The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  We’re an inequality.

  One has more than the other. One needs more than the other. One can’t give what the other must have.

  But what if I could balance the equation? A surge of energy shoots through me. I’ve built companies my whole adult life. I create jobs. I can make one for her. I can solve this math problem. “Wait. What if I gave you a job?”

  She furrows her brow. “What? Why on earth would you give me a job?”

  Be her cushion. “Maybe we can come up with something.”

  “I don’t even understand what that would be.”

  I hunt for an idea. Anything at all. “Writing a newsletter or marketing copy or something.”

  She shoots me a look—one that says she can’t believe I offered that. One that says she’s slightly offended. “You can’t solve this for me by coming up with a job you don’t have and don’t need,” she sputters, flapping her hands.

  “What if we needed that?” I posit.

  She narrows her eyes. “But you don’t. You don’t really need to hire me. Also, that’s not the kind of job I want or am good at.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck, frustrated as hell to be back to an equation with no answer. “That was kind of ridiculous and insulting.”

  “It’s fine,” she says softly. “I know where you’re coming from. I just want you to understand. I’m not a marketing writer. Or a newsletter writer. I’m a reporter.”

  “I know. I wish I could help.”

  She nods, her expression softening. “I appreciate the sentiment, but right now the job I want is covering your business. I’ve tried to convince myself every night that I can feel how I do about you and still do my job objectively,” she says, and my heart sits up, hoping. “But I can’t. And I think maybe it’s best if we stop . . .” She takes a beat, swallows, and seems to gird herself to say the harder part. “Stop seeing each other like this.”

  A kick in the gut. I saw it coming, but it still smarts like a screaming demon. Only, I don’t want her to know how much this hurts. I don’t want to let on for a second that I’m in pain.

  “Absolutely. I absolutely agree.” I drop her hand, making it clear I’m 100 percent on board with this.

  That’s a lie.

  But I’m not interested in letting the truth shine through. Not when there’s a hole in my chest from the punch she delivered.

  24

  Sabrina

  Kermit writes back that afternoon. He wants to see me later this week.

  To: Sabrina G

  From: Kermit LF

  Had to catch a flight to Palo Alto. I’ll call you, or text you, or really, you should make time for me on Wednesday.

  It’s not presented as optional.

  I don’t know why, but I can guess. I suspect he’s going to aim that Nerf gun of his in my direction and blow my cover.

  Reveal my dirty little secret.

  He’s going to topple the vase, like a destructive cat, and gleefully watch as the glass shatters.

  Writing back, I tell him I’ll see him on Wednesday.

  It’s like scheduling an appointment with the executioner, and the only thing left is to decide how I want my neck sliced. Do I do it myself, or let Kermit the Douche drop the blade?

  My stomach churns as I pace my tiny apartment, wishing for answers. Wishing for someone to swoop in and tell me what to do.

  But the thing is—that’s my job.

  It’s been my job since I was eighteen and my mom up and left. Since she grabbed her fake Louis Vuitton and said, “See you later, kids, I’m outta here.” Once it was clear she wasn’t coming back, I secured guardianship of Kevin, somehow juggling college and official surrogate parenthood at the same damn time. The balancing act was no fun at all, but it was so rewarding to see my little brother turn into the finest of men.

  I’d do it all over again, even the hard parts, even the not-fun parts.

  I’ve learned something else that’s no fun at all.

  This.

  This is what it feels like to fall in love, have your gut punched, and miss the man you can’t be with.

  For the record, it feels like complete and utter crap.

  As I work on a new design for an adorable skirt made from a dove-gray patterned fabric with script-y French words across it, I cut my finger. I curse, and blood spurts all over my hand, making a beeline for the word reve. Fitting, that dream should be bloodied.

  I jump from the table, run to the sink, and wash the blood off my finger. More crimson pours and the slice hurts. This should feel symbolic, but it mostly feels annoying. Because everything is irksome now.

  A man like Flynn Parker came into my life at exactly the moment when I didn’t just need him, I wanted him. He came like a beautiful summer day, like blue skies and sunshine, a walk along the beach, and peaceful easy times. He’s evenings under the stars too, nights spent dancing, laughing, tumbling together and kissing, hot and fevered and sweaty.

  Giving myself to Flynn would be easy because he wouldn’t hurt me.

  That’s what I let slip through my fingers for a possibility.

  But I had to. I had no choice.

  I keep running the water, and the blood spills into the sink.

  I don’t think Flynn would hurt me like Ray did. I don’t believe he’s like that. I believe he’s a man of his word, a man I can trust, and saying those words to him—we need to stop seeing each other—hurt way more than this sliced finger.

  When the blood ceases to flow, I wrap a towel tight around my finger, find a Band-Aid, and put it on the cut. Giving the sewing a break, I settle back in with the article, review Kevin’s notes, and make my final tweaks. Then I stand and pace like a lion in the zoo. Cross the kitchen. Walk to the futon. Cover the same path again.

  I draw a deep breath and scan my little place. The walls seem to hover, to sway. This apartment is suddenly too tiny. It can’t contain me and all these rampant emotions pinballing through my chest.

