The Rule Breaker

by Cat Carmine

  “Emma, seriously.” Solange sighs. I think I might have finally succeeded in pushing her last button. “You’re going to be fine. You could do this in your sleep. You’re smart, you’re poised, you look great, and you know this stuff inside and out.”

  I give her a wan smile, and then chug half the bottle of water. My dry mouth feels better, but the liquid is sloshing around in my stomach. Maybe not such a good idea. I screw the cap back on and set the bottle down on the glass coffee table, then pace around the room again. I can do this, right? Everyone else seems to think so, and maybe they know better than me.

  “You must be Emma!”

  The voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I look up to see Charlotte Cross, one the show’s two hosts, striding into the room. She looks incredible in a deep purple fitted jacket and satiny top, with her dark hair pulled back in a neat chignon. She’s just a year or two older than me, but her rise from beat reporter to morning show host has had her on every “People to Watch” list in the city.

  For a second, I’m so starstruck that I forget to be nervous. “Yes, hi. It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Cross.”

  “Oh, please, call me Charlie.” She shakes my hand. “I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you on the show. I’ve given copies of your book to all my single girlfriends. Though, between you and I, I don’t think you’re going to convince any of them to give up casual sex. Might as well have some fun while you’re waiting for Mr. Right, right?”

  “Right,” I smile nervously, wiping my hands on my skirt.

  “Anyway, I just came over to walk you through how this morning is going to go. Make-up will be here in about five minutes to get you ready. The show starts at seven, and as Solange probably discussed with you, we’re going to have you appear in two different segments. The first will be about twenty minutes after we go live — you’ll come out on stage, sit in the chair across from me, and I’ll ask you some questions about the book and why you wrote it, nothing too difficult, just an easy, quick, ten-minute chat. Then, at the top of the hour, we’re going to bring you back on, and you’re going to field some questions from our audience. That all sound good?”

  I nod. “Yes. I think I can handle it.” I try to smile. Ignore the bile, ignore the bile.

  “Of course you can handle it.” Charlie laughs. “You’re Miss Emma. Just go out there and be yourself.”

  My mouth snaps closed. Be myself. Right. I barely even know who that is anymore.

  Charlie seems oblivious to my discomfort. She checks her watch, and then puts her hands on both my shoulders. “Okay. I have to get back out there. Deep breaths. You’re going to do great.”

  I wish I had as much confidence in me as she does. I give her one more wimpy smile as she sashays out the door, and then I’m whisked away by a make-up artist who appears to be about sixteen years old and a size zero. After that, everything is a blur.

  That is, right up until the moment that I’m escorted backstage, tucked behind a sound wall, fitted with a lav mic on the collar of my blouse, and told to wait for Charlie to give me my cue to come join her on stage.

  Oh God. This is it. Even from here I can feel the heat of the stage lights. I can hear Charlotte and her co-anchor, Derek Reed, making witty banter about potholes and the 7th Avenue road construction. I can practically feel the audience breathing and rustling and waiting to judge me. Here comes the bile again.

  “Well, we have a real treat this morning,” I hear Charlotte saying, and my stomach bottoms out. “We have Emma Holloway here in the studio with us. Of course, you know her from her Miss Emma advice column, and more recently, she’s written a book called Miss Emma’s Rules for Dating: A Guide to Modern Relationships. Please join me in giving a warm welcome to … Miss Emma!”

  A producer with a clipboard taps me on the elbow, and I walk on robotic legs out onto the stage. The heat from the lights is worse out here and they glare in my eyes. Charlie is smiling warmly at me, and I try to focus on her and completely ignore the audience. I find the mental capacity to shake her hand again, give her a half-hearted hug, and sit myself down in the tan leather seat across from her. Okay, I managed to not mess that part up. Now to just breathe and get through the rest of this thing.

  “Congratulations on your new book,” Charlie is saying. “I would love to know how you got into this business — what does it take to be an advice columnist?”

  I give her my best winning smile. “Well, I’ve always been a bit of a perfectionist — and a know-it-all, if you ask my sisters — so this seemed like a natural career path.”

  The audience laughs politely. I relax the tiniest bit. You know what? I might just survive this.

  “But seriously,” I continue, still smiling. “I’ve always felt passionate about helping people live their best life. Sometimes we can’t see the errors in our own ways, and we need someone to point them out to us. I try to do that for people.”

  “Living their best life, I love that,” Charlie says warmly. “So the rules in your book … is that how people can live their best life?”

  “Absolutely.” I fold my hands in my lap. I’m actually starting to relax into this. It’s all coming back to me, the reasons I’d written the damn book in the first place. “Normally, when people write to me, they’ve already gotten themselves into a mess and they’re looking for my help in how to fix it. So the book is kind of like a pre-emptive strike, in that sense — if you follow the rules, you shouldn’t get yourself into those kind of messes to begin with.”

  “And we all know dating in New York is pretty messy, don’t we ladies?” Charlie mugs for the audience, and they laugh and hoot in response.

  “Definitely,” I agree.

  Charlie turns back to me. “So tell us, Emma, how have the rules worked out for you?”

