And my hunches? They’re not worth much at Seyfried & Holt these days.
So instead of staying and seeing if I can squeeze myself into this new, smaller slice of Jack’s life, I shake my head and send a silent farewell to everything we could have been. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
His gaze sweeps my face, his green eyes flickering with hurt. “Are you leaving leaving? Or just leaving the office?”
He waits a beat, letting the meaning of his words sink in. Part of me appreciates that he’s giving me the choice, but the other part—the softer, more insecure, and much larger part—resents him for putting this decision on me. I know the timing sucks—he needs to take care of his employees and do some serious damage control with Ian right now—but after everything we’ve been through these past few weeks…
I guess I’d hoped he could do better than “Are you leaving leaving?”
Where’s the man who taught me how to walk tall and strong? The man who swept me into his arms, wiped away my tears, and made wild, shameless love to me? The man who dragged me up the side of a mountain and invited me to Colorado, his eyes glittering with a thousand unspoken promises of all the things still to come?
Maybe he never really existed at all.
Maybe, like so many things in my life, I completely misread the entire thing.
Telling myself it’s for the best, I square my shoulders, and I let him off the hook. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and I wish you all the best, Jack—truly. But we both know this wouldn’t have worked.”
It’s a lousy excuse, but it’s all I’ve got left.
Jack’s brow furrows and his lips part, but before he can respond, Hannah taps him on the shoulder. “Materials are out, boss. Do you want me to pull up the slide presentation?”
As Jack turns to answer her, I slip around him and out the door, breath rushing out in a sigh that is equal parts relief and misery.
I’m grateful the confrontation is over, but knowing that I’ll never touch Jack again hurts like someone’s carved out part of my heart, leaving just enough behind to register how lonely I’m going to be without him. Before my time with Jack, I hadn’t realized how much I craved this kind of connection, how much I ached to be loved and accepted and told that I’m beautiful by a man who means every word.
But now I know, and I can’t ever un-know it.
Pressing a fist to my chest, I swear I can feel something sucking away at me from the inside, a black hole of pain where hope used to live.
The thought of going home to my apartment and seeing the bed where Jack and I made love and the floor where we danced and the kitchen table where he sat as I made him my favorite gourmet grilled cheese is unbearable.
No, I can’t go home. Not yet.
But I can’t go to one of my old coffee shop work haunts, either.
I don’t have anything to work on. My story was ripped away just as it was starting to confess its secrets, just as the dots were connecting. I’m not mentally ready to let this go, but I can’t approach Jack or Ian with a gut feeling and a few odd emails, not when they’ve made it clear they don’t want me sticking my nose in S & H’s databases.
I’ve got no choice but to move on.
Right?
“Wrong,” I mutter, ducking my head to avoid making eye contact with the receptionist at the front desk. I can’t handle any more judgy faces this morning.
But I can handle this story. I may not be the best at making friends and influencing people, but I’m an animal when it comes to amassing data and reading between the lines. There’s something big going down at S & H and I’m not going to let a little resistance—or a lot of resistance—stand in the way of making sure Blair faces the harsh glare of justice. Or the icy soaking tub of justice. Or whatever kind of justice will hurt that lying, scheming, fellow-female-sabotaging jerk the worst.
If only I could get back into her damned emails.
Hack into them, even…
“Hack them…” I bite my lip, thoughts racing as I jab the button for the ground floor and whip out my cell.
On the way down in the elevator, I scroll through my contacts.
My college friend Gregory is not a source, but he owes me a solid—not just for bailing on drink night with me and my stupid ex, but for the strings I pulled for him with the alumni committee, guaranteeing he and his wife could get married at the Harvard Natural History museum where they met. He’s also a dynamite hacker. He put most of that behind him when he graduated, but I’m pretty sure I can convince him to come out of retirement for a good cause.
If I find the evidence I need, Jack and Ian will forgive my unorthodox methods. And if I don’t, neither of them needs to know I went looking. But I have to look, not simply to finish what I started, but to protect the company and the men I love.
I do love them. Both. So much.
And I get to keep loving one of them.
Ian will eventually forgive me. Blood is thicker than disappointment or anger. We’ll make up and move on, and someday—aside from the aching chasm in my chest where Jack used to live—it will be like this never happened.
The thought should be at least a little comforting.
But it isn’t. Not at all.
Chapter 21
Jack
One week later…
Who knew a mustache could bring so much heartache?
Last month, if someone had told me I’d be bailing on my morning meeting to sit at my desk alone, obsessively petting a three-inch strip of fake man-fuzz and damn near crying into my coffee, I probably would’ve decked the guy.
And yet, here I sit.
I stole the ’stache—the original prototype she wore on her interview—from Ellie’s place the last time I was there. I’d planned to use it for some over-the-top prank to make her laugh. Now it’s just a sad, fuzzy reminder of what we used to have. Of all the things I let slip through my fingers.