  I call Kevin and tell him I’m taking the next train to come see him.

  A couple hours later, the train rattles into the station in the sleepy little New England town where he goes to divinity school. He meets me at the depot, and his smile is magnetic. It hits me in a raw, visceral way. I throw my arms around him, and he hugs me.

  A strange relief works its way into me as we reconnect. He’s my person. I needed to see him. I desperately need to talk to him. I can’t stand trying to sort out all these feelings on my own.

  We leave the station and head into town where we settle in at a café and order tea.

  He slides my cup toward me. “It must be good if you came all the way out here to see me.”

  I heave a painful sigh, emotions clogging my throat. “Tell me what to do. Tell me what’s the right thing to do.”

  He leans back in his chair, parking his hands behind his head. “It’s the guy, isn’t it?”

  I give him more details. “I know I won’t get the job if I’m seeing him. I can’t cover his sector if I’m involved with him. Who would give that gig to me? That’s crazy. It’s one thing to disclose at the end of a story that you’re involved with somebody, the way a publication would disclose you own stock. Jane Smith has stock in Company X. Jane Smith is in a romantic relationship with Fred Jones. It’s another thing to assign someone to cover an industry on an ongoing basis when their boyfriend or girlfriend is a key player.”

  Kevin nods thoughtfully. “What happens in other situations though? What if a reporter already has a job, is covering the business, and she falls for somebody she covers?”

  I’ve seen this situation happen at my old paper, and I’ve seen it happen to journalists I know. “He or she is reassigned usually. Our job is to be fair. Our job is to be accurate. I’m not curing cancer or saving the whales, but at the very least, I’m trying to write something unbiased.”

  His blue eyes are piercing as he stares at me. “Do you think, then, that you should
tell Mr. Galloway?”

  He’s tossing ethics back at me, perhaps treating me as he would a parishioner someday.

  “I have to tell him, don’t I?” I squeak out. “Even though I’m not involved with Flynn, I have to tell my editor.”

  He rests his palm on my hand, giving a gentle squeeze. “I read the piece. I think you did an amazing job. But I’m not unbiased either. I love you to the ends of the earth and back, and I think everything you do is amazing. I tried to give it a critical eye, and I think it’s incredible. But what if my take on it is colored by how much I love you? And what if your approach was colored by your feelings for Flynn?”

  I groan and drop my forehead onto the table. “This was such a big chance for me. And I blew it by falling for this guy.”

  He rubs my forearm. “I don’t know that falling for someone is ever blowing it. I don’t know if I have any answers as to what you should do. But I don’t think letting yourself feel something real and true, especially after what happened to you, is a bad thing.”

  I raise my face. “But it is. I have bills to pay.”

  “Sabrina,” he says, his voice firm and strong. “We’ll stretch out the loans longer.”

  I shake my head vehemently. “No. I made a promise to myself when Mom left that I’d look out for you. I made a promise to the state too. A legal promise.”

  “I can look out for myself. I don’t have a ton of debt from college. I can handle all the loans from grad school.”

  I shake my head. “This is your dream. How many men today want to be pastors? It’s noble and beautiful, and you’re mine,” I say, pointing at him. “You’re mine, and don’t you forget it.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “I know, but being yours doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice your happiness.”

  I bristle at his characterization. “I’m not sacrificing my happiness. Dude, I have other bills too. Rent, and utilities, and food. That stuff you need to fuel your body every day. You’ve heard of it?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Sabrina.”

  “And living. Subways aren’t free. Nor is internet access. Who can live without that? See? I need a J-O-B regardless, so don’t start thinking it’s all about you.”

  “Your tough-girl big-sister routine is as entertaining as it was when I was fifteen.”

  I smile and cross my arms, making it clear how sure I am that my decision is my decision. “Good.”

  He drums his fingers on the table and softens his voice. “My point is, don’t do this for me. Don’t be so stoic for me. I’ll find a way. Schools are flexible. I’m sure we can work out a different payment plan. Would you let me do that? Talk to them and work something out?”

  “I’m going to get a job,” I say, standing firm.

  “You’ve insisted on the bills going to you. But perhaps I need to do the insisting now that you’re giving up something.”

  “Kevin, give me time,” I say, pleading. “Let me see what happens with the job.”

  “I have faith you’ll get it, and when you do, I don’t want any more help.”

  I scoff.

  He laughs.

  It’s a standoff, and soon I catch a train back to Manhattan, staring out the window as it pulls into the station, wondering what Flynn is up to tonight and if his heart feels like a lead weight too.

  When I reach my home, I email the article to Mr. Galloway.

  25

  Flynn

  The ball screams toward me, and I lunge for it, slamming it with my racket, sending it reeling against the wall. The blue orb slams the backboard before careening in my sister’s direction. She grunts, reaching for it, stretching her entire body perpendicular in a mad effort to reach the whizzing object. But it soars past her and skitters to the ground.

  I pump a fist. “Yes.”

  Panting hard, she offers her hand. “Congrats, you determined bastard.”

  “Hey, it’s at least one thing I got right this week.”

  “I hardly think beating me in a game of racquetball is the one thing you got right this week.”

