Julian's Pursuit

by Lovell, Haleigh

  Chapter Thirteen

  New Year’s Eve was another anticlimactic day, and January flew by in a frantic whirlwind. As we trucked on into February, Julian remained distant, though more than once, I caught him looking at me as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

  I missed him. I missed our friendship. I missed his contagious smile, his infectious laugh. I missed all the harmless flirting. I even missed him trying, but then failing, to be subtle when checking me out.

  Now he basically ignored me unless there were projects and clients that forced us to work together.

  But while he gave me the cold shoulder, he was his usual warm and friendly self to everyone else. Though I tried to remain unaffected, I often found myself observing his interactions with the women in the office, paying extra close attention to the chemistry between him and Riley.

  One time, I caught his gaze shifting from me to Riley and then lingering there.

  Riley stared back at him, and I wondered what had passed between them.

  Lust or love or perhaps just friendship—I wasn’t sure.

  That uncertainty alone was enough to drive me crazy.

  As I sat working at my desk, my ears perked up when I happened to overhear some guys in the break room calling Riley an M&M.

  Of course it had nothing to do with the candy itself.

  In this office, every nickname was laced with sexual innuendo.

  It was part and parcel of working in advertising.

  The men doled out the nicknames, and so did the women.

  And if you hooked up with someone in the office with a big mouth and loose lips, you’d end up with a nickname or two.

  If loose lips sink ships, then the lips in this office alone would sink an entire fleet.

  Dianne Strauss, a copywriter, was once christened with the nickname Pringles. Because, well… “Once you pop, you can’t stop.”

  Natalie Griffin was Geico. “So easy a caveman can do it.”

  Clive Mann was Gatorade. “Is it in you?”

  Bobby Jay was Lucky Strike. “So round, so firm, so fully packed.”

  Kevin Lucero was a Chevy. Because, well… “Chevy Runs Deep.”

  Ben Bomer was Carl’s Jr. “If it doesn’t get all over the place, it does not belong in your face.”

  Um, excuse me while I go throw up my breakfast.

  Even I had my very own nickname for the infamous Tim Pulaski—AT&T. “Reach out and touch someone.”

  So when I heard a newly christened nickname, it inevitably kicked into motion my gears of perversion.

  In Riley’s case, it was as clear as day.

  M&Ms… “Melts in your mouth, not in your hands.”

  M&M Riley. That name slid through my heart like a dull blade.

  As the day progressed and “M&M Riley” circulated around the office, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if Riley enjoyed giving head, and more specifically, if she had gone down on Julian.

  Or if Julian had gone down on Riley.

  Either she sucked him off and he melted in her mouth, or he ate her out and she melted in his mouth.

  Or maybe they did a sixty-nine, orally going down on each other at the same time and thus melting in each other’s mouths.

  That image alone brought a fresh wave of nausea.

  I shook my head as if I could somehow shake off that image.

  Then I turned my eagle-eyed glare on Julian.

  He was at his desk, his brows furrowed in concentration as he stared at the computer screen.

  To be fair, he’d seemed preoccupied with work all the time, and I hadn’t actually seen him and Riley together much, or at all for that matter. Not since Kip’s birthday.

  Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was someone else.

  A whole lot of maybes raced through my mind.

  I knew Riley had a crush on Julian. But she also had a crush on Kip and Nate and Clive and Derek. So maybe it was one of them.

  My eyes continued to linger on Julian. He hadn’t shaved this morning and dark stubble accentuated his jawline. Every now and then, he raked a hand through his hair as he stared at his computer screen with focused attention.

  God. Why did he have to look so goddamn sexy when he was lost in his work?

  Suddenly he stood, raising his arms behind his head as he stretched, his magnificent form straining as his muscles tensed and flexed.

  Hypnotized, I watched as his shirt hiked up his torso, revealing for a breath-catching moment the sharp definition of muscle in his hips, his hard stomach and hollowed abdomen, and the fine line of hair that trailed from his navel all the way down and lower.

