I stand and shake his hand. “I’ll go pack up my office.”
*
The next day, I direct the moving van to an open parking spot outside of my new building in the East Village. The air has gone from blustery and cloudy to cool and sunny. My breath comes out in puffs before me. I direct the movers to the fifth floor, sighing in relief when they’re done. I shake their hands and tip them well, sending them on their way. I look up and down Third Street.
A fresh start.
A new apartment.
A new job. Well, a new-ish job as a full-time writer. I’m finally taking the plunge.
It’s time to keep my word to Chloe. I lean against a tree and pull my cap lower as two women walk past me to their apartment one block away. The taller one with brown hair has her arm around the smaller one. I smile when I realize she’s still wearing my jacket.
I look up at the sky.
Take care of her.
Am I doing a good job? I ask Chloe. Fresh tears find there way down my face, and I rub them away as I jog up the steps and into my new building.
I won’t fail you.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Emerson
JUNE 26, 2015
I stare at my computer for over an hour.
I tried to get my own words down on the computer—really, really tried this time around.
I go to my kitchen and grab a beer. I check the clock—9:04 p.m. It’s Friday night. Ace Bar it is.
I change into a grey T-shirt, black jeans, and Vans, throwing a baseball cap over my messy hair. I grab my wallet, keys, and phone and head out. Just as I close my door, I hear giggles from the bottom of my stoop. I turn to face the door, pretending to lock up—I know whose laugh that is. Once they pass, I slowly walk down the sidewalk. I’m about fifty feet behind them. I pull my hat lower and follow them, because I know we’re going to the same place.
That is a coincidence. Finley and I happen to like the same bar. We both frequent the place. It’s convenient for me—it allows me to keep tabs on her without actively following her. The fact that I know she’ll be at the bar at the same time as me every couple months is a huge comfort.
I follow them the block north up Avenue A, past St. Mark’s bookshop. I casually glance at them. Finley’s friend—I never could figure out her name—is wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Finley’s hair is long and loose, hanging behind her. She’s wearing some sort of denim thing. I like it.
I shove the thought to the back of my head.
The girls enter the dive before I do, and once inside, I quickly take a seat at the bar. My job is done now—for the time being, anyway. Finley seems happy and healthy. I order a martini and begin to relax once the alcohol hits my bloodstream. Maybe that’s why I don’t notice Finley walk right next to me until she begins to speak.
“Two Old Fashioneds, please,” she says, her voice light and tinkling. I spin around and watch her from behind my drink, hoping I’m not too obvious.
I’ve never heard her speak before. I look down at my gin martini. Out of my peripheral, I see her produce a card. I quickly glance up, and she’s biting her lip nervously and watching the bartender raptly. No. She’s watching her card raptly.
“Declined. Do you have another card I can try?” the bartender asks.
I see her visibly deflate. My chest begins to tighten. Is she struggling for cash? I know she does ghostwriting on the side—I’ve heard about her from other authors. I reach around to my back pocket, producing a twenty-dollar bill. Finley hands the next card to the bartender.
“Umm, try this one,” she asks uncertainly.
Declined.
She closes her eyes and sighs. “Okay, umm, never mind about the drinks then.”
I don’t have time to think—I swivel to face her, instantly getting her attention.
“I’ll buy them,” I blurt.
She squints at me, a look of passive gratuity passing over her face. It’s the first time I’ve looked into her eyes. For a panicked second, I think she might recognize me, but she doesn’t. Her eyes sweep over my face, but there is no recognition. I hand the bartender the twenty—enough for the drinks and the tip. I don’t break eye contact—I can’t. Her eyes have me mesmerized.
What am I doing?
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “My card must be broken.” She blushes and I want to reach out and move the crazy, stray hairs out of her face.
“It’s no problem at all,” I answer, trying not to smile.
Take care of her.
“Well, thank you again,” she squeaks, taking her drinks and leaving.
I’m left wanting more. I pay for my drink and quickly leave before Finley and her friend notice I’m gone. I jog home, and once inside, I open my laptop and look her up on Facebook. In all the years I’ve been keeping an eye on her, I never once checked her Facebook. Why tonight?
I sigh. Does this make me a stalker? I’m not sure. The horrifying news: her profile is set to public. She needs to lock that shit down. I make a mental note to tell her the next time I see her.
If there’s a next time.
I read through her status updates for the last year. One from last week in particular catches my eye.
Hannah and I will henceforth be accepting donations of the following kind: wine, Chinese food, chocolate (not the bitter kind), and Netflix passwords. Kthx.
I read through the comments. Most people comment “LOL” but a few people ask if she’s okay. Her response:
We’ll survive, but money is tight. :) Just trying to make light of a tough situation.
I scroll farther. This girl will check herself in everywhere. The doctor’s office, the gym (two years ago, I laugh at that), St. Mark’s Bookstore, Diptyque, the bodega down the street.
She really should make her page private. I don’t like that any crazy psycho has access to her locations in real time. Also, I’m disgusted I’m even looking. Why am I looking? Her profile picture is of her and Chloe from when they were younger, for God’s sake. I’m pretty sure when Chloe said to take care of her, she didn’t mean stalk her on Facebook for two hours. I shut my computer and lay my head down on my crossed arms.
