In mid-October, Ralph and Waldo have to get fixed. The vet calls us good cat parents, and Finley beams. It hurts my heart to see her imagining our future. I know she won’t want anything to do with me soon. Maybe that’s why I’m so frenzied around her—because she’ll be gone soon at my very own doing.
“Because it’s a book that brought us together, and it’s a book that will tear us apart.”
That’s what I told her that night we tattooed each other. I’ve come to realize it’s truer now that we’re fully immersed in each other. She may not admit it, but I can tell she’s falling in love with me. I want her to both fall hard and stop completely. I’ve never wanted two things simultaneously like that before. As for myself . . .
I know I’m falling. Hard. I knew it before the night her parents stood her up. Hell, I knew it the day I met her officially. She’s funny, sweet, fucking beautiful, and talented. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. It didn’t happen slowly for me, but because I fought against it for so long, it’s coming out full force now.
I want Finley, and I want her forever. More than I have ever wanted anyone before. Even . . . I don’t deserve forever love, but if I did, I would want it with Finley Matthews. She is everything. She is life. She is beauty. She is . . . I wish she could be mine, but I know I would never deserve her.
By October 20th, the weather has cooled, and we’ve officially entered fall. Finley sublets her apartment back in the city while Hannah is away. We make plans for Halloween. I swallow whenever she talks about our matching costumes—Nemo and Darla from Finding Nemo. Finley is extremely excited about donning fake headgear and slapping a fish head on me.
By Halloween, we will be on chapter twenty-three.
I consider deleting it all—making the story up for a couple chapters. It would be easy to do. She would never have to know. I study her on the eve of October 25th, as she painstakingly sews our costumes and continuously glances up at me to smile and blush, and I realize she deserves so much better than that. She deserves the truth—no matter how much it’ll hurt her. No matter how much it’ll hurt me.
I’m falling in love with her, and soon I’ll have to let her go.
The realization hits me so hard I have to get up and pace around the kitchen for a few minutes. I play with the kittens, which are growing ferociously. I don’t want anything to change. I want Finley to stay. I want to continue our life here. I want to love her without boundaries—without the weight of my past on my shoulders every single damn day.
“Hey, do you have a Sharpie? I just need to mark my place,” she says, a sewing needle in her teeth. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts and those goddamn lace shorts. Her costume is sprawled out in her lap.
“I have a few in my office. Do you want me to grab one?”
She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I’ll get it.” She sets the piece of fabric aside and jumps up. I admire her long, flowing hair. One of the things I love most about Finley is her hair. It’s so buttery soft, and so shiny. And it smells fucking delectable. I caved one day and asked her what kind of shampoo she uses. She just smiled coyly and pulled me into the shower with her to show me.
Except we didn’t end up talking about shampoo. Or talking at all.
“Second drawer down on the right,” I yell as I flip through Finley’s manuscript. She’s been giving me weekly updates. I’m on chapter fifteen. She pads up the stairs, and I continue to circle and underline. Her book is brilliant—different than anything I’ve read in a long time. I never had any doubts about her talent—her unaccredited work sits on many bestseller lists—but even those well-known books dull in comparison to hers.
I’ve organized a meeting with my agent for the day after tomorrow. I’m going to surprise her. We have a date night in the city planned, and I want her to know I believe in her. I can’t guarantee my agent will want to sign Finley, but my guess is she will. I want Finley’s work to be recognized—with her name on the cover.
She deserves it more than anyone I know.
Oh. Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
The second drawer on the right.
In my office.
Finley can’t see what’s in there.
Not yet, anyway.
I’m not ready to lose her.
Not tonight—not ever.
I leap up. In those next harrowing seconds, I decide to cut chapters twenty-three through twenty-five.
It might be too late.
The panic I’m feeling is not from Finley finding everything out.
It’s from the prospect of losing her.
“I’ll come help you,” I yell, taking the stairs two at a time. Dread begins to seep into every orifice. Unless she’s already seen it, I think. “Finley!” I know my voice is frantic.
Please, please, please, I beg.
Please don’t let her see it.
When I throw the office door open, I know I’m too late. She’s sitting on the floor, picture in hand. Her face is wet. She looks up at me and holds the picture up. My eyes don’t leave her face—I know what picture it is.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Please,” I say, my voice breaking. “Let me explain.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emerson
DECEMBER 19, 2008
I check my watch—1:55 p.m. Five more minutes until this class ends. The students are quiet as they continue scratching out their finals in blue books. I pace the room. Over the course of the next five minutes, they all make their way up front to hand in their final assignment for the semester. It was an easy prompt. I’d like to think it challenged them just enough to make them think, while still being doable in the forty-five minute timeframe.
Write a thousand-word story from the perspective of someone you love. Topic can be anything. Make it unique!
A few students stop and tell me how much they loved my class. I beam. I love my job, and the fact that my first book was published last week is gratifying. I feel like a real writer. As the last of them leave, I close the door and turn around to face her.
She’s watching me with a knowing smirk. Her wild, blonde hair is pulled to one side, exposing one of her shoulders. I don’t say anything as I lock the door and walk up the auditorium steps to her row. I sit down next to her.