  A cold sweat covers my skin. “I’m sorry?” I ask, shifting uncomfortably. I can hear my blouse rustle against the lav mic, and I try to hold my shoulders straight.

  “Have these rules been working for you? Is there a Mr. Emma on the horizon anywhere?”

  My pulse thuds in my ears. I anticipated this question, and I’d planned to brush it off with a simple comment about how I prefer not to discuss my personal life, but now that it’s floating in the air between us and Charlie is looking at me so expectantly, the words aren’t coming.

  “Well, it’s …” I swallow, and try to start again. “You know, it’s …”

  My throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.

  “So no one special right now, I take it,” Charlie says, trying to cover for me like a good host.

  “No.” Except saying it like that feels like a fiery arrow through my heart. “Well, there was. Someone special, I mean. But he … I … we…”

  Suddenly Charlotte’s hand is on my knee, and she’s thrusting a box of tissues at me. That’s when I realize … Oh God. I’m crying. Not just crying, but sobbing. On air.

  The audience goes strangely quiet. I blot my eyes and try to laugh.

  “I’m sorry. Now you all know the truth — break-ups aren’t easy, even if you write an advice column and supposedly know what you’re doing.”

  Charlie’s hand is still on my knee, and she squeezes it. “Girlfriend, I hear that. I think we all hear that. Right, ladies?”

  The audience starts cheering, and I bubble over with nervous laughter. I’d never thought I’d get a round of applause for going through a break-up. That has to be a first.

  “Anyway, you’ve got your rulebook right here,” Charlie says, holding up her pristine copy of my book. “So once you’re ready to get back on the horse, you’ll find yourself someone new in no time.”

  I know her words are supposed to make me feel better, but they set off another wave of hot, salty tears.

  “That’s the thing,” I hiccup, yanking out another fistful of tissues. “I don’t want another guy. I want this guy. But the rules don’t work on him, because there’s nothing he seems to like more than busting his way through them.”
<
br />   “Uh oh … a rule breaker, is he?”

  I half-laugh, half-sob. “The ultimate rule breaker. And you know what? I like that about him. When I’m with him I feel … free.”

  “Wow, Emma … so, um…” Charlie looks down at the copy of my book that’s in her lap and thumbs through the pages. “So, back to the rules…”

  “Fuck the rules,” I blurt. The audience gasps. Off stage, I can see Solange giving me the cut motion, slicing her hand rapidly back and forth across her throat, but I throw my hands up in the air. I’ve already royally fucked up this interview, so there’s no going back. “You know, sometimes I wish I’d never written this book.”

  Oh yeah, I’m really on a roll now.

  I grab the copy of my book out of Charlie’s lap. She gasps as if I’m going to hit her. Can’t say I blame her — she probably thinks I’m a complete nut job.

  “I mean, what even is this…,” I vent, as I flip through the pages. “Don’t call him? Don’t let him know how much you like him? Keep your legs closed until date six? You know what? I broke every single one of those rules, and I still fell in love with an amazing guy. And I think he might have fallen for me, too, if I hadn’t insisted on being such a bitch to him.”

  The waterworks are on again, and tears are streaking down my cheeks. Solange is bright red in the face, but Charlie and the rest of the audience are hanging on my every word.

  “It’s bullshit, is what it is.” The audience gasps again. Ah, fuck them all, the prudes. “This whole book is bullshit.” I grab it in my two hands and tear it apart at the spine.

  Or at least I try to. Damn, that’s some good binding. The thing doesn’t even tear a little. I settle for opening it up and ripping out a few pages at a time, letting them flutter to the studio floor around me. It feels satisfying as hell, at least for the first few handfuls. Then I start to realize that I’m sitting on a tan leather seat, across from Charlotte Cross, ripping my book apart on live television.

  I drop the whole thing into my lap and blink up at Charlie, as if coming out of a trance.

  She recovers quickly and winks at me. “I think that about brings us to our first commercial break. Let’s, uh, let’s have a hand for Emma Holloway.”

  There is awkward polite applause until the camera man shouts “Clear!”

  The whole studio is enveloped in stunned silence.

  Twenty-Eight

  I spend the rest of the week dividing my time between the office and Lacy’s hospital room. She and Brendan haven’t wanted to fly back with the baby yet, so my parents got them set up in a private room that’s as well appointed as the best hotels. My father is puffed up like a peacock about being a grandfather, and he’s already determined to spare no expense for the baby or Lacy. Even Brendan doesn’t seem to be in the doghouse anymore, despite being the no-good bum who swept my sister off to California in the first place.

  I still haven’t talked to my father about my plan for Good Grant Books, but I’m working on it. I’ve spent the last week pouring over every inch of our financials, our past annual reports, our forecasts. Industry reports don’t paint an encouraging picture of the publishing industry, but I know that Good Grant Books could be doing better than it is. I just have to prove that to my father, and prove to him that I’m still the man to lead the charge.

  I get my opportunity on Tuesday, when I run into him in the parking lot of the hospital. We’re both on our way in to see Lacy. Dad’s clutching a big blue stuffed rabbit in one arm and a fistful of balloons in the other. He looks serene and grandfatherly, and I figure it’s the perfect time to hit him up, when he’s feeling all gooey and soft.

