by G. , Whitney
“Excuse me, Miss Johnson?” Mr. Bruce’s eyes went wide.
“Michael can’t write his way out of a wet paper bag,” I said. “He doesn’t even try. And the reason you haven’t noticed is because you’re always here, while he’s deep inside of your wife every night. Then again, maybe that’s what happened to his writing skills. Your wife probably has screwed his brains out.”
Michael’s jaw dropped and his face went white. Mr. Bruce’s eyes were narrowed at me.
I shrugged and turned my attention to the Wall Street Journal reporters. “I wrote every word in that article, and I’ve written every single Michael Router article this place has ever published.” I pulled my new business card for Courtney Rose Media out of my back pocket.
“You can call me during business hours, if you’re interested in talking to me alone,” I said. “I’m closed today, though.”
I left the office without another word and made my way to the elevator.
Michael called after me from behind, but I didn’t bother looking back. I moved past the elevator and opened the door to the fire escape, rushing down the steps.
I didn’t want to write another sentence in this chapter of my life.
Kyle: Now
Present Day
* * *
The chorus of adoring praise from the media was almost as annoying as the symphony of hate.
Every “I hate Kyle Stanton” was now an “I’ve always known that he was misunderstood.”
The crescendoing chorus of “He’s never let us down,” and “He’s killing it in the playoffs” meant nothing after all the harsh and bitter rants I’d heard.
Still, I couldn’t deny that the effect of Courtney’s piece was far more than I ever imagined. Her words were sharper than ever, and she made me look better than I expected.
I reread the entire piece for the umpteenth time and checked my calendar. She still had time before I showed up and demanded that she gave me an answer about us.
Preferably before the Super Bowl.
Impatient, I picked up my phone and started typing a text.
Before I could hit send, there was a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Taylor said, wagging her finger at me. “Stay put.”
I stalled on the words, “Take me back,” and heard Taylor clearing her throat from behind.
“It’s for you,” she said, making me turn around. “And before you ask me, no. We have to leave tonight.”
Confused, I looked behind her and saw Courtney standing in the doorway.
Immediately getting up, I walked over to her.
“I hope you won’t mind me showing up without calling first.”
“I would never.” I smiled. “I did tell the manager that no one is supposed to know I’m here, though.”
“Well, I uh—” She blushed. “I called the general manager of the team.”
“Oh?” I leaned against the door frame. “Why would you do something like that?”
“For one, to tell him that the only reason he still has a job is because of you and he should be grateful that you haven’t left,” she said. “He really should’ve been fired a year ago.”
“Two years ago.”
“I was being generous…” She paused, her voice cracking. “But I also wanted to see if you’d ever added a ‘Courtney Johnson’ clause if I came looking for you.”
“Did it turn out to be true?”
She blushed, nodding. “I just wanted to drop by and let you know that I quit my job and started a new firm.”
“Good.” I couldn’t help staring at her lips. “That’s a good first step. For your second, I want you to consider taking me back.”
“I’d love to be friends again.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” I cupped her face in my hands. “I want what we should’ve been after college.”
“Kyle…” She swallowed, shaking her head. “It would have never worked.”
“We’ll never know.” I brought her face closer, pressing a kiss against her lips. “It can work now, though, and it can be even better.”
“Are you going to give me some time to think about it?”
“We’re currently in the fourth and final quarter.”
“Then I’ll hope for some overtime.”
I overheard Taylor coughing and muttering behind me, “We need to go. Now.”
Kissing Courtney’s lips again, I whispered, “Do you have time to come with me to the airport?”
Courtney: Now
Present Day
* * *
I took a seat across from Kyle on a private plane, watching the workers roll his luggage below. Even though his agent had intended for the flight to depart at eight thirty, the scattered rainstorm delayed takeoff for another hour.
The two of us had shared a bottle of wine and a custom tray of dessert while the pilot chatted with air traffic control.
“I need to ask you something, Kyle,” I said.
“On or off the record?” He raised his eyebrow. “You have ownership in the media now, so I’m not sure I can trust you.”
I laughed and tossed a straw at his face. “Off the record.”
“I’m listening.”
“Did you really write me a ‘shit ton’ of letters?” I asked. “Or, did you get drunk one night and imagine that you did?”
“A bit of both.” He laughed. “I mean, I definitely remember writing you with perfect clarity. The same clarity that I remember giving you a ride freshman year.”
“So, it didn’t happen.”
We both laughed.
“Well, I do remember writing 687 Salt Lane, Apartment 50 over and over. Maybe I should’ve added an ‘A’ or something, but the postal guy said that I didn’t have to,” he said, shrugging. “Then he said everything should’ve gotten forwarded for at least a year.”
I dropped my wine glass to the floor, shattering it to pieces.