  And lower…

  My heated stare followed that soft trail of hair, wandering down the treasure trail.

  The happy trail, so to speak… that led all the way down to the magical forest.

  My breath hitched, and I felt the flesh between my thighs heating further and dampening.

  I had to rub my legs together under my desk to disperse the overflow of juices.

  For a cold moment, Julian caught and held my gaze across the room.

  He didn’t smile, only stared.

  I feared I would drown in that gaze, but I couldn’t look away.

  Swallowing hard, I pressed my legs together, feeling that familiar tug between my thighs, the sweet nudge in my clit every time he looked at me.

  Smile, I told myself. Act normal.

  My phone chose that moment to buzz. I ignored it at first, but it buzzed again.

  “Hello?” I answered. A pause. “Yes, this is Sadie Frost.”

  The phone almost slipped from my fingers when I heard the news. “I’ll be right there,” I said urgently.

  By the time I got to Evan’s school, his legs were completely swollen.

  I knew at once what this could mean: protein-losing enteropathy, also know as PLE.

  Evan had endured several major open-heart surgeries and dozens of hospital stays—all before the age of six. These surgeries, known as staged reconstruction or the Fontan procedure, rerouted the circulation of blood through his heart. And as a result, his heart now functioned as a one-sided, instead of a two-sided pump.

  Before Evan had gone through these open-heart surgeries, his cardiologist, Dr. Bonner, had informed me that PLE was a known and potentially devastating complication of the surgical procedures for congenital heart disease. Typically, PLE symptoms manifested a few months to sixteen years following the procedure, and in thirty percent of patients, PLE symptoms occurred five to six years post surgery.

  The fact that this month was Evan’s six-year mark wasn’t lost on me. The symptoms were severe swelling, fever, shortness of breath, abdominal pain, and loss of calcium from the bones—most of which Evan was displaying at the moment.

  Deep breaths, I told myself as I kept my foot heavy on the accelerator, speeding like a demon to St. Margaret’s Children’s Hospital.

  Though I tried my best to remain calm for Evan, my throat was tight with fear.

  PLE could be life threatening and in some cases fatal.

  In less than an hour, I got Evan to the hospital and rushed him into the ER. As I held my little boy in my arms, I tried not to panic when I noticed his belly was swelling and his fever was spiking.

  After several tests, Dr. Bonner confirmed that Evan did in fact have PLE.

  It took a few heartbeats for what he was saying to actually sink in, and when they did, the implications of his words penetrated slowly, like a chilly draft under the door.

  I breathed out slowly. “What happens now?” I asked the doctor after we’d stepped out of Evan’s room.

  “I’ve put him on some budesonide. It’s an oral steroid that should help stabilize him,” Dr. Bonner explained. “If his body doesn’t respond to budesonide, we’ll try heparin therapy.”

  I listened, struggling to put all the details in place in my mind. “Will…” I drew in a hard, controlled breath. “Will he be okay after that?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see.
He’ll be closely monitored.”

  After a charged pause, Dr. Bonner added, “Once Evan is stabilized, he’ll need cardiac catheterization with stent placement to relieve any obstructions in his left pulmonary artery.” I swallowed nervously, and the doctor kept his voice calm and even. “It’s a relatively simple procedure.”

  Another heart procedure.

  My gut twisted at the thought and I ached for my son, as if my own heart would burst out from my ribcage.

  “Do you have any more questions?” Dr. Bonner asked. “Any concerns?”

  Yes, I did have plenty of concerns, but I only shook my head. I had no energy left for conversation. Just hearing the word procedure, regardless of what kind of procedure, was hard to digest, especially with a kid with a congenital heart defect.

  In a dazed stupor, I walked back into Evan’s room and sat by his side.

  He looked as pale as the white linen sheets, the skin beneath his eyes a dark blue.