  “It feels that way since I botched asking Sabrina if she wanted to pursue anything more.”

  Olivia shoots me a sympathetic smile. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “Royally.”

  She taps my shoulder with her racket. “What really sucks is that you’ve finally met somebody who isn’t into you for your money, and you can’t have her.”

  “Yes. Thank you for the reminder. Want to rub it in more?”

  “I meant that as a good thing.”

  “How is that good?” I grab a bottle of water and down some.

  “Because you knew where you stood with her. She didn’t use you. She did the opposite of use you,” Olivia says, picking up a towel and wiping her neck with it.

  “True,” I admit. “I knew where I stood with her heart. And I know where I stand with her life—not in it. I mean, what am I supposed to do?” I force out a laugh. “Buy the magazine?”

  Olivia’s eyes become billboards, flashing the words aha. “That’s not a bad idea. That’d be a hell of a big gesture.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think Sabrina will go for that.”

  “But you could do it. That’s kind of crazy and amazing. You could buy the magazine and offer her a job there. Why not?”

  I shake my head, dragging a hand through my hair. “She wouldn’t want me to. Ironic, isn’t it? I’ve been with a woman who wanted me for money. I finally meet someone who has literally zero interest in my wallet, and I can’t even use said wallet to my advantage.”

  “That means you have to rely on your heart,” she says, tapping my chest for emphasis. “And let her know how much you love her.”

  I straighten my spine at those words. Let her know how much you love her.

  “You told her you’re in love with her, right?” Olivia continues.

  I open my mouth to speak, but it turns out I’m speechless.

  “Falling in love with her? You told her you’re falling in love with her, at least?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  My sister rolls her eyes. “Men. You never learn.”

  “You’re saying I should have told her that?” Maybe the cushion wasn’t what she needed. Or maybe I offered the wrong cushion.

  Olivia raps the side of my head with her knuckles. “How does anyone think you’re a genius? Does the gray matter even work?”

  “You don’t think it’s coming on too strong to tell her I’m falling in love with her?”

  “Do you think she’s falling in love with you?”

  I cycle back through the time we’ve spent together—our kiss in the costume shop, the way she looked at me at softball, the sound of her voice when we walked and talked.

  I smile stupidly. “Yeah.”

  Olivia moves closer, getting in my face. “Then how do you know what would happen unless you truly put your heart out? You’ve finally met someone you’re crazy about, and that means you need to put everything on the line.”

  “But I’m not the one who stands to lose so much. How do I convince her? Without, you know, buying the magazine?”

  “Hey, I still think that’s a fine idea,” she says with a wink. Then she turns more serious. “But there are things you could say to her . . .”

  And she’s right. There are so many things I’ve left unsaid.

  Sabrina

  Courtney encourages me like a coach. “Come on, you can do it.”

  I crunch higher, my eyes squeezing shut, my core shouting at me to make it stop. “Whoever invented core exercises is the devil.”

  Courtney laughs. “Yes, whoever did is indeed the worst person in the world. But core is so good for you.”

  I’m at Courtney’s gym the next morning, and she’s pretending she’s a personal trainer. That basically equates to her torturing me endlessly.

  Grabbing an exercise mat, she flops down next to me and says it’s time for bicycle crunches.

  I hold my hands to my cheeks an
d affect a scream, Edward Munch–style. “Nooooooo. That’s the ninth circle of hell.”

  Laughing, she nudges me as she lifts her knees and embarks on showing off how awesome she is at biking on her back. “You can do it. I have faith in your stomach muscles.”

  “My stomach muscles are Grumpy Cat today. Just like me. We hate everything.”

  “You’re in a fun mood.”

  “Oh, sorry. I meant to be more chipper, but I had my heart slaughtered.”

  Her eyes widen as she crunches. “See? I knew you really liked him.”

  I groan. “Of course I really like him. I told you everything. He’s wonderful, and amazing, and incredible, and this situation is absolutely like some ridiculous curse of the universe. It’s like my cursed wedding dress. Like Ray leaving me for no reason.”

  She crunches as she talks, and it’s impressive. That must be some Guinness World Record feat, akin to contortionism or pulling off twenty-four hours’ worth of jumping jacks. “It’s kind of crazy that you finally met somebody who makes you feel like you can take a chance again, but you feel like you can’t take a chance with him.”

  I sigh and drop down on the mat, my entire body going floppy and flat. “I can’t take a chance with him.”

  Courtney shrugs as she cycles her legs. “Maybe you can.”

  “If there was a way, I would’ve found it. I swear I would have.”

  “This isn’t the Lost City of Atlantis, Sabrina.”

  I shoot her a look. “I’m not saying it is.”

  She hums. “You kind of are.”

  I sigh heavily. “So, what are you saying, Courtney?”

  “I’m saying that taking a chance with him isn’t some great secret mystery to unlock. It’s not a code to crack. It’s making a choice.”

  I arch a brow. “It’s that easy? Just choose the dish from the appetizer list and have him for dinner?”

  Courtney quirks her lips. “I suspect you’d like having him for dinner every night. Which is my point. You can choose Flynn. No one is holding your feet to the fire except you.”