by Paige North
This has gotten way out of hand.
“Dr. Costanovich, as much as it pains me to say it, I need you to know the truth,” I tell him, my heart beating like there’s a marching band playing in my chest. “Nixon Blake didn’t harass me or take advantage of me. While our relationship was definitely against company policy, and ill-advised on both our parts, it was completely consensual.”
His eyes widen as he takes in what I’m saying. It’s in direct contradiction to the media narrative that’s been going on for days, which is that Nixon Blake is a disgusting, creepy cad who screwed an intern and should be banished to the outskirts of society. I never should have let that statement stand.
“This is really uncomfortable for me to say, so that’s how you know I’m telling the truth. I can’t bear the think of all the ways the college will suffer from acting on a lie, though. There’s too much at stake. Too many needy students like me who benefit from that money.”
I take a deep breath and let it out, feeling calm for the first time since the story broke. Because for the first time since I saw that push notification on my phone and realized my world was coming crashing down on my head, I know exactly what I need to do. The fog is lifting, and I see the way forward. I know this is the right thing.
“I’m going to make sure the story is set straight, so the NEC doesn’t see any fallout from maintaining their relationship with Scour. I understand, of course, if you feel you can’t work with Nixon Blake personally, but I want to make sure you have a clear path to accept fiscal support from Scour and its subsidiaries.”
Dr. Costanovich sits back in his chair, which creaks under his weight. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at his desk for a moment. I can tell this is a lot of information, and this is probably going to make his summer a little less relaxed than he’s normally used to. But after a moment, he nods.
“I always knew you were special, Delaney,” he says. “It takes a lot to tell the truth and own your actions in the face of the kind of scrutiny you’re under. And I’m impressed that you’re willing to fall on that grenade for NEC and its students.”
I shrug. I’m not doing it for praise. I’m doing it because it’s right.
“I want you to know that this doesn’t in any way affect any future recommendations you may need from me, either for jobs or graduate school. Though I think you know my advice would be to keep grad school on the back burner and climb back on the proverbial horse.”
I smile.
“And the horse is not Nixon Blake, in case you were wondering where I stand on that particular issue.” He arches an eyebrow at me.
I bark out a laugh at the same time that my cheeks turn red as tomatoes. Because holy shit, my college mentor just made a sex joke in front of me.
“I don’t think that’s going to be an issues, Dr. C,” I assure him.
Chapter 2
GizmoGossip - Exclusive Comment from Delaney Masterson, aka “The Intern
Nina March, editor at large
I didn’t believe it either, when I got the call. I thought Delaney Masterson would have gone so far underground at this point that she’d be surfing on the magma in the Earth’s core. But no, she’s just sitting over in her apartment in Cambridge, unemployed and wanting to set the record straight.
That’s right, GizmoGossip readers. Delaney has a story to tell, and it turns out it doesn’t quite line up with the statement Nixon Blake released. Are you ready?
During my time at Scour, as an intern with the Business Lab Program, I engaged in a relationship with Nixon Blake. As my boss, this relationship was inadvisable and against company policy. We were both aware of the risks, but entered into the relationship consensually. We hoped to keep it a secret so that it wouldn’t affect our work at Scour. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.
In an effort to mitigate some of the negative press attention that I was already receiving, Nixon Blake put out a statement saying that he somehow abused his power, and that my participation in the relationship wasn’t 100% my choice. This statement was false.
Every day, women are the victims of workplace harassment. To co-opt their very real lived experiences to make my life somehow easier feels cheap, wrong, and disrespectful to them. While I appreciate what Mr. Blake was attempting to do, I cannot allow that to happen.
I also can’t ignore that his statement had unintended consequences, including the need for New England College to distance themselves from Scour. While I applaud their commitment to supporting and believing victims of harassment, I can’t allow them to take the fall for me.
I happily and enthusiastically entered a relationship with Nixon Blake. While that relationship is over, I don’t regret it. I am, however, very sorry to everyone who was hurt by the fallout.
Holy shit, you guys. HOLY. SHIT. Girlfriend fell on the sword. Well, Nixon Blake must have a helluva sword, is all I have to say—because girl keeps happily jumping on it, one way or the other. What do you think? Stockholm syndrome? Lovelorn intern? Or is she just (gasp) telling the truth? Chat it up in the comments. This is one I’m dying to parse.
***
“I swear to god, if you don’t smile in these photos I’ll have you killed, and no one will ever find your body.” Miranda delivers this declaration through clenched teeth, still smiling so wide you could see her professionally whitened teeth from space.
I didn’t realize I wasn’t smiling, but that’s been happening to me a lot over the last week or so. I’ll drift off, my mind reeling as I think about the smoldering remains of my life and career. And amidst all that, I’m still wondering where Nixon is and what he’s doing. I’m still wondering if he’s thinking of me.
Goddammit.
And of course, when my mind falls down these Nixon Blake-inspired rabbit holes, I adopt what Elise calls “Resting No Fucks Face.”
“It’s like resting bitch face, except instead of being aggressive, it’s just noticeable disinterested.”
