A Crazy Kind of Love

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  “So you’re just a man-whore.”

  “I’m a man-whore?”

  “Yes. You are a man-whore who really likes sex. Did I mishear you?”

  He coughed. “With you, I love sex.” He touched my arm, and a chill traveled up my spine. “But Josie, I’m not some kind of sex addict. You don’t have to worry about me here or out on the road. I’ve got some self-control.”

  I thought of the first night we spent together, sleeping in my room. “Yeah. I believe that.”

  “I want to be with you, only you. You’re special to me.” He reached across the table for my hand. “Josie, I love you.”

  The sincerity in his eyes gave me pause. For that moment, I trusted him completely. I opened my mouth to tell him I loved him, too, but then the door swung open, and a man took a seat at a table across from us. He laid his phone in front of him and began flipping through the sugar packets with interest—which was odd because he hadn’t ordered anything to drink.

  “I’ve got to get out of this fishbowl, Micah.” I stood to gather my things.

  Micah jumped up. “Will you walk with me to my place at least? Can we finish this conversation?”

  As we left the coffee shop together, the cameramen divided and conquered. One approached Micah. The other walked beside me. I ignored the guy peppering me with questions and lifted my camera to shoot video of the other guy, clearly harassing Micah all the way up the street.

  “How long have you been seeing each other? Did you start dating Jo before you broke up with Isabelle?”

  Micah got the easy questions. My inquisitor wanted to know if I was using Micah for sex or if I was using sex to further my career. Watching all this unfold through my lens placed it at a distance, like watching someone else’s life being torn to shreds. I lowered the camera out of curiosity to see this person’s eyes. I wanted to know what it would look like to no longer have a soul.

  It was a miscalculation. As soon as he saw my face, his strategy deviated, and he asked, “You’re not stupid enough to have fallen in love with him, are you?”

  I’d almost made it to Micah’s townhouse without giving them anything, but the new line of questioning took me by surprise, and the tears burst forth as we neared the steps. Micah led me inside and slammed the door behind us. We hadn’t exchanged a single word in those harrowing five minutes.

  He wrapped his arms around me, whispering, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  But it wasn’t okay. I broke free and sat on his sofa. Micah ran into the kitchen, and I waited, running my fingers through the soft underside of that damn crimson throw. I pulled it to my face to wipe away tears, but the smell of Micah overpowered me.

  He sat beside me with one of those snack boxes, and I stared at it. Without looking up, I said, “Micah, I know you love me.” I lifted my eyes. His blue eyes were so pretty. And his lips—God, his lips. “At least for now.”

  His face fell. “You don’t think my feelings for you will last?”

  “I know you think they will. And you might be right. If this were any ordinary relationship, we might have a chance to figure that out.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I love you, Micah.” My voice had given up trying to sound emotionless. I wiped a tear off my face with the back of my arm. “Believe me when I tell you I want to make this work.”

  He smirked in his adorably bratty way. “I knew it.” When I didn’t smile back, he shifted. “But?”

  “Micah, for the short time I’ve known you, you’ve done everything right, and if I thought this could last, I’d stay.” I straightened my spine and steeled myself like I used to whenever I had to chase people down with my camera. Steeling myself for the kill. “But I don’t know how to deal with any of this. I can’t tell up from down. I can’t keep going forward like this. I need some time to get my head together. Can you give me some time? Away from all that?” I pointed toward the front where right now, those two men who were just doing their job (God, how many times had I said that?) were waiting to pounce.

  He stared at his feet and didn’t speak right away. Finally, he said, “I’ll give you all the time you need, Josie. Whatever you need. I know you’ll eventually come around. When you do, I’ll be waiting.” He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me for a solid minute.

  It would have been so easy to fall into him. Pratosh could cook for us, and we’d kiss and kiss and kiss. I wanted it so bad it hurt.

  But I needed to take care of myself first. And I was damn good at forgoing temptation.

  I grabbed my gear and stood. “I need to go.”

  Micah called his service, gave me one last big hug inside, told me again how much he loved me, and then walked me out through the onslaught.

  Those two guys were still rolling tape as we death-marched to the waiting car. They started in on Micah first. “What’s going on, Micah? Are you guys still together?”

  Despite my best efforts, my lips trembled. I gritted my teeth, but before we’d made it to the car, I lifted my hand involuntarily to wipe a tear off my face. Then the camera was in my face. “Josie, did Micah dump you?”

  Micah pressed between me and the camera. “Give her some space, guys. Come on.” He shielded me until he had to open the door. As soon as he moved out of the way for a heartbeat, the camera filled in the empty space.

  When the door closed, I heave-sobbed, submitting to the emotions I’d bottled up for the past hour—and the past fifteen years. The driver asked me for the address, and I lifted my head to give it to him. A reporter loomed in the right side of the windshield, camera pressed to the glass, recording my complete breakdown. Micah passed in front of the car and grabbed the guy by the elbow, jerking him away.

  As the car drove off, I turned and watched as Micah, red-faced and angry, yelled at the reporters while they stood by recording it all.