  Cold sweat ran down his face, and he wouldn’t stop shivering.

  I smoothed a stray hair from his fevered brow and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

  His skin was scorching hot to the touch and his lips were chapped.

  The medical staff came in every hour or so to check on him.

  By dark, Evan was sleeping, but his fever continued to rise.

  Near midnight, my phone rang and I answered on the first ring.

  It was my mom. Her voice was sharp with urgency, and I did my best to calm her down and fill her in on everything.

  “Jesus-Mary-Mother-of-Joseph,” she cried out in anguish. “I feel like we’re climbing up that mountain again—the fucking Matterhorn! Hasn’t Evan been through the wringer enough? Can’t my poor grandson catch a break?”

  “I know, Mom.” I exhaled hard and pressed my fingers against my eyes. “I know.”

  “I want to be there for you, and for Evan…” There was a small break in her voice. “But I have no way of getting there. You know I can’t drive.”

  I said nothing. Mom’s driver’s license was suspended after her last DUI and she had no one to blame but herself.

  “What can I do?” she asked desperately. “To help?”

  “If you want to help me… if you want to help Evan, then please, Mom—please—help yourself.”

  “I will.” She injected resolution into her voice. “I promise you I will.”

  I didn’t know if I believed her. Not when she’d always played me like an instrument tuned to her hands.

  “Okay, Mom.” I sighed. “Okay.”

  After I hung up, I sat in the shadows by Evan’s side, watching him breathe.

  His breathing sounded labored, raspy, as if the air were scratching him as it went in and out.

  I closed my eyes. I knew I should try and grab a few hours of sleep before morning, but my mind wouldn’t slow down.

  I kept thinking of all the things that could go wrong.

  I felt panic tug at me, fraying all my thoughts.

  What if the surgery doesn’t help?

  What if Evan continues to deteriorate?

  The scariest thing was of course the most obvious.

  I couldn’t even say it, couldn’t verbalize it. Intermittently, I felt like crying or throwing up at the thought of losing my son.

  Blinking back scalding tears, I thought of Harper Connor, the four-year-old girl who’d succumbed to PLE just six months ago. Over the years, I’d gotten to know Harper and her lovely parents through our Mended Little Hearts support group.

  Harper was such a brave and strong little girl, an inspiration to so many, and now she was gone. Her death played in my mind more often than I would have liked to acknowledge.

  Because that could have been my own child. That could have been Evan.

  The very thought of that pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

  It was as if, once again, a trap was closing around me, doors closing around hope, and I was suffocating.

  Inhale, I told myself. Just inhale.

  Taking a long, deep breath, I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted blood.

  God, I whispered under my breath. He’s my son, my little man, and my best friend. And I need him. Please don’t take him away from me… I’m not ready to let him go.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I used to hate copywriters. Despised them. Just thought they were the biggest hack writers of the universe—all failed comics and failed novelists, devoting all their time and energy to figuring out a rhyme in time to save a tagline.

  That was until I, myself, was hired on as a copywriter five years ago and made a career out of spinning versions of the truth.

  Then I realized I’d been sorely mistaken. Yes, there were a few hacks in the bunch who resorted to rhyming—the cheesiest, laziest, cheapest form of hackistry known to mankind. But there were also a lot of smart, creative copywriters trying to make something entertaining and artful.

  It was ten past nine on a Friday night, and I was still holed up in the War Room with a bunch of these superfluous creative people, brainstorming over cups of coffee and chai lattes. Notepads were filled with scribbles and persuasive voices were fighting over each other to be heard.

  “Fill a Daisy Diaper and they will come,” Blinky shouted. Ben was his real name, but he called himself Blinky—after the three-eyed orange fish from the Simpsons that was mutated by a nearby nuclear plant.

  “Do not shake before opening,” Clive offered.

  “In case of emergency, give to husband,” Sara suggested.