Apparently, Miranda is not super excited to have her maid of honor give Resting No Fucks Face in her wedding photos.
“Sorry,” I whisper, and arrange my face into a wide smile. I’m thinking about how happy Miranda looked walking down the aisle just an hour ago, and that helps the smile brighten up a little bit. Miranda was beaming in her off the shoulder white dress with delicate lace overlay. Her blonde hair was in loose waves and gathered into a low ponytail at the nap of her neck, from which a delicate, lace-trimmed veil flowed down to the floor and floated ethereally across the floor. She’s a knockout bride, that’s for sure.
And I can’t even hate her for her bridesmaids’ dress selection, because even if I am feeling pretty shitty, I look fucking amazing. My dress is a deep sapphire blue lace with a fifties party dress silhouette, fitted through the waist with a flared skirt that falls to just below my knees. It features a sheer top with a boat-neck and delicate sleeves that feels very Audrey Hepburn. My own blonde hair is also curled in loose waves, gathered behind my right ear and fastened with a delicate pearl hair clip.
“Good, great smiles! You look fantastic!” The photographer calls, snapping away. We’re squeezing the photos in before we have to hurry to the reception, because Miranda was adamant that Brad not see her before the wedding.
“Look, years of tradition saying that’s bad luck is not nothing. I’m not doing it,” Miranda spat when my mother tried to persuade her to do a “first look” photo shoot before the ceremony. “I’m going to be married forever, and I’m not going to let wedding photos get in the way of that.”
Yeah, my sister was a bit of a bridezilla.
But it all paid off, because the wedding was gorgeous, and the reception looks to be poised to go off without a hitch.
If only I could throw myself fully into the festivities and forget about Nixon.
I’ve gotten a little bit better, of course. I even managed to sleep last night without having wild sex dreams about him. That was a win (although, maybe also a little bit of a loss, bec
ause those dreams were hot). At this rate I’ll be done thinking about Nixon Blake in oh … about sixty-seven years.
Awesome.
“Ok, I think that’s the last shot. You guys can head on over to the limos, and I’ll snap some candids as we go, ok?” The photographer gathers up her cameras, slinging them over her shoulders and around her neck. I transfer my bouquet of white hydrangea and peonies, all gathered together in white satin ribbon with delicate pearls sewn into it, to my other hand. Who knew bouquets were so heavy? I feel like if I swung this thing hard enough, I could give someone a concussion.
Miranda shoots me one last warning look that I know means I better enjoy the reception that she worked so hard to plan or she’s going to pull out my fingernails that she had manicured just this morning. And so I spend the walk to the limo trailing behind Miranda’s sorority sisters and the guys from the fire station as we head to the limo that’s bound for the reception. Our families are already there waiting for us to arrive to cheers, to eat, drink, dance, and be merry.
Be merry, goddammit.
The will be no empty seat beside me at the reception, though, because I did manage to scrounge up a plus one. Elise was more than happy to be my date to the wedding, especially when she found out all the groomsmen would be single firefighters.
“Um, hello, it’s always been a fantasy of mine,” she said. I’m pretty sure she spent the entire ceremony eyeing the groomsmen from her pew, trying to decide which one would be her target for the night.
The one thing that brings genuine joy to my face is the thought of the job offers that began arriving as soon as the statement released on GizmoGossip. I had been under the assumption that releasing it would only pour cold water onto the dying embers of my career, but it actually had the opposite effect. Though I think I have Dr. C to thank for that. He got busy calling around and telling people that I was a person full of integrity, putting my name in the ear of quite a lot of his contacts. Thanks to him, I’m now considering a job in tech journalism, thanks to an offer from The Globe. That plus a few others is making me feel like maybe things might just turn out ok, even if I’ll probably never see Nixon again.
It’s not perfect, but it’s getting a little. There’s a path forward. All I have to do is start taking steps.
Even if my heart is still broken, my life isn’t totally in ruins.
“So here’s to many years of happiness, Brad and Miranda!” Brad’s best main raises his glass, only slightly slurring his words, as the rest of the crowd toasts to the bride and groom.
“Thank you Liam,” the DJ says. “Now let’s hear from the Maid of Honor, Delaney, sister of the bride!”
The crowd applauds, there are few whoops in the crowd, as I make my way to the microphone. My champagne glass is clutched in my hand. My goal is to get up there, say a few words without embarrassing myself, and then sit down before everyone can start whispering about what happened. The last thing I want is my gossip to upstage Miranda’s wedding reception. I want to give a stealth toast: get in, get out, leave no trace.
“Hi everyone,” I say, my voice causing the microphone to screech. Ok, not a great opener. I quickly step back and try again. “I’m so glad to be here tonight to support my awesome big sister Miranda, who taught me so much about life and love as we shared that tiny bedroom in Southie for all those years. I also learned that Miranda snores if she sleeps on her back, so Brad, I’m gifting that information to you to help with the whole happy marriage thing.”
A titter of laughter rises from the crowd. Good, ok, now bring it all home, and then sit down before you pass out from this many pairs of eyes on you.