This week has been a banner one for Seyfried & Holt. Ian and Rictor locked in Justin Cruise and two of his very wealthy, very eager Portland Badgers teammates. I’ve got Walker Dunn scouting potential clients on the Buffalo Tempest. Revenues are up, the market is hot, our clients are happier than they’ve ever been, and Blair is on vacation.
She’s sticking to her story, backpedaling slightly to account for Ellie’s big gender reveal—now she’s claiming Ellie must’ve used some kind of fake rubber cock to intimidate her.
Rubber cock.
Seriously. It was all I could do not to tell her about Ellie’s tube sock.
Despite her bullshit story, Blair got legal to back off, and now she’s out of my hair for a few weeks, tucked away on a tropical island sipping daiquiris while I read through employment law books and figure out a way to legally drop her ass.
Despite Blair’s nonsense and the dip in morale after Ellie’s undercover role came to light, it wasn’t long before the team was back in good spirits, thanks in part to the changes we’ve started implementing—work-from-home options, flexible schedules, clearer HR policies, better on-the-job training, and more pathways for advancement. The staff are thrilled with the new benefits, and Ian and I will end up with a healthier, more productive workforce. Everyone wins.
If Ellie showed up today to write her original article—the “Not Your Mother’s Wall Street” one—Seyfried & Holt would pass with flying colors.
Irony, sweet irony.
Someday, I might look back on this and laugh my balls off.
But today is not that day.
Today, and yesterday, and every damn day since I last saw Ellie has brought me nothing but pain. It’s like someone tossed me out the fifty-eighth-floor window then found me on the pavement and stomped on my chest, just in case my heart was still intact.
Newsflash: it isn’t.
But Ellie made it clear she doesn’t want anything to do with me.
So here I sit, a lonely, office-dwelling, mustache-petting weirdo, wondering if I’ll ever taste that woman’s sweet ki
ss again. If I’ll ever get rid of the aching black hole in my heart, punched through in the perfect, unforgettable shape of Eleanor Seyfried.
Chapter 22
Ellie
I try to stay focused on the positive—Gregory is on the case and compiling digital evidence I’m almost certain will prove my suspicions about Blair—but it’s not easy. My apartment, my neighborhood, my favorite Indian restaurant where I used to enjoy a soul-nourishing meal—all of them are haunted by memories of Jack.
It’s so bad that I find myself cruising Craigslist, looking at apartments and wondering if I have the will or the money to move, when an unexpected notification pings from my personal email, offering a reprieve.
To: Eleanor Seyfried
From: Lulu Rivera
* * *
Hey, Ellie. I hope it’s okay that I’m emailing you here—Jack gave me your info.
* * *
Just wanted to say thank you for talking to Jack about my situation. He called me this morning to offer me my job back. Actually, he offered me a promotion! Starting tomorrow, I’ll be working with Hannah, shadowing her until I’m ready to take over her position while she moves on to train as a broker. I’m so excited I can barely contain myself, and it’s all thanks to you! Well, and Eric. ;)
* * *
I know people are upset about what happened, but I understand why you did what you did. And I would love it if we could still be friends. The things I liked about Eric aren’t going to change because you took off your fake mustache.
* * *
Plus, you still owe me a happy hour rendition of Shot Through the Heart, and I’m holding you to it! ;-) My cell number’s in the signature if you ever want to chat.
* * *
Hugs and more thanks!
* * *
—Lulu
* * *
Blinking back grateful tears, I hit the number for her cell and text: Hey, it’s Ellie! I’m so happy for you, Lulu. This news made my day, and I would be honored to be your friend. I need all the friends I can get. Especially if I have to sing in public. :-)
After only a second or two, Lulu pings me back. Wonderful! Me, too. Want to meet up tonight? My ex has the kids, and I’m going out for munchies and margaritas from the Mexican place on Fulton to celebrate. No karaoke, but the queso dip is out of this world.
My first instinct is to confess that I’m not good company right now and beg off. But that’s what the old Ellie would do, and I don’t want to go back to lurking in my writer lair with nothing but a block of sharp cheddar cheese to keep me company. I’ve had a taste of what it feels like to have a fuller, richer life, and I refuse to backslide again, no matter how down in the dumps I am.
Sounds amazing, I tap before I can talk myself out of it. Though, I’ll warn you, I’m a little out of sorts. The truth coming out the way it did has been rough.
I can imagine, Lulu responds, but it will all blow over. I promise. Bad things always do, and then the good stuff is still there. Good has staying power.
I shake my head as I rise from the couch to pace the hardwood floor where Jack held me in his arms for that first dance. Lulu’s optimism is impressive, especially after all she’s been through with her ex and the kids. You’re an inspiring lady, Lulu. Jack picked the perfect person to take over for Hannah. I have no doubt you’ll do an incredible job.
Thank you! Lulu sends a smiley face and a heart before dropping something unexpected. And he picked the perfect person to fall in love with, too. You guys are good together.
Um… Did he say something? My thumbs fly as my thoughts race. Is it possible that he feels that way? Even now?