The flight attendant rushed over, and Kyle grabbed my hand.
“Court?” He squeezed it. “Court, what’s wrong? Why are you looking like that?”
“How often did you write me?”
“Not that often,” he said, shrugging. “Maybe once a month when we stopped talking.”
“How often, Kyle?” I knew he’d remember anything number-related, and he definitely had the right address.
“I wrote you at least fifty-seven times.”
“That’s more than once a month.”
“It’s less than how often you crossed my mind.” He let my hand go and moved next to me. “Did I write you after you’d already moved?”
“No.” I shook my head, feeling a sudden pang in my chest. “You had Graham’s address. We switched apartments when I complained about the lack of a view … He never gave me your letters, Kyle.”
“You had to have gotten at least one.”
“No.” I swallowed. “Not a single one.”
Courtney: Now
Present Day
* * *
Two hours later, I stepped into my apartment and tossed my keys onto the table.
Needing a stiff drink, I headed to the kitchen.
“Did you have a good night out with Kyle on his private plane?” Graham’s voice stopped me dead in my tracks.
I turned around to see him sitting in my living room.
The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows, his eyes were bloodshot, and several empty shot glasses lined the coffee table.
“How long have you been sitting there?” I asked.
“Long enough.” He glared at me. “I need to know if it’s Kyle or me, Court. I need you to choose.”
“Graham, can we talk about this when you’re sober?”
“No, we can do it now.” He stood up and strode toward me, his gaze never breaking from mine. “Kyle or me.”
I swallowed, pushing Kyle’s name off the tip of my tongue.
It was a no-brainer, but I didn’t want to break up with Graham this way.
&
nbsp; “I can’t fight to be with someone who doesn’t feel the same about me.” Graham closed the gap between us, running his hand through my hair. “Tell me that the past few weeks are just a phase, and that you’re still in love with me.”
I don’t think I ever was… “Why did you propose to me on my birthday, Graham?” I asked.
“What?” He furrowed his brow.
“My birthday,” I said. “Why did you pick that date to propose to me?”
“Because I love you, and that’s what men do when the time is right.”
“Are you sure?” I tried to read his eyes, but they were too glossy. “Because I think it had something to do with Kyle.”
“How the hell is that possible, if Kyle randomly popped back into our lives weeks ago?”
“I’ve told you about Kyle before,” I said. “I told you all about our history long before we started dating.”
“And I may have vaguely remembered it, but he has nothing to do with what I want for us.”
“He said that he sent me tons of letters to my old apartment.” My voice cracked. “The one you so graciously allowed me to switch for yours. You never had an issue sliding my mail under the door every day, but I never once received anything from Kyle. Can you tell me why?”
His face paled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” I didn’t move. “So, tell me why you—”
“He was all you ever fucking talked about.” He hissed, cutting me off mid-sentence. “I remember when Kyle and I did this, Kyle taught me how to do that, Kyle and me’ ad nauseam. You begged me—fucking begged me—to help you get over him. So, like the good friend that I am—”
“Was.”
“I didn’t give you his goddamn letters because I thought that would hurt you.”
“Did you open them and read them for yourself?”
“Kyle Stanton is not good for you, Courtney,” he said. “He was a player when you first met him, and he’s a player now. Please don’t be stupid enough to believe that he’ll ever change his ways for you.”
“I asked you a question, Graham.”
“He only wants you because you’re taken now. I know guys like him, trust me.”
“Did you open his fucking letters?”
“Yes.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes, I opened his fucking letters.”
“And you saw that he still wanted to be with me, didn’t you?”
Silence.
He stared at me for several seconds, the truth etched all over his face.
“So much for being one hundred percent honest about everything,” I said.
“Everything that matters.” He scoffed. “Kyle Stanton is irrelevant to us. If you even think about taking him back, you’ll be another used up groupie within the next five years. You’ll also be the dumbest bitch I’ve ever met.”
I slapped him across the face without thinking.
Sucking in a breath, he clenched his jaw and stepped back.
“I guess that’s what you want,” he said, his face reddening. “You have a week to get all of your shit out of my building. I’m terminating your lease.”
“I only need a day.” I stepped back. “What did you do with the letters?”
“Ha! You honestly think that I kept that shit?”
“If there was any way to keep them away from me forever, I’m sure you did.” My chest heaved. “That was your intention, right?”
He hesitated a few seconds.
“I’ll take you up on only needing one day to get out,” he said. “Your unit will be on the market at noon tomorrow. The letters are in the bottom left drawer of my desk across the hall. The code is the day we first met, not that it ever meant a damn thing to you.”
“This isn’t personal.”
“It’s been personal since day one.” He tossed me his keys. “When he fucks you over—and he will, don’t come crying back to me.”
He walked around me, slamming the door shut on his way out.
