.
Is this some sort of sick game you’re trying to play to make money? I thought you were better than that. Creating some sort of false reality for fame is both twisted and wrong. You should be ashamed of yourself.
Not a fan,
Felicity Cornwell
The words sank sharp hooks into me. Progressing like a slow-moving train wreck, I was compelled to continue reading email after email.
Though the good emails far outweighed the bad, I just keep clicking onto them, absorbing each word like a dagger to my heart. Divina had done this. She had created this mess and though I knew her offer had to be self-serving, I quickly felt the need for justice—for a chance to speak and not be railroaded by some exotic, long-legged witch of a woman.
Before I fully realized what I was doing, I clicked back into Divina’s email…and responded with fury.
Divina,
Friday is perfect. I’ll be there. Just tell me when.
Angie
The second I hit send nausea rolled through me and sweat coated my palms. I reached for my necklace—gone. Loss on top of loss. I felt even sicker.
Could I really do it? Did I even have a chance up against her?
Then I had another thought: What would Jackson say? Should I have asked permission—I wasn’t sure how all that worked. I was unfamiliar to the strength of my anger, and I was grateful for that fact. I did crazy things when I was angry. My last decision was proof of that.
But I wouldn’t take the challenge back.
Not now.
She may be my Goliath—a freakishly pretty Goliath—but I wouldn’t stand down. Not this time. This time I’d take my slingshot with me.
I would have the last word.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Just after six Jackson tapped on the door of Sally Miller’s office. We’d been going over my latest revisions for the past couple of hours, and I was beyond relieved to see him—until I remembered what I had agreed to in regard to Divina’s show. I swallowed the brick of guilt and smiled. His face reflected his usual stoic demeanor of professionalism as he looked at me. His eyes looked tired, yet I could still see some warmth in them—a tiny sparkle I’d seen up close several times now.
“May I see you in my office when you’re done here, Miss Flores?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, nodding.
He shut the door, and I felt my face heat from the inside out. Sally did a double take from me to the door, but then quickly went back to her correction overview. After another painfully slow thirty-minutes I was able to leave. My feet could not move fast enough.
I knocked twice and then entered Jackson’s office, turning around fully to close the door. But before I could face the inside of his office again, he was there, walking me backward in quick succession until my back pressed against the wall. I gasped as his hands gripped my hips and then slid up my waist to the back of my ribcage, sending shivers of desire up my spine. As his fingers reached the nape of my neck, his mouth crashed into mine, my hands flat against his chest as my legs fought to remain standing.
Though kissing Jackson was at the top of my most-enjoyable-things-to-do list, this kiss was different. It was rushed, desperate…lost. I tilted my head back in order to catch my breath; he in turn kissed my jaw, then the spot below my ear, then the pulse at my neck.
“Jackson-” I whimpered.
“Hmm?”
“Jackson—stop.”
Immediately, he stopped and placed both his hands on the wall on either side of me, breathing intensely. I stared at him, wishing I could take back my soft command, but I knew something wasn’t right. He wasn’t quite right.
I touched his face gently with my hand, careful not to rouse any more desire between us. My suspicion was confirmed when he looked away. He never avoided my eyes.
“Tell me,” I said, quietly.
Muscles in his jaw twitched as his breathing normalized, but he
didn’t respond.
“Jackson—please. What’s going on?”
He pushed himself off the wall, turning to rake his hands through his hair and then down his face. His suit coat was already off—lying on his office chair. He stood staring out his massive window in a green dress shirt and slacks. As much as I’d like to believe this unfamiliar tension was about my upcoming departure next Sunday, I knew that wasn’t the case.
I stayed where I was, back against the wall, until finally he sighed. A heart wrenching sound of defeat.
“You won’t understand, Angie. I don’t even know if I understand anymore.”
I was confused. No, I was more than confused.
“Then help me understand. Maybe it will help you, too.”
He turned, eyes roaming my face as if he was contemplating what I had just said.
“Have you ever made a decision, claiming it was for one reason, believing it was the right thing to do when you made it, but all along there was another motivation behind it?” He was looking out the window again as I walked toward him. “A selfish one.”
I had no idea what he was talking about—no reference point. But his torment was tangible. I ached for him in this moment. He was raw, worn, and tired. I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Jackson, you are not selfish.”
He turned sharply, eyes suddenly focused. “I have always been selfish. Have you not listened to a thing I’ve said? I am not like you, Angie. I’m not good-natured. I’m not gentle or tender or consistently kind. I am selfish!”
“That’s not how I see you,” I said, firmly.
He shook his head and exhaled loudly, running his hand down his face and over the scruff on his jawline face. A full minute passed as we stood at an impasse. I could be stubborn too. I was shocked that Jackson was the first to bend.
He relaxed his shoulders, which in turn relaxed the strain in his face.
“I shouldn’t be venting here, or to you. Forgive me?”
All Who Dream (Letting Go) Page 24