by Sara Whitney
“Welcome back to— Wow, what happened to your hand?” The desk clerk’s question stopped him.
Jake bit back a groan. All he wanted to do was retreat to his room, but he’d been raised too well to be rude to the woman in the pixie cut.
“Oh, uh, I had a little slipup.” He kept his hand by his side, not wanting to prolong the conversation as she winced sympathetically.
“Looks awful. Do you need Band-Aids or anything? I’m Thea, by the way. I’ve noticed you coming and going all month. Jake, right?”
Thea leaned over the counter for a better look at his hand, testing the tensile strength of the fabric covering her upper body. He needed to get out of there before somebody got hit with flying buttons from her shirt.
He started to walk on, then paused midstride when a thought struck him. He might not be able to force Mabel to listen to his apology, and he might not have any say in his city of residence for the foreseeable future, but he could control his living arrangements.
“I need an apartment with a month-by-month lease,” he told Thea. “Got any suggestions on where I should look?”
Her bright-eyed expression dimmed. “Oh, you’re checking out?”
“Well, I can’t keep living on takeout and minifridge food.” His attempt at a smile was probably ghastly, but it was all he had left in his tank.
“Oh sure. I understand.” Her smile was plenty sincere as she pulled out her phone and scribbled something on a scrap of paper, then leaned the top of her body across the desk again to push it toward him.
“Here. My landlord’s number. It’s a nice complex on the north end of town. Mostly young professionals, not many kids. Clean, quiet. Flexible leases.”
“Sold,” Jake said. “Thanks.”
“My number’s on there too. Maybe we’ll end up on the same floor!” she called hopefully after him, but he was already crossing to the elevators.
In his room, he punched the landlord’s number into his phone and explained his situation: temporarily in town, immediate move-in preferred. The man agreed to meet Jake in an hour, so he ended the call and prepared to head back out.
Living in a hotel had been a respite from his real life. He’d been able to leave the pressures of promotion and partnership up in Chicago and enjoy spending time with a pretty girl. Moving into a regular apartment would force him back into a routine: up early, gym, office, home, cook dinner, early to bed. Focus on work. Forget about anything personal. It’s what he did up north. It’s the stability he should be craving. So why did it sound so fucking empty?
Two hours later, Jake’s credit had checked out and the property manager was showing him around the apartment complex. It was big for Beaucoeur—six buildings, twenty units in each—and he had his choice between the two available furnished apartments that were in move-in condition: one was a first-floor apartment that faced the parking lot, and the other was a fifth-floor apartment that faced the lake in the center of the complex.
Fifth floor. No contest.
Jake followed the property manager into the apartment and took thirty seconds to examine the kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bathroom. White walls, beige carpet, tan countertops. It was all clean, functional, and lifeless. Perfect for the way his downstate life was shaping up, in other words.
“I’ll take it,” Jake said. “Month-by-month lease.”
“You got it.” The manager awkwardly shook Jake’s uninjured left hand. “You might need to hit a furniture store to pick up an extra lamp or two, maybe something for the walls. Want a suggestion?”
Like he gave a shit about the bare walls. “Nah, I’m good.” Furniture stores were all tied up with memories of Mabel.
Some emotion must have flashed across his face, because the manager shot him a knowing grin. “Ah, I see how it is. You got a girl to help you decorate.”
Great. Now even strangers were rubbing it in.
“No. No girl,” Jake replied evenly.
“Oh, gotcha. Sure. Bitches, am I right?” The manager sized up the situation without missing a beat. “Come back to the office and we’ll get the paperwork finished. Then the place is yours for as long as you need it.”
Jake started to follow him out when his phone buzzed. His heartbeat kicked up, but he played it cool. “Actually, can I meet you down there? I need to check my messages.”
The manager vacated the apartment, leaving Jake to turn into a thirteen-year-old, scrambling to pull his phone out of his pocket to see if it was her.