When I wake up ten hours later, my head snaps up and I look around, confused. How much did I drink last night? I open my computer. The first thing that comes up is Finley’s Facebook page. I refresh it like a fucktwat, and right before my eyes is a new check-in.
Remedy Diner.
She’s been there before according to Facebook. Forty-seven times. I look at the timestamp. She checked in an hour ago. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it now.
I quickly brush my teeth and throw on the only shirt I can find—a black button-up. I swipe on some deodorant and run my fingers through my hair. I grab my wallet, keys, and phone. At the last second, I comb through my filing cabinet for an old contract. I take the stairs two at a time.
I’ve barely formed a plan in my mind when I see her. The truth is Finley Matthews has a reputation in the ghostwriting community. Authors covet her. I know this, as does every other author looking for a bit of help. They call her the bestseller maker. I’ve worked with Madeleine Martel before. I know she used to represent Finley. I can use that as my connection—Finley doesn’t have to know it’s not true. And the contract? I look down and skim the terms. It’s fairly standard, though I do pay my writers about twice as much as the going rate. After all, it’s their words on the page, not mine. They deserve to be fairly compensated.
When I get to the diner, I see her sitting in a booth against the window. She’s eating her French fries quickly and staring at the computer screen. I see her down her coffee even quicker, and I have to keep myself from smiling.
I walk in, my game face on.
Here goes nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Finley
Present
“Where did you get this picture?” I ask, my voice shaky. I stand slowly, the shock wearing off. I just wanted a fucking Sharpie. Everything
was fucking roses and gold until now. I’ve been so happy with Emerson. He’s caring, smart, and has a dirty mouth in bed—the perfect combination. He’s literally the perfect specimen of man. So imagine my surprise when I pull the drawer open to find a picture of me from when I was younger—a picture Chloe kept above her bed growing up.
Emerson blanches. His eyes give him away, and I know in an instant that whatever he’s about to say will ruin us forever.
“Chloe gave it to me.”
I recoil from him, backing up against the wall of the office. Everything is beginning to spin. Chloe gave it to him? I can’t even fathom the possibility of that. I’m trying to take it all in when he rushes forward. I hold my hand up to stop him.
“You knew my sister?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
“Very well,” he says slowly. I can tell he’s trying to figure out the best way to explain. “I met her when she audited my advanced creative writing course.”
I shake my head. “She was a business major.” I begin to cry. “She studied business.” This can’t be true. Chloe? In an advanced writing class? He must be mistaken. Then again, she was always going against the norm. When I think about it—when I really think about it, it actually sounds exactly like something she would do. I look up at Emerson. Why does he look so guilty? Did Chloe know the girl he had an affair with?
Realization hits me full force. I cup my hand to my mouth.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, pointing a finger at him. My brain feels like it’s on fire. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. “Chloe was your student who died.” My voice breaks on the last word.
Emerson looks down, shame written all over his pretty fucking face. “Yes.” I slide down against the wall and begin to cry into my hands. Emerson continues. “I saw you in Washington Square Park the day she jumped. Briefly. Do you remember me?”
My body is shaking—from crying or from shock, I’m not exactly sure. “I don’t remember. That day was such a blur,” I say, my voice numb. I’ve spent so long trying to forget that day. Now I wish I could remember everything.
We met for breakfast.
I went to an art history class.
I had lunch with Hannah.
I went to another class—Africana studies.
I met up with Chloe for a quick hello.
That was the last time I saw her.
She was meeting up with a man. Emerson?
And Emerson saw me?
I feel tear after tear slide down my cheeks. I’m still processing everything. Nothing makes sense. My head shoots up. There’s only one question I really need answered to move forward—to solidify whether or not I’m leaving him.
“Did you sleep with her?” I ask softly.
Emerson looks away and thumbs his nose. Over the last few months, I’ve gotten to know Emerson very well. He eats his food cold when he can—even supper. He prefers comfort over practicality when dressing. He loves to get the last word in. He likes beer, tolerates wine, and hates tequila. He cries out for his mother in his sleep. And he thumbs his nose when he’s guilty or lying. His eyes find mine, and they’re swimming with tears.
“Yes.”
I stand quickly, trying to hold on to something sturdy. Everything is spinning. He hasn’t written anything without a ghostwriter since then. Only one book without one. Was she . . . Was she . . . I can’t ask him, but I need to ask him. Need to know.
“Did you love her?”
His eyes find mine, and they’re turbulently sorrowful.
“Yes.”
His affirmation sends me reeling. I can’t breathe. I push past him and into my bedroom. Rage fills me to the brim. Just five minutes ago I was sewing our Halloween costumes. Now I’m about to leave the man who fucked both of the Matthew sisters.
No.
I can’t believe I ever I trusted him.
I haphazardly begin to throw things together on the bed—my laptop, my purse, my chargers. I leave most of my clothes. I only need the necessities. By the printer lies Emerson’s book—or what I’ve written so far. Seventy thousand words of bullshit. I pack everything up, slip on my sandals, and throw the bedroom door open. He’s waiting for me in the living room, so I walk downstairs with my bag and his stupid book.
