by Tamara Lush
A puzzled look spreads across his face. “A ruler? Why does a publisher need a ruler? Are you drawing a lot of straight lines for an art project? Measuring things in centimeters?”
I wave the thin, flexible guide in the air, and it makes the waka-waka noise that I loved as a child. “It’s called a pica pole. It’s how the copy desk at a newspaper used to measure column inches before computers. See?” I point to black marks on one side. “This measures in traditional inches. This other side in picas. It was also useful for ripping wire copy, laying out page dummies, whatever.”
Rafa gets up and walks to me. “May I see?”
I hand him the ruler.
He inspects it and grins wide. With a snap of his wrist, he slices it through the air, as if he’s going to hit something with it. Or someone. He looks at me and makes the motion with the ruler again.
My eyes grow big at the sound of the metal whizzing noise, and I have a memory from years ago of Rafa spanking me with a hairbrush. I swallow, suddenly overcome with want and need and a desire to do very naughty things right in my office with this arrogant, frustrating man.
“May I borrow this?” he asks.
I make an outraged huff. “For what purpose? This is a piece of newspaper history.”
He snickers as he slides the pica pole into his computer bag.
I inhale short, sharp, shallow breaths.
“Out.” I point at the door. “Go get your damned coffee.”
12
The Mind of Love
I normally don’t care how I look at work. I don’t want to say I’ve let myself go—I still run a few days a week, well, maybe not quite that much, not in between cocktail hours and bottomless mimosa brunches—but I’m not into makeup and cute dresses like I once was, back when I was in college. Back when I lived with Rafa. Back when I was young.
Now that he’s here, I’m constantly fiddling with my face and even slipped a compact in my purse this morning so I could check myself throughout the day. I can’t recall when I’ve worn a skirt two days in a row. I’m touching up my glossy pink lipstick in the bathroom mirror when Diana walks in, sobbing.
“Oh God, what’s wrong?” I wrap my arms around her, figuring her hormones must be raging this late in the pregnancy. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need to go home?”
“It’s…it’s Scott.”
“What? What happened with Scott?”
“He got laid off. They cut him and another cameraman, one reporter, and three producers. Apparently WFSF’s corporate owners were pissed about the latest ratings.”
I swear out loud while cradling Diana and stroking her hair. We’ve been friends since kindergarten and went to the same university five hours’ south in Miami. My father gave Diana a job in finance after she graduated from business school, and she’d eventually worked her way to the top of the paper’s masthead. Scott’s a TV news shooter, and this is their first baby.
She’s like my sister, and I know she’s scared shitless right now.
“It’ll be okay. Scott’s really talented and has lots of connections. He’ll get something fast. I know he will. I’ll also put in a call to the news director of the stations in Jacksonville.”
Diana pulls away and wipes her cheeks with her palms. “Thanks. We’ll see. It’s so terrifying. I’m about to pop with this baby, and our finances are so uncertain. It sucks. Being an adult is so hard, Justine.”
“Adulting totally sucks.” I swallow a lump in my throat. Diana and Scott have an underwater mortgage. Scott’s layoff won’t leave them homeless because Diana makes a decent salary—maintaining her paycheck was one of the reasons I decided to forego my own for the past few months.
But if our paper goes bankrupt… I don’t even want to think about that. I break away from Diana and slump with my back against the mirror. My headache has returned with an incessant pain, like a tiny man is jackhammering in my forehead.
She wipes away her tears. “I keep thinking about what I would do if I didn’t have this job and the insurance. I’m so worried about the future of the paper. But things will work out. Rafa’s going to help, right? I’ve been getting the paperwork ready for him. I hope it’s what he wants.”
Diana looks at me with hopeful blue eyes. I nod. She knows better than anyone how dismal things are at the paper. My stomach churns thinking about what she’s going through.
“DeeDee…” I use my childhood nickname for her, something I normally never do. “DeeDee, I wish I could give you a raise, slip you five hundred dollars, buy you groceries, and book a foot rub at that spa we went to when you first found out you were pregnant.”
Diana shakes her head and purses her lips. She knows my own financial situation is precarious, and I’m a car repair and one medical emergency away from disaster myself. My inheritance and my dad’s life insurance are dwindling by the month.
I take a deep breath. “Okay. Everything’s going to be fine. We’re solid. Rafael’s going to help us. Promise.”
Am I lying to my best friend? Sort of, I guess. Although maybe Rafael will help us. But being in limbo like this is giving me a wicked case of heartburn. I put a hand on my chest, and my esophagus feels like I’ve swallowed fire.
“I can come back to work earlier, you know, after I have the baby. We hadn’t planned for Scott to stay home, but maybe now—”
“No,” I say, reaching to squeeze her arm. “Absolutely not. We agreed you’d take at least four months’ maternity leave, and that’s what you’re going to do. I want my godchild’s first few months on this planet to be newspaper-free. Everything will be okay. We’ll make it through. We always have, right?”
“I think I’m scared because the baby is almost here. Excited and scared.”
I break away from Diana and pluck a tissue out of a box on the counter.
