by Geneva Lee
The press isn’t what I expect when I find it tucked into a back street a block from Broadway. I’ve always imagined a publishing house sitting atop some lofty high-rise, floor-to-ceiling windows, people bustling about and shouting out deadlines, editors in corner offices making phone calls to authors and agents all day long while girls with coffee carts deliver lattes. Maybe that’s how it is in New York.
That’s not how it is at Bluebird Press. It occupies the ground floor of a small brick building, and one tiny sign hangs above the entrance. There’s no receptionist to greet me at the door. Inside, desks clutter the space, stacked high with manuscripts next to abandoned coffee mugs. A haphazard bookshelf lines the far wall of the room. This is the only attempt at decor. Someone has lovingly lined up the books, facing some out to display them properly. It’s obvious even from here this is a place where people prefer to live in the pages of their books. The rest doesn’t matter. It’s not the frantic, glamorous workplace I’d envisioned; it’s better.
It’s so close to noon there’s only a few people at their desks. No one bothers to look up from their laptops or manuscripts, leaving me free to wander freely. I pause at a desk in the back corner to nosily investigate a manuscript that’s lying out.
“Can I help you?”
I spin around, feeling like a thief in the night. “Sorry,” I say quickly, “I was looking for the… boss.”
“You mean editor-in-chief?” she asks me.
“Yes.” I’m off to a great start. I know a publishing house doesn’t have a boss. It has a publisher. It has an editor-in-chief. All the happiness I felt moments ago oozes slowly out of me. I don’t belong here any more than I belong anywhere else in my life.
“That’s me,” she says, brushing past me to her desk. She leans over and hits a few keys on her computer, frowning as an email pops up. I stand there trying to think of something to say. She finally looks up at me. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“A job,” I blurt out. I’d wanted to blend in today and not look like Adair MacLaine come to survey her new holdings. I didn’t plan this. That’s pretty obvious given that I’m in jeans and a t-shirt that says Read an effing book. At least, it’s on theme. I don’t have a resume or a writing sample. I don’t even know what job I want.
“A job?” she repeats. She studies me for a second. Sinking into her chair, she waves to the seat across from me. “Sit. I’m Trish.”
“Thanks,” I say, grateful for the invitation and that we’re foregoing last names. I’m not putting my best foot forward, so the fact that she’s willing to even talk to me means she’s a lot nicer than I am. “Adair.”
“What kind of job are you looking for? We’re not really hiring,” she tacks on in warning.
“I don’t know.” Isn’t that the truth? “I came in on a whim.”
Now she’s looking at me like I might be crazy. “So, you were just walking by and thought hey, I should get into publishing?”
“Honestly, I’ve always wanted to work with books. I majored in British Literature at Valmont.”
“What have you done since then?” she asks.
She might not be hiring, but it feels like I found myself at an impromptu job interview anyway.
“My dad was sick,” I explain. “I haven’t really done anything with my degree yet. I only graduated last year.”
“The job market for English majors is a pretty slim one.” She sounds sympathetic. “What were your areas of interest?”
“I did my thesis on Jane Austen.”
The look on her face says who hasn’t, but she’s nice enough to keep the thought to herself. “What was the topic?”
I’m losing her. I’m just another hapless English major with your standard thesis on Jane Austen.
“I said all of her books were about how much she hated marriage.”
Her lips tug into a smile. “But she wrote love stories.”
“That’s debatable.” I’m used to having this argument. Only one professor in my department thought it was a good topic. The rest said I was misreading the text. “Take Pride and Prejudice. Do you really think Elizabeth is happy with Darcy?”
“I think that’s the whole point of the book.”
“Darcy is a total jerk,” I disagree. It had taken me years to understand this. “Lizzie gave into him because he did something nice for her sister. It doesn’t change all the terrible things he said.”
Trish doesn’t look like she’s buying it, but she’s definitely interested. “It’s an original take. I’ll give you that. So you don’t know what job you’re looking for. What would you like to do with books?”
“Read them. Champion them.” I quickly add, “Fix the spelling, I guess.”
“Here,” she says, passing me a thick manila envelope. “This is from a creative writing grad student at Valmont. I saw him give a reading recently and requested he send me his book. Read it. Take some notes. We’ll see what you’ve got.”
“I can do it tonight!” I can’t help feeling like she just handed me a golden ticket.
“Writers are used to waiting forever for responses.” She shrugs and gives me a wicked smile. “It’s good for them. Feeds their torturous souls. Take your time.”
“Okay.” I spare a sheepish glance at her. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Honestly, the owner just passed away. We haven’t heard yet what’s going to happen to the press. We might all be out of a job soon. We might get sold or shut down. I’m surprised we’ve stuck around this long.”
“Really?” I hope she interprets the heat painting my cheeks as something other than guilt. I should tell her who I am. But I can’t. Why?
“I think the only reason we’ve lasted this long is because he forgot about us. We weren’t important enough to worry about.”
“When will you know what’s going to happen?” An alarm bell rings inside my brain. I’m making this worse each moment I don’t come clean about who I am.