I waited for a few seconds, standing by until I heard the ping of the elevator.
Still unsure, I walked over to the windows and watched him step into the rain and then slip behind the wheel of his car.
Walking across the hall, I unlocked the door and headed straight to his office. I entered the lock code and opened the bottom drawer.
Rummaging through stacks of manila folders, I continued until I found a small, blue box.
Lifting it up, I noticed that Graham had scribbled the words, “Junk Mail” on top.
Inside was an assortment of blue and gold envelopes, all adorned with specialized Pitt Panther and ‘Hail to Pitt!’ seals across the back flaps.
At the top, they were neatly sliced open, and there were far more than the “fifty-seven” Kyle mentioned.
I counted at least a hundred before making myself stop.
Letting out a breath, I carried the box back to my place and sat by the window.
I brewed a pot of coffee and started reading them one by one.
Courtney: Now
Present Day
* * *
Dear Courtney,
I got this idea from that P.S.—I Love You movie. (No, I didn’t dare watch it again, but I do remember every dreadful second of it.)
Anyway, since we’re currently not talking, and I feel like I’ve actually died without you, I thought I would borrow this concept until I come to see you at the end of the year. (Does October work?)
Between you and me, I wish that you would’ve never taken that fellowship in London. I should’ve told you to come with me and be my press person … Until you got a job you wanted.
I really do think—No, I know—that we could’ve made long-distance work, Court.
I missed you the moment we parted, and our random meetups were never long enough.
Kyle
P.S.—I sent you a text message a few weeks ago. I take it that you’re still upset with me over what I said.
I’m sorry, Court.
I truly am.
P.S.S.—I know you’re going to tell me that I’m making things up again, but whether you ever remember it or not, I feel like I was right about you during our freshman year. You were sexy as hell then by the way, and that was probably the best night of my first semester. (That was the closest I thought I’d ever come to getting “a ride” with you *smile drawing*)
* * *
I set aside Kyle’s first letter and gasped.
I’d always thought that he was wearing out a joke whenever he said that we’d crossed paths before our group project, but all of sudden, the freshman year memories before my father’s murder were beginning to play in mind.
He wasn’t making that shit up at all…
Courtney: Then
Freshman Year
Pittsburgh, PA
I stood outside of Kyle Stanton’s dorm room, hating that the other first-year reporter on staff had waited until the last minute to do this interview.
Not only had he waited until three days ago to tell me that he hadn’t done this, he said that he hadn’t even tried to email Kyle. That left me racing around campus for half a week, failing to catch Mr. Cocky without fangirls or teammates.
I’d almost refused this assignment, since I doubted that any of the football or basketball players took The Pitts News seriously, but I knew that my work ethic would count when it came time for me to apply to my dream program in London.
It’s now or never, Court. You have to get this done tonight.
I let out a breath and knocked on his door.
No answer.
Several seconds passed, and I knocked again, much harder this time.
Before I could pull out my phone to record a video of my failed attempt, the door swung open.
“Yes?” Kyle smiled at me, shirtless and in grey sweats.
His six-pack abs were on full display, and from the water droplets that were currently drifting down his hard chest, I assumed that he’d just stepped out of t
he shower.
“May I help you with something?” he asked.
“Yeah, I um—” I paused, spotting an inflatable hot tub full of Jell-O behind him. There were a few pair of lace panties hanging from the side of it. “I need to ask you a few questions for The Pitt News.”
“At two o’clock in the morning?” He tilted his head to the side. “That can’t be why you’re really here at this time.”
“Trust me, it is.” I rolled my eyes and flipped over the makeshift media pass that hung around my neck. “This will only take a few minutes, and I’d appreciate your help, so I can be done chasing you around campus.”
“I haven’t noticed anyone chasing me.” He leaned against the doorframe, looking me up and down. “I would have definitely noticed someone like you.”
“Thanks, but anyway—” I didn’t want to waste my time addressing his comment. From what I’d heard, he’d say anything to get a girl into his bed. “How do you feel about being named ‘Player of the Week’ by ESPN’s College Edition?”
“You’re on the university’s cheerleading squad, aren’t you?” He crossed his arms. “I’ve seen you on the sidelines cheering for me, but you’re never at my parties.”
“You’re extremely honored and humbled, got it.” I turned off my digital recorder and made up an answer for him. “Next question: Did you always know that you wanted to play for the University of Pittsburgh, or were you weighing options from other schools?”
“All of my teammates think you’re sexy as hell,” he said. “I mean, I may have been the one who pointed it out during our first game, but they all agreed once they saw you. You did a very impressive split last weekend…”
“So, you’ve always wanted to play for Pitt, and it’s been a childhood dream of yours,” I said. “Feel free to tell me three of your favorite things about being on the team.”