“I’m sorry, Justine. I didn’t want to make you cry. Are you thinking about what happened with you and Rafael and your—”
“No. Not at all,” I interrupt and lie again. I’m normally brutally honest, but my nerves are frayed and I’m retreating into myself. “I’m upset about Scott and, yeah, a little tense because Rafa’s here.”
“He looks so determined when he stares at you. I think he’s still in love with you.”
“No,” I say softly, thinking of the angry tone in his voice last night. “He’s not.”
Diana wipes her nose and shoots me a sly smile. “Have you hooked up with him?”
I open my mouth to tell Diana about what happened the night before, but stop.
“No. I haven’t. We kept things professional at dinner. It’s all good. Really.”
Diana shrugs. “I totally wouldn’t blame you if you did. He is a fine piece of man candy.”
“Even in your darkest moments, you’re still thinking of sex. Nice.” We laugh, and I give her another quick hug, then leave the bathroom. Normally, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell my best friend about my deepest thoughts. Diana and I have no filters; even her husband Scott is sometimes horrified at the level of detail we discuss about intimate things. But I’m so shaken by how Rafael has made me feel that I don’t dare mention how I’m feeling. Once I unleash my emotions, there’s no telling what I might do.
I need to remain in tight control for the entire time he’s here.
I shuffle out of the bathroom and find Rafa leaning against my office doorframe, eyeing the deliverymen arranging the new, sleek furniture in my office.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t mind the style, but I hate the message it sends to everyone at the paper. So, no, I don’t like it.”
“Perhaps the employees will think you’re finally investing in the place and it will give them a measure of confidence.” He looks sharp and collected, like the new, modern furniture. He’s shucked the suit jacket, and his white shirtsleeves are rolled up. I shift my eyes away from his muscled forearms. And his hands. And his lips. Dammit. My gaze settles on his earlobe. No, that’s not safe, either, becau
se I can only think of how I traced it with my tongue the night before. I focus on my black stilettos—I’m wearing the same ones as yesterday—and wonder if everyone can see the Band-Aids on my heel. My shoes look worn next to his supple black leather ones.
“You finally got the expensive suits and shoes, didn’t you? You look good in them, Rafecito. It’s as if you’re waiting for a casting call at a fashion magazine.”
He grins. “I like it so much better when you’re flirting with me. Let’s take a break. I’d like to get some air.”
I hold up my hand. “One second, I need to check my email on my phone since you’ve barred me from working in my office with all this chaos.” I scroll through my account, still shaky from my conversation with Diana. My phone comforts me and makes me feel tethered to reality somehow. A meaningless reality, but a solid one, nonetheless.
Charity fundraiser. News release about the mayor’s new recycling program. An invitation to speak at the Chamber of Commerce. Blah, blah, blah.
I tap on an email from my friend and mentor, an older woman named Lynne who works at a newspaper in Tampa. Lynne won a Pulitzer for investigative reporting and had been in Florida newspapers for forty years. She’d taken me under her wing when I was an eighteen-year-old intern. My dad had pulled strings and gotten me the internship right before I started university. The pre-Rafael days of my existence. I'd had such a great summer at that internship, learned so much from Lynne, then came home to get ready for university. That's when the crash happened.
My dad had made me start school, alone, two weeks after watching my mom and brother die. Dad said being busy was good for me, would take away the grief. Lynne checked in on me every week back then, even came to Miami once to visit.
I scan her email, then reread every word. Incredulous, I clap my hand over my mouth and choke back a sob.
Hey, kiddo. I wanted you to know that I got laid off from the Post today. I didn’t want you reading it on any of the blogs. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. The Post is getting rid of all of its old-timers. We cost too much. Maybe I can freelance for you? Ha. The biz ain’t what it used to be. Call me when you can. Love, L.
Unfuckingbelieveable. Lynne is one of the top journalists in the state, if not the nation. Newspapers can’t afford to lose reporters like her. Taking a deep breath to beat back the tears, I toss my phone in my purse and nod at Rafa.
“Let’s go to the park nearby,” I say in a shaky voice.
His hand is on the small of my back as he guides me out the door. I don’t have the energy to squirm away because I’m too absorbed in the news about Lynne and Diana’s husband. Can this day get any worse?
Rafa and I walk in silence, my legs heavy. Some long-buried instinct makes me want to reach for his hand. I crave his touch, especially now. Instead, I keep my distance.
Because the paper’s close to the city’s historic downtown, we’re slowed by several groups gawking at the oldest schoolhouse. Rafa again puts his hand on my back and steers me away from the crowds. At one point, he’s so frustrated by the slow-moving tourists that he grabs my hand and pulls me around them.
“You haven’t gained any patience in the last decade.” He’s practically yanking me down the sidewalk, but I feel protected as he steers me.
“Our time together is precious, muñeca.”
We finally reach a clearing in the sidewalk. He drops my hand and my stomach sinks.
We come to a small park with a mosaic tile fountain a few blocks from the paper, and Rafa points to a bench. We sit on the hard, wooden surface, under one of many palm trees dotting the little park. It’s humid for February, and the air is sticking to my skin like plastic wrap on pudding.
“Did I bring you here when we were in school?” I ask.
“You don’t remember?”