It wasn’t, and disappointment lodged in his chest at the notification that he’d missed a call from Milo, the only man under the age of thirty to still leave voicemails. Today’s asked, “Why aren’t you back in Chicago yet? I need somebody to share this new bottle of Glenfiddich with.”
That sounded like the perfect end to this shitty day; too bad he was three hours south. He grabbed a seat on the couch, the thumb on his noninjured hand moving slowly across the screen as he texted back: Sorry. My exile continues. After he hit Send, he let the phone fall to the cushion next to him and dropped his head into his hands. He was supposed to be having dinner with Mabel tonight. Instead, he’d be sucking down a protein shake alone in his hotel. For the first time in ages, it really did feel like exile.
Swallowing his disappointment, he opened a browser on his phone, into which he’d started searching good local restaurants to take a date, and googled a different number. After a quick phone call, he headed down the five flights of stairs with a hand swaddled in white cotton and a heart swaddled in misery to sign a lease on an apartment he didn’t want in a town that was suddenly much less inviting than it had been twelve hours ago.
Fifteen
Mabel slowed to a walk at the end of the running trail, her chest heaving. She’d stormed home from the station and immediately changed into stretchy clothes, then set off on a punishing run to empty her mind through copious amounts of sweat.
It had worked for a time, particularly since September was reluctant to let go of its summertime temperatures. But now she was on the cooldown jog back to her house, and the fury, fear, and betrayal started edging back in. Before the emotional tide threatened to engulf her again though, she spotted Dave’s car parked in her driveway. She bumped her pace up to a lope as she approached his driver-side window. It was down, and he had his seat reclined and his eyes closed.
“Been waiting long?” She grabbed the doorframe and startled him upright.
“Long enough that I was worried I’d become one of those dogs that has to be rescued from a car in the mall parking lot when their owners forget them on a summer day.”
He adjusted his eternally askew glasses, and Mabel rolled her eyes.
“You have a spare key, weirdo. You could’ve waited inside.”
He got out of the car and followed her onto the porch. “My God, what have you been up to? You’re disgusting.”
Mabel unlocked her door and ushered him in. “I went for a run.”
“In hell?”
“I’m not that sweaty!” Then she spied her reflection in the entryway mirror and winced at her blotchy red face and the tank top glued to her chest with dark patches of sweat. “Okay, maybe I am that sweaty. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge while I take a quick shower.”
In ten minutes, Mabel was clean and clothed in cutoff sweatpants and an oversized Rayman College T-shirt, her wet hair turbaned to keep it from dripping everywhere. Dave was stretched out full-length on her couch, resting a bottle of beer on his stomach.
“I made you a mojito.” He pointed in the vicinity of the table next to her overstuffed chair, and she settled herself in cross-legged and reached for the sweating glass, moaning when the sharp aroma tickled her nose.
“You brought your own fresh mint! You, sir, are my bestest friend.”
They held up their glasses for an air clink since they weren’t sitting close enough to actually touch beverage containers, and Dave waited until Mabel had swallowed her first gulp to ask, “You doing okay?”
&nbs
p; “Not even a little.” She rattled the ice in her glass. “You?”
“Been better,” Dave said. “I filled Ana in. She’s outraged on our behalf and is already writing an angry letter to the Lowell CEO. My telling her that the CEO is That Arrogant Asshole’s father didn’t stop her. Oh, and that’s his official name now, by the way. All capitalized.”
“Suits him,” Mabel said darkly.
They both drank in silence for a moment, then she sighed. “What are we going to do? I’m no good without you.”
Dave twisted his neck to peer up at her from his reclined position.
“Bullshit. You carry me, Mae. You always have. What partner could I have who’s smarter or funnier or quicker on her feet?”