  “Real babies do it in Daisy Diapers!” Blinky exclaimed.

  “I’ve got one.” Perry snorted. “Let’s make a deal! No more carrots, no more blowouts.”

  “To pee or not to pee,” Sara said theatrically.

  “This side down!” Blinky raised his voice amidst the cacophony. “Do not pull tabs.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “The tagline has to feel clean and relatable. Anytime we’re doing diaper ads, we want to emphasize cleanliness.”

  “All right,” Sara mused out loud. “Daisy Diapers… to boldly go where few babies have gone before.”

  I expelled a frustrated sigh. None of their ideas seemed to be working. They knew it, and I knew it.

  Silence descended upon the War Room like a grey cloud.

  “Fuck!” Perry crumpled up a piece of paper, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “It’s starting to smell like a hot diaper in here! We’re so fucking screwed.”

  Indeed we were. Trying to come up with a fresh tagline for Daisy Diapers was like trying to screw for virginity. It simply wasn’t happening, and we had to lock it down tonight.

  The deadline was fast approaching, and my team was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

  Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that we were just working on a magazine ad. Not even a full-paged ad, for that matter.

  I knew I had to push my team, but in order for them to be inspired, they needed to relax and chill the fuck out.

  “Guys.” I looked around the room. “Remember Bertrand Russell.” A statement, not a question.

  “Yeah, yeah,” came their low grunts and groans.

  They’d all heard this speech before, but they needed to hear it again. “So remember, one of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that your work is terribly important.” I paused for a moment to let that sink in. “We’re not saving lives here. We’re just doing an ad. That’s all. A diaper ad.”

  Blinky blew out a breath, exasperated. “A diaper ad that’s going down the fucking toilet.”

  “Look,” I went on. “I know you’re frustrated, but we need to keep going. Keep your ideas coming. We need to fan the sparks until it becomes a flame. Feed the flame until it becomes a fire.”

  “Arrgh.” Sara buried her face in her hands. “Don’t say fire. It makes me think we’ll get fired if this campaign is a flop.”

  “No one’s getting fired,” I assured her. As I began pacing back and fort
h, a slight movement in the corner of my eye arrested my motion.

  I stopped and turned, looking through the glass walls of the conference room.

  It was Sadie. She was in her office, frantically opening and shutting some file cabinets.

  What the hell was she doing here at this hour?

  I frowned, watching her briefly before Perry’s voice drew my attention away.

  “Now if anyone should worry about getting fired, it’s her,” he remarked.

  “Wait,” Sara said suddenly. “Are we talking about Sadie Frost?” A frown pulled at her brows. “Why would she get shitcanned?”

  Perry was only too willing to fill her in on the details. “I heard she lost the Miyasaki account. They weren’t willing to extend her the deadline for their spring campaign. And when Sadie couldn’t roll, they left so fast the revolving door must have flapped for days.”

  Now Sara looked concerned. “But Sadie’s never lost a client.”

  “I know,” Perry concurred. “That woman’s a machine. Never drops the ball, but this time she did.”

  I’d sensed for a time that something wasn’t right. Sadie hadn’t been herself lately, almost as if she’d checked out. And she’d hardly been in the office the past couple weeks. When she did show up, it was only for a few hours and it was apparent her mind wasn’t on work.

  “Let’s take a fifteen-minute break,” I announced.

  I stood just outside her office, watching her for a moment. Her hair, which was usually up in a severe ponytail, was down and disheveled. And she looked hollow-eyed with fatigue, exhaustion layered into her forehead in lines.

  I imagined she often got so mired in work that she forgot to eat or even sleep.

  “Sadie?”

  She looked up from her computer.

  I thought of things to say: I’ve fucking missed you. I wish we could be friends again. I think about you all the time.

  I said none of them. “I’m sorry you lost the Miyasaki account.”

  If she was surprised by my unprecedented forwardness, she didn’t show it. She only nodded.