I shake my head, dejected, and turn my body away. There’s too much swirling in my brain to remember anything.
“You told me it was one of your favorite places in St. Augustine. I recall exactly what you said: ‘It seems almost wrong to bring another person here…’”
I finish the sentence: “‘…because it’s my private spot.’”
Now I remember. In high school, I was a dreamy, flighty girl. I’d spent so many moments alone on this bench, meditating, thinking about how I could love my hometown so much and yet be so lonely. After the car crash, I used to come here to think about my mom and my brother and to get away from everyone’s questions. Something about the palm trees and the big, pink hibiscus calmed me. I’d even come here in recent weeks to think about the paper’s problems.
I twist in my seat to look at him and my breath hitches.
Rafa takes up the middle of the bench and sprawls his arms on the back and stretches his legs. His knee nearly touches mine. Smiling, his eyes are closed and his long lashes almost brush his sharp cheekbones. He inhales deep, as if he’s drawing strength from the sun. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, and the skin of his throat and chest look warm and golden in the late-day light.
This man was once mine, a fact that seems difficult to believe because he’s so well put together and I’m such a mess.
But I can’t forget that I walked away from him to save my own life. I need to listen to my head and not my heart; usually, I’m good at this. Since he’s arrived, I feel like I barely know myself or recall the basics of common sense.
“Justine Marie Lavoie.” The way he says my full name in his Miami-Cuban accent softens my sadness.
I avert my eyes because my feelings are all over the place. How can I want to cry because of the dismal state of journalism and feel the need climb into his lap and kiss his neck? How can I be so willing to forgive the reason why I left him in the first place? And since he probably knows that I’m upset, why won’t he put his arms around me?
God. I can’t believe my train of thought is so confused. I’m a business owner. A grown woman. None of it makes sense, especially since I’m normally so hard-assed and even-keeled at work. It seems as though my past with Rafa and my future in newspapers is making everything in the present moment go sideways. I scowl at a purple-flowered jacaranda tree as if it’s offending me personally.
“Justine? Why are you upset?”
His ability to still read my emotions and my expressions is uncanny. Sniffling, I rummage around for a tissue in my purse.
“You probably don’t remember her, but my mentor, Lynne, sent me an email. She was laid off from The Post today. I can’t believe they would do that. A Pulitzer winner. It’s horrible what’s happening to the newspaper industry.”
“I’m sorry. I do remember her. You used to talk about her non-stop.”
I stare at a squirrel clinging to the trunk of a palm tree. “It’s a bad time for newspapers.”
Rafa shrugs. “Yes. It is. But it’s the perfect time to invest in a newspaper. It’s like a fire sale.”
I turn to him, eyes blazing with anger. Any desire I had to kiss him has evaporated. “You know, it’s people like you—the bean counters and financiers and Wall Street—that have killed my industry.”
Rafa sweeps a lock of hair out of my face with his index finger, and I have to restrain myself not to slap him. I’m shocked at how volatile my emotions are around him. At the paper, I’m known for my control and steely calm.
He twists the lock around his finger.
“No, muñequita. It’s people like you and your father who ignored the reality of the Internet and didn’t do anything about it until it was too late. It’s people like you who gave your product away for free. And it’s people like me who might actually help your industry.”
I hate him in that moment, because he’s right. I inhale and count to five as I exhale. “You called me doll in Spanish. Stop. That’s so sexist. I’ve told you that before.”
“No. I called you little doll. You speak Spanish. You know the difference between muñeca and muñequita.” He lets go of my hair and trails the back of his finger down my cheek, a touch that makes
my skin spark.
How dare he make fun of me when I’m so upset? Is he gaslighting me?
“You’ve become so arrogant. I hate everything you stand for. You became exactly what you wanted, didn’t you? Rich and soulless.”
Rafael chuckles. “That might be true, mi muñequita. But right now, I’m the only one who can help you. Think about it this way: What would your father have wanted you to do in this situation?”
I fold my arms in front of my chest. My father would have wanted me to do anything to save our family’s legacy.
“So. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Ah. Yes. I was talking to a woman at the paper named Brittany…”
I wince. Brittany is a lovely, bubbly girl. Gorgeous, with long, blonde hair and bright green eyes. A perfect Florida girl. “Brittany in circulation?”
He nods. “She told me about a pirate ball tonight. It’s part of some festival. I think I want to go. Gauge what people think about the paper. I like to do my research before I invest in something.”
I roll my eyes. “The pirate ball. Well, have fun. Brittany loves that pirate crap. She’ll be a great date for you. Oh, and she’s single, in case you were wondering. I think you’re her type. She’d love to snag a rich guy from Miami.”
He grins flirtatiously and licks the side of his mouth. “Are you jealous?”
I snort. “What? Me? Jealous of Brittany? Hell, no. She’s twenty-three.”
“I think you might be jealous.”
“What are we, in seventh grade? What kind of conversation is this? Go to the stupid pirate ball with Brittany.”
Unblinking, he stares at my mouth, which is sticky with pink gloss. I suddenly feel ridiculous and old.
“I don’t want to go with Brittany. I don’t like blondes. I’m not here to spend time with Brittany.”