His praise both warmed her and reminded her of their new reality. “Sounds like you’ll have your choice of Babes. Whoever she is, she’ll be dumber but more stacked. Both crucial qualities for radio.” She took another sip, letting the sharp alcohol roll across her tongue as she reflected on what she’d just said. Bad feminism, Mabel. Very bad. “Okay, that’s not fair. The women who apply might be great. They could all very well be smart and funny and… Nope, I can’t do it. I’ll try not to be a total bitch about them, but it feels wretched to be told I’m getting replaced by somebody hotter.”
Tears filled her eyes at the admission, and Dave rolled over to face her.
“Don’t do that,” he chided. “They’re just propping up the morning side with cheap filler so I have somebody to riff off. That Arrogant Asshole obviously values you or he wouldn’t be putting you solo during drive time. It’s a compliment, even if it came off as an insult. Trust me. Everybody in that room today knows you’re sexier than any of the bimbos they’ll trot out for their public appearances.”
She gave him a watery smile. “You’re sweet, thanks. But if you’re trying to seduce me with words, you should know that I prefer bald men with neck tattoos.”
“Damn,” Dave said. A pause and then, “Speaking of people in that room today—”
“Don’t,” she snapped, unwinding the towel and letting her wet hair slither around her shoulders. She’d rather deal with a soggy T-shirt than explore that wound again. “We can talk about the show, we can talk about the station, we can talk about That Arrogant Asshole, and we can speculate about the required minimum cup size to be a Brick Bimbo—I’m thinking triple-D—but we’re not talking about him.”
Then the doorbell rang, and Mabel’s traitorous heart leaped in her chest. She smoothed her expression before Dave could catch the brief hope that flared on her face. As furious as she was, she still longed for Jake to be standing on her porch so he could explain that it hadn’t actually been him who’d reviewed the numbers, looking for ways to move her around like a chess piece on a board, who’d lied to her by omission during the weeks she’d been sinking farther and farther under the pull of his easy charm and his clever mind and his stupid good looks.
But it wasn’t him of course. A teenager in a red Lehman’s Floral polo shirt stood on the porch holding a potted orchid, its delicate woody stem studded with the most vivid purple blooms she’d ever seen.
The girl smiled broadly. “Before I hand this over to you, the sender wanted me to say this.” And here she consulted a note: “Please don’t throw the pot through a window until you’ve read the card.”
Mabel had, in fact, been considering that very action.
“For what it’s worth, he sounded really sorry on the phone,” the girl confided, handing over the orchid and bounding down Mabel’s front steps.
Mabel kicked the door shut behind her and carried the plant gingerly into her living room, holding it in front of her as if it might spit venom into her eyes if she shook it too much.
“So he went with the flowers after all.” Dave drained his beer and swung into an upright position.
“You talked to him?”
“I did. What do you want to know?”
Everything, of course. How he’d looked and sounded and smelled when he said it. But at the same time, she didn’t want any of that to matter to her. She settled on a lie. “Nothing. I don’t care.”
She walked around her living room in a circle, unsure of where to deposit her gift and finally setting it down in the middle of the coffee table directly in front of Dave.
“You going to open the envelope?”
She grabbed the small rectangle from the pot and turned it over in her hands before putting it back and slumping to the couch. “Oh, inevitably. I’m too curious not to. But I might cry when I do, and I don’t want you here for that, so I’ll wait.” Whatever was inside wouldn’t fix anything, but she’d still read every word of it.
Dave patted her shoulder and ambled to the kitchen to drop his empty bottle into the recycling bin, then plopped back down on the couch.
“He practically broke his hand punching the building after you left, bled all over his fancy suit.”
He punched the wall? He bled for her? The thought sent a thrill tingling through her veins, which was actually kind of a messed-up reaction. But hell, it was kind of a messed-up day.
“For what it’s worth,” Dave continued, “I think he probably did the best he could for us under the circumstances. And that’s the last I’m going to say about it, because it’s not my job to get you laid. Yuck.”
“Yuck,” Mabel repeated faintly, the memory of Jake’s big hand on her breast rising up and threatening to cut off all her oxygen.
“And listen, there’s no shame in being interested in a guy who looks like Superman.”