  Chapter 25

  Naïvely, I thought I could go home and decompress. Alone at my apartment, I could brew some tea, take a hot bath, shut out the world. And wait for the world to forget about me.

  But when the car pulled up at my apartment, photographers I’d worked with at other events were hunkered down outside my apartment. One of them had a big fancy camera—the kind with an external microphone. I lowered my eyes and put my hand up to block my face. While I punched in my key code, they pestered me with their fascination. They wanted to know if I’d intentionally dated Micah to get a story. They wanted to know if I’d fallen in love while in the trenches. They wanted to know if we’d split up because I didn’t need him for anything anymore. Or had we split up because he no longer needed me?

  Apparently, they were building the story of beauty and the beast, and they hadn’t yet decided which part I’d played.

  A woman who’d bothered to wear a nice two-piece suit pushed through to ask me, “Jo, what on earth were you thinking?”

  The oppressive shit storm might have relented if those rubberneckers outside Micah’s hadn’t captured video of his alleged ex-girlfriend blubbering in the back of the car he’d deposited me into. Throw in video of an angry Micah yelling, “Just leave her alone now,” and you’ve got a recipe for the kind of chum that draws more sharks.

  The reporters supplied their own narrative, painting Micah as a shallow playboy who’d dumped me in the same way as he’d dropped every other girl.

  Exhibit #1: Inside Scoop posted the headline “Micah Sinclair Adds Another Notch to the Bedpost. Who Wants to Be Next?”

  Exhibit #2: The Dish said “Coyote Micah Sinclair Gnaws His Own Arm Off in Record Time.”

  Micah made no comment to dispel that interpretation, taking the brunt of the gossip. And nobody wanted the nuanced truth over a sensational lie anyway.

  My phone turned into something that reminded me more of a sex toy than a communication device. I could ignore the chatter about me online, but the reporters kept intruding into my real life with their incessant attempts to milk an easy story, even though it wasn’t even big news. And I had one bitte
r thought—seeing cutthroat reporters in action brought home how badly I’d always sucked at this job. And I knew I couldn’t keep doing it.

  But the road to freedom was paved in quicksand. I emailed Sang Moon-Soo to ask him again if he had space for me in his department. He’d published both articles I’d sent him, so I knew he was happy with my work. He wrote back, “Not yet. Unless you want to work freelance.”

  I didn’t. I needed the health insurance of a salaried job, and with nothing else to fall back on, I had to suck it up and go in to the office.

  As soon as I got to my workstation, Kristin and Jennifer were kind enough to come over and give me a hug, telling me not to worry, everything would blow over. Kristin whispered, “And we’re both dying of jealousy that you got to shag that beautiful man.”

  Leonard kept me amused with his nonstop tales about all the times he’d almost been a part of the story.

  Not surprisingly, Derek sided with the scumbag reporters, insisting I’d brought it all on myself. “You forgot your place, Jo. You’re the scenery, not the main attraction.”

  Sitting at my desk, sharing the same hemisphere as Andy made me feel nauseated. But until the vultures lost interest, the attention made it impossible for me to work outside. When Andy eventually asked me to come into his office, he seemed neither contrite nor malevolent. For him, it was just another day.

  He shuffled some papers on his desk, not even bothering to look me in the eye. “I know I’ve been a little hard on you lately, Scout.”

  He had a nerve to act like he’d only slighted me. “Is that what you call throwing me under the bus with that article?”

  Now he looked up. “I’ve been worried that you lack the guts to do this job. The fact that you were so willing to put yourself directly in front of that bus to derail a better story concerns me.”

  “I thought you said the Micah story was better.”

  His lip curled in amusement. “Hardly. The story wasn’t better. Having it come out yesterday, though . . . especially with that whole circus last night. Well, it all makes today’s story that much more potent.” He barked a harsh laugh. “Congratulations, you finally brought me something useful, Scout.”

  My mouth felt dry. “You wouldn’t go back on your word. You promised.”

  “I promised I’d push Eden’s story. And I did.”

  “You promised you’d push it till next week!”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “You bastard. If you run that story . . .” I searched for a suitable threat. “I’ll write a scathing report on you and send it to HR.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, you’ll tell them I did my job? Who do you think brings in the money to pay their salaries?”

  “You are a pathetic little man.” I gritted my teeth and choked back threats to shove a pen up his ass. “You have no ethics, no integrity.” I realized I sounded like L.L. Stylez, and a light went off in my head. I needed to leave with or without a fallback. I could go home to Atlanta if it came to that. I put my hands up. “I can’t do this anymore. You’re a poison, Andy.” And now I channeled Eden.

  He yawned. “Anything else, Josephine?”

  I wondered if I could get off on a plea of temporary insanity, but I counted to three and resisted the strong desire to strangle him. “I hope one day you’ll get what’s coming to you, Andy.”

  As I turned to go, Andy said, “Wait a minute.”

  I stopped in the doorway, praying he’d reconsider running the story about Eden to keep me there.

  But all he said was “Leave your camera here. It’s not your property.”

  I dropped the camera on his desk and walked out the door. When I got halfway across the room, my knees wobbled. I put my hand on a desk and caught myself.