“When someone changes the locks or tells us to pack up, I’m guessing.” She looks grim at the prospect.
“Maybe the family will keep it going,” I suggest.
“I hope so, but I wouldn’t count on it. I’ve already started sending out my CV.”
“I’ve got a good feeling.” I don’t know why I don’t tell her the truth. That I’m the new owner. That I have no plans of shutting down the press. Maybe it’s the manuscript in my hands. Maybe it’s the opportunity to make a different first impression—one not based on my last name. Maybe I just need to earn something in life rather than have it handed to me, even if it’s only the truth. The reality is that I might be a shit editor. I might not have the eye. There’s no way she’ll tell me that if she knows my last name.
“You’re an optimistic little thing,” she says.
No one’s ever called me optimistic before. I like the way it sounds. “I guess I am.”
I leave Bluebird, manuscript in hand, hope in my heart, and a text with Sterling’s address waiting in my notifications. I’ve already dodged reality today. I can’t avoid him. According to the address, he lives nearby. I should call and see if he’s home. Instead, I decide to take my chances, hoping like hell that he’s busy doing whatever job it is that makes it possible for him to drop $10,000 at a charity gala on a dog with a fifty-dollar adoption fee. When I arrive at Twelve and South, my curiosity deepens. Sterling Ford lives in the penthouse—and this isn’t some standard apartment building. It’s a luxury high-rise in the heart of the Gulch, one of Nashville’s more elite pockets. There’s no reception desk. Instead, in true Southern fashion, there’s a bellhop ferrying visitors and residents to their respective floors.
He whistles when I tell him I’m here to see Sterling Ford.
“He just moved in,” he tells me as he sends the elevator toward the top floor. “I think that you’re one of his first visitors.”
I hate that this pleases me. “Is he here?”
I try to sound as disinterested as
possible.
He gives me a quizzical look as if to say why would you come, if you didn’t know. “Haven’t seen him leave yet for the day. He took his new dog out earlier. Sweet boy.”
I assume he’s talking about the dog. No one would refer to Sterling as sweet—or a boy.
“I wanted to surprise them,” I explain, nervous that he’ll tell Sterling I was asking questions about him later. I want to make this quick and painless like ripping off a Band-Aid. The last thing I need is for someone to reopen the wound later.
“Old friends?”
“Something like that,” I say through gritted teeth. When we arrive at the top floor, I’m surprised to discover that not only is Sterling’s new apartment on the highest level, it is the highest level. The penthouse occupies the entirety of the twenty-third floor. The bellhop leaves me in front of his door. I watch the elevator door slide shut apprehensively. Part of me wants to bail, to call him back, and walk right out of Twelve and South. Then I remember what Shelby said about the shelter needing the money. This is bigger than hurt feelings and a relationship that was over years ago. Sterling hadn’t been awful the other night. If he can just behave himself, maybe we can be civil.
At least I know there’s one friendly face waiting on the other side of that door. Zeus might be Sterling’s dog now, but I’d been his favorite volunteer, and he’d been my favorite dog. When I knock on the door, I hear a muffled bark coming from inside and heavy footfall, followed by the scraping of claws on tile. The door cracks open and the top of Sterling’s head pokes through. “Stay Zeus.”
I can’t help but smile. I can hear Zeus jumping up on the other side of the door. Maybe he’s not taking to Sterling as his new owner yet.
“What’s gotten into you?” Sterling asks, still not paying any attention to me. “Can you smell the chicken?”
“Fresh out of chicken,” I say dryly. “He probably smells me.”
Sterling looks up, the mask of smugness he usually wears temporarily displaced by surprise. “Adair?”
“Don’t get cocky,” I warn him. “I’m here to see Zeus.”
“I thought you were my lunch.”
He looks at me like he might devour me anyway. Dozens of memories batter against the levee I’ve built around my heart, bursting past it and flooding through me. I remember those eyes—how they would burn like blue flames when our bodies were slick with sweat, his skin on mine. Moments from a lifetime ago that feel like yesterday. Whatever it was between us, it’s here now, dashing any illusion I held that I’m over Sterling Ford.
Some loves never leave you, even after you break each other. Because when two hearts shatter into a million pieces, you can’t pick up what’s left of yours without mixing it up with some of theirs. Years ago I gathered myself from the wreckage of us, taking some of him with me. And if I did that—if I wedged the mismatched pieces of him into the remnants of my heart—then he did the same with the parts of me he took.
That’s how you survive broken love: you accept those transplanted pieces and hope it’s enough to keep your heart beating.
Sterling turns his face away, breaking the connection. “I’d let you in, but Zeus won’t let me open the door.”
I take a deep breath and sternly say, “Zeus, sit!”
The frantic clamoring on the other side of the door stops.
“How did you do that?” Sterling asks, swinging it open, so that I can step inside. As soon as I’m through it, the dog jumps on me and lands a slobbery kiss on my chin.
“Zeus and I have an understanding,” I explain. “If he wants love, he’s got to treat me with respect.”
“Is that how you earn it?” Sterling asks, leaning against the wall.