She huffed a soft, surprised laugh. “You think so too?”
“I’m not blind.” He wiggled his brows. “And not one of the low-rent TV Supermen. One of the classy movie Supermen.”
“Hey, some of my favorite Supermen are TV Supermen!” she objected, grateful for the temporary distraction.
“Reeve or bust,” he said. “Anyway, I’m glad you took a chance with him despite it all. It was brave.”
“It was stupid,” she muttered.
“Brave,” he repeated staunchly. “Say it with me.”
She rolled her eyes but did as he asked. “I’m the brave little toaster.”
“There you go!” He grabbed her shoulder and shook her gently until she laughed. How’d she get lucky enough to have Dave in her life?
He released her and leaned back to prop his feet on her coffee table, and only her affection for him in that moment kept her from ordering him to take his filthy shoes off first.
“Anyway,” he said, “back to more pressing issues. What are we going to do about the show?”
Mabel took another sip of her mojito as she considered it. “We could intentionally suck. Both of us, separate shows. Tank on purpose.”
Dave was already shaking his head. “No way. We both have too much professional pride for that.”
“Do we?” Easy for Dave to say; he was staying on the morning show. “At the very least, I could play deeply shitty music. Nothing but Nickelback.”
Dave said nothing, just stared levelly at her, and heat crept across her neck as she gave a little growl and slammed her empty glass down on the coffee table. “Fine. I key Brandon’s car then.”
“Pretty sure it’s a rental.”
She leaped to her feet and threw her arms into the air. “Join me in my sociopathy, won’t you?”
“That sociopathy’s all you, darlin’.”
She flopped back down on the couch, exhausted defeat dragging her back to earth. “Okay, best case? That Arrogant Asshole’s plans fail and neither of our shows gets the listeners he’s anticipating, and his world crashes down around him and his failures taste like bitter ash in his mouth. This would have the happy result of moving me back to the morning show, where our ratings will rebound.”
“Worst case,” Dave said, leaning forward and getting into the game, “I utterly fail on the new morning show with Ashley or Jezebel or Bobbi Lynn Sue, but that’s okay because she gets me to leave Ana for her and
we live happily ever after above the motorcycle repair shop where she and her five huge brothers work, while you thrive in your afternoon-drive shift, becoming ever more famous until you’re picked up by KIIS FM in LA. You move to California, become a deejay to the stars, marry a closeted Scientologist, and Bobbi Lynn Sue and I never hear from you again.”
Mabel tilted her head back in exaggerated thought. “Yeah, that’s obviously the worst of the worst-case scenarios. You’re right.”
“But seriously,” Dave said, “realistic case is that we have to go along with what Brandon’s asking. Do the best we can and hope that he sees it’s not working and puts us back together. And if he doesn’t, after a certain period of time has passed, then we decide if we want to start looking for a new station that’ll fix what’s obviously a horrible mistake or if we want to keep going on separate shows.”
Mabel nodded, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she swiped it away. What he said made sense, and she hated it.
“I don’t know how to do this job without you,” she choked out, resting her head on Dave’s shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her.
“I know. Me either. And by all means, rub that wet hair all over my shirt.”
Once she was all cried out and her chest felt as hollow as a corn husk, Dave stood to leave. She picked up the orchid pot and followed.
At his questioning look, she said, “I can’t keep them here, but they’re too beautiful to suffer because they were paid for by an untrustworthy liar. Think Ana would enjoy them?”
Dave accepted the plant without argument.
“Oh, but wait…” Mabel’s voice trailed off and she heaved a sigh. “Never mind.”
Dave rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave the card, you big diva.” Promising that he’d see her in the morning, he left with Jake’s apology gift.
Alone in her silent house, Mabel set the white envelope on the coffee table, vowing to ignore it for as long as she could.
She lasted four minutes.
Dear Mabel, the card read. I will always regret the role that I played in what happened today. I will never regret that playing that role allowed me to meet you.