His eyes are rimmed with red, and his cheeks are wet. It startles me, and for a split second, affection overcomes me. I want to run over and comfort him—I want to make his tears vanish.
“Please don’t go,” he begs, dropping to his knees. The gesture breaks me, and I begin to shake with sobs. I almost consider his request, but then I imagine him with Chloe. I feel like I’m going to be sick. And then I think of the picture Emerson kept hidden from me for five months—and the secret he kept to himself. All the things I told him about Chloe—he knew. And when he met me at the diner? Was it all some kind of ruse?
Jesus fucking Christ.
He knew I was her sister. He must’ve. He’s known all along. That’s what all of the cryptic statements were about.
Because it’s a book that brought us together, and it’s a book that will tear us apart.
All will be revealed. Don’t run too far when it is. Okay?
Emerson was trying to tell me all along. Too bad he didn’t have the courage to tell me before I found out on my own.
I throw the pages of his book at him, and they scatter all around us. “Fuck you, Emerson.”
I reach for the door handle, but he jumps up and steps in front of me. “I can’t let you leave without explaining.”
I shake my head, tears flying. “It’s all pretty clear to me,” I say slowly, burning him with my disgusted stare. “Was it always a goal of yours to fuck both of us? Do you have a sister fetish?”
He starts to cry; a choking, desolate sound. Again, the forsaken sound coming from him is almost enough to break me.
Almost.
“Finley, please,” he chokes.
I swipe my wet cheeks with my fingers and cross my arms. “You have ten seconds to explain.”
Emerson sighs, relieved. “I met her in August 2008. It was instant—our attraction. Yes, we slept together. Yes, I loved her, and I’d like to believe that she loved me too. But she was troubled. She . . . had issues.”
I guffaw. “No shit.”
“That day I saw you with her at NYU . . . we made love, and she left to go home.” I wince at his honest declaration. “She called me from the roof.”
I gasp. “You were there?”
Rumor has it he was somehow involved in her death. Hannah’s words.
He nods solemnly. “I tried to stop her, Finley.”
I bite my lower lip as another tear escapes, crawling down my cheek. “You know . . . I didn’t even know she was a writer,” I utter, my lips quivering.
He laughs, a small, sad laugh. “She wrote a story about you for her final. The day she killed herself. Do you want to hear what it was about?”
I’m sobbing now, and I shake my head. “I don’t think I could handle it.” I look down. Betrayal hits me hard, and I start to cry harder. Emerson takes a step toward me, but I flinch. The trust is gone. “At the bar . . . were you watching me? And at the diner?” I have so many questions.
He nods slowly. “Her last words were take care of her. I felt responsible for you.”
Responsible. For. Me. Not love. Responsible.
A sob escapes my lips. I clamp a hand over my mouth and open the door. “How long have you been watching me?” I ask through clenched teeth. God, this hurts. This all hurts so much.
“The whole time,” he says simply. He moves forward, reaching out for my hand. I pull away.
“So, all of this was just you fulfilling my sister’s wishes?” I cry. “This is so fucking twisted and sick. And now we . . .” I trail off as the tears slide down my cheeks. He takes a step closer to me, but I narrow my eyes and hold my hand out. “Don’t you dare touch me. Ever again.”
“Please . . .” he begs, inching closer. “I didn’t expect to fall in love with you
, Finley.”
His words shock me, and a stabbing pain erupts in my chest. “What?” We haven’t said the L-word yet. And now is the time he chooses to bombard me with it?
“You heard me. I. Love. You.” He comes closer. I back away. “And I know you love me too.”
“I do,” I say quietly. For the first time since this whole fucking thing exploded between us, I feel clarity.
He loves me, but he loved her first.
He. Loved. Her. First.
I pull out my wallet, reaching in for the quote from Underground Love that I’d taped up on my wall in my apartment in the city. “I do love you, Emerson,” I say sadly. “But I don’t think it’s healthy to love someone who writes this about someone else. Especially when it’s your dead sister.” I fling the small scrap of paper at him and just as I walk out the front door, I see him crumble to the floor.
You are a driving downpour of all my forbidden desires.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Finley
Three Months Later
“Hello, welcome to Diptyque,” I say sweetly.
“No, try it this way,” Samantha retorts, sighing heavily. “Hello,” she says breezily. “Welcome to Diptyque.”
I can literally tell zero difference between her version and mine, but she’s the boss so I nod and mimic her. “Hello, welcome to Diptyque.” I grin saccharinely.
“Good. Now can you please arrange the candles in the showroom? They look a bit messy to me.” She walks away.
My eyes flick to the showroom. The candles look evenly spaced and formally placed. I roll my eyes. I spend the next hour “re-arranging” the candles, but really I’m just picking them up and setting them back down. Samantha walks in and claps her hands.
“Oh, wonderful. They look so much better.” I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something extremely snarky.
I leave a couple hours later, pulling my jacket tight as the cold wind howls around me. It’s late January, and like every other New Yorker, I am so over the cold right now. I call Hannah as I walk home. She picks up on the first ring.
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