He didn’t have to. It’s obvious every time he looks at you, Lulu shoots back. Even when you were Eric! But my suspicions were confirmed when we met today. Every time your name came up, he got THE LOOK. You know the look.
I pace faster, my pulse picking up, too. I need to know if there’s a chance—even a minuscule one—that he’s missing me as much as I’m missing him. Really? You could tell from the way he looked at me even when I was Eric? Seriously?
Yes, seriously. She sends over an eye-rolling emoji. So I hope you’re not thinking of doing something crazy like walking away from him because of work drama. He’s an amazing guy and they don’t grow on trees. Believe me, I’ve been checking every branch.
Biting my lip, I pause, gaze fixed on the turntable where Sam Cooke still sits, ready to pick up where Jack and I left off.
Maybe Lulu is right. Maybe I should listen to her, and to the inner voice that convinced me to agree to dinner in the first place.
Yes, jumping back on board the love train is a lot scarier than grabbing nachos with a friend. But they’re both part of saying yes—yes to life and all the beautiful, scary, wonderful, terrifying things that means. They’re both part of realizing that safety is overrated and that only the brave get to love and be loved, but that the risk is totally worth it.
There is no greater reward. Even three weeks with Jack was enough to convince me of that beyond the shadow of a doubt.
So why am I sitting here feeling sorry for myself when I could be saying yes? Yes to everything. To all of it, from friends and family to work to falling in love and everything in between.
See you at six, wise one? I tap out as I step into my clogs, grab my laptop and my purse, and reach for the door. I’ve got a few things I need to take care of ASAP.
Lulu’s emoji fist makes me smile. Go kick ass and take names girl! See you then.
Thirty minutes later, I’m at the Neptune diner, perched on a stool with a view of the cars streaming down Astoria Boulevard as I start my article. It’s not the article I’d planned to write, but it’s the one I need to write, the one that’s knocking around in my heart, demanding to be let out.
Even though it’s by far one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever written.
When I’m done with my final draft, I call my brother and tell him why I don’t regret what I did, why he shouldn’t, either, and why I’m in love with Jack. Ian’s not on board at first, but I don’t give up. I push forward, fighting to make him understand, until my brother’s secretly romantic heart melts.
Then I tell him that he’ll have to call Dad himself on Sunday nights from now on because I refuse to continue to facilitate their dysfunctional relationship, and I end the call while I’m ahead.
All that’s left to do now is proof my article and send it to Denise.
So I do, even though the old Ellie voice in my head insists she’ll hate it. Or worse, that she won’t even respond to the submission.
Instead, come five-thirty, as I’m walking to the train to meet Lulu at Casa Diablo, a text from Denise informs me that my article will go live tomorrow morning, my payment is being processed, and my ability to take lemons and make lemonade is a goddamn inspiration.
I’m back in Denise’s good graces and my confession will soon be live, out on the web for all the world to see.
But I don’t care about the world.
Well, I do…
Of course, I do…
But at the moment, I care most about one man, the one I hope will read my story and see what I want him to see—a woman who wants to give love a chance because he showed her it was worth the risk.
Chapter 23
Jack
From the moment Ian sends me the link and Ellie’s byline pops up on the screen, my heart is in my throat. It takes me a good ten minutes to read past the first line of her article, and even then I can’t quite make my lungs exhale.
After more than a week of radio silence, simply seeing her name again nearly undoes me.
But curiosity wins out, and I read on.
* * *
THE BARRINGTON BEAT
Walk Like a Man, Fall Like a Woman
By Eleanor Seyfried, Contributing Writer
You know the old saying, never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes? Here’s what I’m wondering: if wearing his shoes earns you the r
ight to judge, what do you get for walking around in a suit and a fake mustache, with your boobs mashed to your chest and a tube sock stuffed in your underwear?
I’ll tell you what you get, people: an honorary membership in the boys’ club.
More than you ever wanted to know about the state of the men’s bathroom.
A fair bit of chafing, if we’re being honest.
And, if you’re really lucky, a chance at love.
These are not hypotheticals.
For three weeks, I went undercover as a dude in one of the most dude-dominated industries of the modern age: finance. I went into this assignment with a hypothesis that I intended to prove correct: that women are less likely to be hired for executive positions, that we’re paid less for doing the same jobs, that we’re given fewer opportunities for career advancement, that we’re punished for the biological ability to bear children, and that we’re much more likely than our male counterparts to be the victims of unwanted sexual advances.
Posing as a male stockbroker, I entered the workforce at a boutique investment firm, seeking to expose the seedy underbelly of the patriarchy (yes, I actually used that exact phrase) from the inside. Dressed in a suit and decked out in enough stage makeup to make die-hard theater geeks everywhere beam with pride, I stealthily interviewed employees, eavesdropped on conversations, correlated hiring and firing records, and bore witness to all sorts of systemic bias in a business environment so steeped in dude-bro culture it didn’t know a maxi pad from a maxi dress.
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