I bypass the subtle dig. Without his eyes boring into mine, I can think clearly. I’m here on business. Shelby needs me to do this. She needs Sterling to continue supporting the shelter. I can swallow my pride for a few minutes, do my best, and hope he doesn’t hold it against them that they sent me as their messenger.
The condo is exactly what I’d expect from what I’ve seen of the building. Large and open with an airy vibe from the bank of never-ending windows. It’s the picture of wealth and success, save for a scattered heap of wet towels trailing into the living room from an open door. Sterling follows my gaze, his mouth carving into a lopsided grin. “I tried to give Zeus a bath.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“He might have liked it a little too much,” Sterling admits. He points to his attire and I realize his faded jeans are wet with paw prints. His white v-neck is similarly soaked, clinging a bit too temptingly against his muscular torso. I force my eyes back to Zeus, who’s got his front paws on my shoulders.
You’re here for a reason!
“Valmont Animal Rescue asked me to stop by and thank you for your generous donation.” Zeus settles at my feet and I lean to scratch his head. “They also wanted to make sure that you two were getting along okay.”
“Do you have to do this for everyone?”
“I think you’re the only one who took home his prize,” I say. “Usually, people just want to make a show of it at these things.”
“Yeah, well, Poppy said this guy was having a hard time finding a home.”
The edge of pain undercuts his words. Sterling knows what it’s like to be without a home. He knows what it’s like to wait for someone to want you—for everything to always feel temporary.
Shame washes through me. I’m so arrogant that I assumed this thing with Zeus was an attack aimed at me. I didn’t stop to consider how Sterling might have felt sitting there and watching cast-offs paraded around so that my rich friends could compete to look like the most charitable of the lot.
“I’m supposed to talk you into sponsorship,” I tell him, feeling weary of this game we’re playing.
“How forthright of you,” he says. “How do you think you’re going to do that?”
“I have no idea,” I admit.
“A brutally honest answer.” He saunters toward the kitchen, turning with an arched eyebrow. “Coming?”
Hearing that word from his lips sends indecent thoughts tumbling through my brain. I want to shake them loose before they launch their poison into my resolve. Sterling Ford might be back in town. There might be decent bits inside of him. But that doesn’t change anything between us. Not after what happened.
I follow him to the kitchen area and stand with my arms crossed.
“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he points to a bar stool.
“I’m fine where I am,” I say. I need to stand my ground and remember that no matter what, he’s still the one who left.
“Suit yourself.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. “Did you come all the way down here to beg me for money?”
Something about the way he says this suggests he’s hoping that I have. Will that make him more or less likely to donate to the shelter? Considering that he seems to get off on screwing with me, I’m guessing less.
“I had some business down here. I volunteered to do it.” So, it’s a lie. Sterling has made every move so far. Showing up at my father’s funeral, coming to dinner at my house, attending my crowd’s charity function. He thinks he can invade my world. I’ll show him that I can just as comfortably invade his.
“Business in Nashville?”
“There’s not much business in Valmont,” I say flatly.
“There’s too much business in Valmont. That’s always been its problem,” he tells me.
“My father left me a small press in his will. I decided to visit it.” Why am I telling him this? I’m not friends with him. He doesn’t need to know about my day. It’s just that I can’t stand him thinking I came down here to get my nails done or have lunch with the girls. Maybe it’s his fancy condo or his unexplained mysterious wealth, but I don’t want to feel little in the eyes of Sterling Ford.
“How did that go over?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested.
“Good,” I s
ay with some hesitation. Sterling owes me nothing—and I’m pretty sure he hates me—which means he might be the best person to confess the awkward position I’ve put myself in. Poppy will be supportive and tell me whatever she thinks I want to hear. My brother will urge me to sell the publishing house and say I have no business experience. The rest of my friends won’t care. Their own families have dozens of small businesses under the umbrella of their corporations. Who really cares what happens to a small independent publisher? “Except that I didn’t tell them who I was.”
“You just went in there and acted like a creep?” He uncaps his water bottle shaking his head.
“I said I was looking for a job.”
“Did you get one?”
“Not really,” I hedge.
The bottle pauses on the way to his lips, which twitch at my uncertain response. “You sure about that?”
“The publisher gave me a manuscript to read. She wants to see what I’ve got.”
“That sounds like a job interview,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell them who you were? You would definitely have gotten hired.”
He’s teasing but he’s also hit on the uncomfortable truth. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted her to see me for who I am—not for the family name.”
“Or as her new boss,” he guesses.
“Exactly.”
“She might not appreciate it when she finds out that you kept it from her.”
“It’s not like I’m trying to deceive her,” I say defensively. “I just don’t want her to tell me that I’d be a good editor if it’s not true.”
“And you think she won’t be honest if she knows who you are?” he asks.
“Would you be?” It’s a stupid question. Sterling has always kept things from me—always hidden parts of himself away. I never got to see all of him. Now there’s even more he’s keeping from me—where he was for the last four years, why he left.
“Maybe you should have more faith in yourself,” he suggests.