  “How’s the search for the new CEO going?” I ask, easing into the subject as we cross through the doors into the hospital lobby.

  My father grunts a response, but I can see the red starting to creep up the back of his neck. Okay, so he’s still pissed. Good to know. I decide that honesty is going to be my best option.

  “Look, Dad, I know you’re angry at me, and I know you have every right to be. But what happened at the gala wasn’t me not caring about the job. Because — and this probably comes as a surprise for both of us — it turns out I really like working for your company. And I’m not ready to leave.”

  The elevator doors swing closed behind us, and I know I have him captive now. I take another deep breath.

  “I want to keep the job.”

  My father looks up at me, meeting my eyes for the first time since we connected in the parking lot. I can’t read the expression in them. Forty years in business have made him as inscrutable as a rock lobster.

  “Interviews are this week,” is all he says.

  My mind turns. That’s a lot faster and sooner than I was expecting. Maybe I underestimated how pissed at me he is.

  “Then let me throw my hat in the ring,” I say. I try to keep my voice cool, because pleading won’t work with him. “I’ve been working on some plans that will ensure Good Grant Books can increase their profits by at least forty percent over the next two years.”

  It seems I’ve said the magic word — profits — because my father nods slowly.

  “Fine. I’ll give you one chance. You’ll interview like everyone else, though. Thursday. I’ll have my secretary set something up. It’ll have to be early, because I have a full day.”

  “That’s fine,” I nod agreeably. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  My father grunts something I can’t make out, but then we’re heading down the hall towards Lacy’s room, and as soon as he spots his grandson, his sour expression turns into one of utter delight. It’s almost disorienting, how fast he morphs into the kindly grandfather role. I catch Lacy’s eye and shrug. We’ve both been shocked to see this side of our father, and there’s an optimistic part of me that’s hopeful we’ll see more of this guy. It’s nice, for once, to have a father who’s focused on something other than the bottom line.

  Wednesday night, the night before my meeting with my father, I work through my plan again, reviewing the numbers and cross-checking the projections. Keagan has helped me format it into a slick-looking presentation, because he’s a whiz at that sort of thing, and for the millionth time I feel grateful for his support since I’ve been here. I make a vow to myself that, even if my father hires a new CEO, I’ll do everything to make sure Keagan gets to keep his job.

  I grab a beer out of the fridge and start rehearsing the presentation. I know it all by heart anyway, but I’m determined to give it my all when I meet with my father. Even more than knowing the details, he needs to see that I’m committed to the job, that I’m willing to put in the effort and do this thing for real. That means I have to be more prepared than I’ve ever been for anything.

  I’m meeting my father at seven o’clock the next morning — he really wasn’t joking about fitting me in early — and I hit the sack around midnight so that I can get some decent sleep.

  In theory, at least. In reality, I end up lying there, staring at the ceiling.

  One hour ticks by, and then two, and then I sit up and turn on the bedside lamp. I scrub my hands over my face in frustration, then go get a bottle of water and pace around the apartment for twenty minutes while I drink it.

  By the time I climb back into bed, I’m still wide awake, so instead of turning off the lamp, I grab Emma’s book off my nightstand.

  I thumb through it wistfully. I haven’t spoken to her since the night she walked out on me at the gala. I’ve been trying to focus on my interview and preparing for this presentation. I thought that trying to win Emma back would be a distraction, and that it would be better to focus on work and then try to fix things with her once the dust had settled on the work front.

  It hasn’t really worked out that way. Because not an hour has gone by this week where I haven’t thought about Emma. About her laugh, her smile, her amazing body or her perfect face. About the way she really listens when I talk — most people in my life have never really taken me seriously, but Emma listens t
o my ideas and is never anything but supportive. I think about the way she lets herself be vulnerable with me, and about the way she gets embarrassed about it later and tries to nestle back into her shell. I think about the perfect way we fit together, not just in bed, but out of it, too.

  I flip to the front page of the book, where she’d scrawled her autograph for me that first night we’d met. That was the night I knew that there was something special about that girl, and not just because we’d ended up fucking in the bathroom. Her humor, her spark, her intelligence, the tiny way she moaned when she sipped her wine — all of it captivated me.

  “Just say no,” I say out loud, reading the inscription she’d written above her name. Even now, it makes me laugh. That’s the spark, exactly. That stubborn, feisty streak. She’s kept me on my toes since day one, and I love her for it.

  The words hit me like a ton of bricks. Because … I do. I love her.

  I look down at the inscription and realize I don’t want to just say no. I want Emma back. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to convince her that we belong together, even if I have to spend my entire life working on it.

  Tomorrow, I decide. As soon as my interview with my father is over, I’m going to figure out how to get Emma Holloway back in my bed for good.

  The main Good Grant Media offices are in lower Manhattan, not too far from our publishing offices. I show up just before seven, trying to look bright-eyed and alert. I’ve already downed an extra-large cappuccino to try to compensate for the fact that I didn’t get a single minute of sleep last night, but I feel jittery and on edge. I take a few deep breaths while I ride the elevator up to the thirtieth floor.