  Zion jumped up and put his arm around my back, taking my weight and helping me to a stool. “Are you all right?”

  I laughed, but only to keep from crying. “I think I just quit.”

  “What?”

  “I kind of told him I hope he dies.” I stewed in my indignation. “That dirty little man is planning to run a story he promised me he wouldn’t run until next week.”

  “The story about Eden?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Because it’s already live.” He went to his desk and fetched his tablet.

  I read the first lines, heart sinking. Eden Sinclair pregnant? Josephine Wilder, a day after her breakup with Micah Sinclair, has confirmed the news. There is still some speculation . . .

  “Oh, holy shit. He totally used me! This is completely misconstrued.”

  A photo loaded with my name sideways along the edge. That picture of Adam with his arms around Eden, hands flat on her midsection. The quality was subpar because Andy had to zoom in so far on that photo. I should have known he’d figure it out. I should have deleted it when I had the chance.

  I read the text again. “Now I get it. He totally planned this.”

  Zion rubbed my shoulders. “Josie, you need to calm down.”

  I was shaking from anger. “That fucker. I’m going to bring him down.”

  “Go home. Get some lunch. Take a nap. Those are my orders. Okay? Do you hear me?”

  I nodded, but I had no intention of going home. I dropped from the stool, trying to figure out how I’d ever fix this. “I’ll see you later, Zion.”

  Zion called after me. “Go home, Josie. Don’t try to do anything right now. Wait until it blows over.”

  But I was already emailing Eden before I’d left the building.

  Eden,

  I swear I had nothing to do with the article that posted today. I didn’t break the news to Andy. He had someone following you and figured it out.

  Please call me.

  Jo

  She didn’t respond. I wasn’t surprised. I hadn’t talked to her since Micah’s story ran, assuming I’d have time over the next week to figure out how to explain it and warn her to go ahead and share the news with her family when Adam came home. For all I knew, she’d already written me off the day before when the story on Micah ran, and this article was the final nail in my coffin. It looked so bad, even Micah might conclude Eden’s suspicions had been justified all along.

  I dodged a lone reporter, jumped on the subway to Park Slope, and walked to Micah’s. There were no cameramen out today. I figured they’d all be swarming outside Eden’s door. If I brought the paparazzi nightmare to her stoop, she really would never talk to me again. I knocked on Micah’s door, but there was no answer, so I sat and waited. He’d have to come out or come home eventually.

  After an hour, a woman approached and started up the steps. She wore a housekeeping outfit and carried cleaning supplies.

  I stood. “Are you Anna?”

  She nodded.

  “Can you let Micah know I’m out here?”

  She let herself in and then peeked out. “Mr. Sinclair is not home.”

  The temperature had dropped as a dark cloud obliterated the sun. I walked down to the corner coffee shop, ordered a hot tea, and sat at a corner table near the front, hoping lightning might strike twice and Micah would stroll in again. I took out my phone and started an email to Kate in human resources.

  Kate,

  I’d like to file a formal complaint against Andy Dickson. In the past week, he has asked me to skirt journalistic ethics on a number of occasions. I realize the company turns a blind eye to his activities since these actions increase the revenue for the company, but nonetheless, I feel it’s important to document his bad behavior.

  1. Last week, he asked me to give him information that was off the record after I had lunch with a musician he obsessively (and psychotically) hounds.

  2. He also rewrote a story I’d submitted, changing the tone of it from neutral and newsworthy to vicious and derogatory. And he disregarded the photo I’d submitted. Instead, he combed through my files and found the most unflattering one. He then posted the story with my name on the byline, misrepresenting my work.

  3
. Finally, he made a verbal promise to me on Monday that he would not run a story (about that musician he stalks) until next week provided I give him some information for another story. And even though I upheld my end of the bargain, he went against his word and posted both stories anyway. This has had serious ramifications on my personal life.

  Please consider taking action against him.

  Jo Wilder

  Reading it back, I realized how insane it all sounded. Most people would rightfully say I was only bitching about how the sausage was made. Complaining about a lack of ethics in tabloid journalism was akin to complaining about a lack of dryness in water.

  I sent it anyway. More than likely, I was already out of a job. If Andy hadn’t taken my statements as a resignation, surely, he’d started the paperwork to have me terminated.

  As I swirled my tea, I began to relax. For the first time in a day, nobody pursued me. Nobody expected me to be anywhere. Nobody expected me to hunt humans for sport. I was nobody. I had no agenda. It felt liberating. And it gave me time to think.

  I stared at the picture of Micah in concert I’d used for my screen saver. It took me right back to that moment before we’d been together, back to when I thought I’d have been happy to spend one blissful night with him. Why did everything have to get so complicated?

  My heart wanted Micah. I was miserable without him. It didn’t take a genius to realize that he’d likely be the great love of my life. If I let him go, I’d probably regret it forever. On the other hand, forever with Micah might turn out to be a month. He’d burned through so many women so fast. What if he tired of me and my pain-in-the-ass never-ending disease? Was it worth the risk? Was “happy for now” enough?

  I could honestly say it beat the shit out of “unhappy for now.”