“Anyway, I won’t keep you all with embarrassing, yet hilarious, stories of Miranda’s life. You can always come see me at table two if you want to hear those. I just want to take this moment to say —“
And that’s when I see him. He’s standing in the back of the room, having just come through the door. He’s wearing a black v-neck sweater. His hair is wavy and a little bit wild, and I can see his blue eyes from all the way up here. His muscular arms are crossed over his chest. The sight of him causes my knees to go weak, and I wobble just enough on my heels to make my champagne slosh over the edge of my glass. I nearly lose my breath at the sight of him, tall and powerful back there, but I quickly remember that there are a couple hundred people waiting for me to finish so they can toast my sister and her new husband.
“I just want to say I love you and best wishes,” I say, the words pouring out of me all at once. I toss back the glass of champagne and practically bolt from the mic. But I don’t rush towards Nixon. Instead, I find myself racing for my seat, where Elise is waiting.
“Um, did you enter a fugue state there for a moment?” Elise asks as I drop down into the empty seat next to her.
“He’s here,” I say, my chest heaving as the breath really starts to leave me. Oh god, am I going to hyperventilate? Because if I’m going to hyperventilate, I need to get out of here before I draw too much attention.
“Who’s here?” Elise asks, but before I can answer, a tall, muscular shadow falls over us. Elise looks up and sees him, and though they’ve never met, she knows immediately who he is. “Oh my god.”
“Delaney, can we talk?” He asks. The sound of his voice, all steel and gravel, takes me right back to those days in his office, the nights in his apartment. My body responds automatically, and I feel the lace of my panties grow damp.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, rising from my seat so quickly that it nearly topples over backwards. Thank god for Elise and her quick reflexes, because she catches it before it can clatter to the parquet floor and attract attention. I turn and start for the door, expecting him to follow me, but instead he grabs my hand.
I feel a bolt of electricity shoot up my arm and straight into my heart.
I spin around to face him. He doesn’t drop my hand. Instead, he reaches for it with both of his, clasping it warmly between his palms.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. I’m aware that people at nearby tables are starting to look. I don’t blame them. Even if they don’t know who Nixon Blake is, the man himself just draws attention. He’s by far the most attractive man in the room, and at well over six feet tall, you can’t just look past him.
And besides, most of them probably know who he is thanks to, you know, him practically being the face of the internet and all…
“I’d rather stay here,” is all he says.
I glance around and see that now a lot of people are looking. We’re starting to become the center of attention, as the only two people in the room who are standing. Everyone else is finishing up their dinner and waiting for the cake to be cut.
“Nixon, people are looking,” I say, and only partly for my benefit. I know how he feels about crowds. I know how he feels about people knowing his business. This is not going to be a good situation for him if we don’t get out of here soon.
“I don’t care,” he replies, and his voice is growing louder, more confident. There’s no trace of his previous qualms about crowds or publicity. The only part of him that betrays any nerves at all is his hands, which are clutching mine fairly tightly. “I came here because I needed to tell you something, something I should have told you a long time ago.”
And then that fucking DJ lowers the music. Now everyone is paying attention. Like we’re the main event.
His eyes are steady as he looks at me, unblinking and unwavering. “Delaney, I love you. I love you because you’re smart, and fierce, and beautiful. I love you because even though I put you through hell, you’ve somehow managed to keep a backbone of steel. You never give up, and you never duck out. And you never let me get away with anything. You make me better. I know I didn’t do a good job of showing it. Our relationship meant a lot more to me than I wanted to let on, or maybe I didn’t even realize it myself until it was gone. But being without you has been a living hell. And I’ve come here to tell you that I don’t want it to go on like this. I love you, and
I need you. Please come back to me.”
My mouth drops open. I’m totally speechless.
Which is fine, because apparently, he’s not done.
Nixon Blake drops to one knee in front of me, looking up at me with those piercing blue eyes from beneath his dark lashes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, black velvet box. He pops it open, revealing a vintage diamond ring. And even though I know he’s got enough money to buy the Hope Diamond, he was clearly thinking of me when he picked this ring out. It’s sizable, but still appears delicate, with platinum filigree and little tiny diamonds flanking the center stone. It’s gorgeous, and it’s so very me.
“Please say you’ll marry me. I can’t imagine my life without you, Delaney Masterson.”
“Holy shit,” is all I can say at first. Because of all the things I imagined Nixon Blake saying if I ever saw him again, a proposal was not among them. And especially not a public proposal.
And speaking of, this is totally upstaging my sister’s wedding right now, which is not cool. I quickly glance over to the head table, where Miranda and Brad are perched side by side. But she doesn’t look mad. Instead, she’s beaming. And then she quickly nods and mouths say yes.
I look back down at Nixon, who’s still kneeling on the floor in front of me, a beautiful, perfect ring in his hand and the promise of forever on his lips.
“Yes,” I say, the smile on my face growing wider by the second. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before Nixon is on his feet, his arms wrapped around my waist as he lifts me to him, his lips covering mine. It’s perfect and familiar and like we never parted. And all around us, people are applauding and cheering, my sister and her new husband included.