“Did I pass or fail, Professor Whittaker?” she asks, biting her pen seductively. I look down at her. She’s so fragile—the bags underneath her eyes have become so pronounced.
“Does it even matter?” I ask quietly.
The smile drops from her face. “It matters to me.” She looks away and sighs. I feel like an asshole.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I say slowly. “I know it matters to you.”
We stay quiet for a while. I hear students shuffling outside my door. I have another final to administer in three minutes.
“I’ll meet you at our spot at three,” I say, standing. She stands too. She’s wearing an eclectic mix of fabrics—denim skirt, baggy blouse, pink tights, and black boots. Somehow, it looks good on her. Only Chloe Matthews could pull something like that off. She throws a fur coat over her shoulders.
“I might be there,” she says, giving me a mysterious smile. Why does she have to be so damn convoluted? She leans over to kiss me gently on the lips. “Goodbye, Professor.”
She unlocks the door and passes through the throng of students crowded near the front. I welcome the next class, and as they settle in to take their final, I pull Chloe’s blue book from the pile.
A Day in the Life of Finley Matthews
By Chloe Matthews
I smile and read on.
As the class filters out slowly, I gather my things and pack up the blue books from my three classes today. There’s nothing from Chloe when I check my phone.
Once everyone leaves, I shuffle out into the busy hallway with my messenger bag. It thumps against my leg as I throw my wool coat on and quickly walk to the bench on the southeastern corner of Washi
ngton Square. It’s 3:12. When I round the corner, I see Chloe talking to a younger woman. I approach slowly. They’re laughing as if they know each other very well. When Chloe sees me, the girl nods shyly and, before turning to leave, the girl meets my eyes for a split second.
In that second, my whole world shifts.
What. The. Fuck?
I have to stop and clear my throat.
The girl looks down and walks away, waving at Chloe as I approach.
“My sister,” Chloe explains as I walk up and hand her the blue book containing her story. “She’s a freshman.”
Naturally, my eyes wander over to the petite woman wearing a baggie beanie and bell-bottom jeans,
“Does she go to NYU?” I ask, letting my curiosity get the best of me.
Chloe nods. “Yep. She wants to be a writer.”
I nod. “Cool. So, where do you want to go for . . .?” I trail off and shove my hands in my pockets. “It’s really fucking cold.” I laugh. She laughs too. I brush a piece of hair away from her face and take her hand. My troubled Chloe . . . “How about my place?” I ask gently.
She smiles sadly. “I would love that.” She pulls her coat tighter.
*
Eight hours later, long after Chloe has left, my phone rings. I reach across my desk to answer it.
“Hello?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Emerson?” Chloe’s sobs crack my heart in half.
I jump up. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m on top of our building. I need you to stop me.” She chokes on her words and sputters. Shit.
“Chloe, did you take something?” I ask as I throw my jacket on and slip my feet into snow boots. It’s snowing now. “Did something happen?”
“I . . . I just can’t do this anymore.”
“I’ll be right there,” I say quickly. “Stay on the line.”
Ten minutes later, I’m on top of the dingy hotel on Houston St.—the place I take her sometimes. Well, except for today. Today I took her to my place for the first time ever. Perhaps I could sense her unhinged state. I’m such a dick. Fear rips through my body and the adrenaline pumps through my veins when I see her on the edge of the roof. The winter storm makes it hard to see, but I can just barely make out her shoulder-length hair and leopard-print fur coat. I quickly rush over to her, careful not to startle her. She’s wearing black stockings. The seam snakes down the backs of her legs, and black stilettos cause her to teeter slightly.
“Please,” I whisper gently. “Don’t do this.”
My words startle her, and I grab her hand before she falls twenty stories.
“I talked to them,” she sobs, and when she turns, my heart cracks in two. “They threatened to cut me off and kick me out if I didn’t graduate with a business degree. I’m stuck in a world I don’t want to be in, Emerson. It’s the worst kind of prison.”
“Please,” I repeat, my voice breaking. I know Chloe has psychological issues. She’s alluded to them before. I’ve insisted she see a psychologist, but she’s refused.
God, it’s fucking cold up here. I eye her thin slip and practically bare legs. She must be freezing. “I get that you think this is the only way, but it’s not. There is so much to live for.”
“You don’t understand. This is the only way.”
“No!” I shout, spit flying out of my mouth. “For fuck’s sake, just come down from this roof. Let’s go get a coffee, calm down, talk . . . If you still feel the same urgency later, well . . .” The truth is, I haven’t thought that far in advance. I just want to get her down from here. I need to get her down from here. I’ll figure out the rest later.
She reaches into her pocket, producing a picture. She hands it to me, but I don’t look at it. I’m not taking my eyes off her when she’s three inches from death.
“Please,” she cries, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Take care of her, okay?” Her voice is croaky and uneven.
“What are you talking about? You’re not going anywhere.” I reach out again but she pulls her arm away.
“Emerson,” she demands angrily, baring her teeth. “Listen to me. Take care of her,” she urges, derision dripping from her words. “I’m going now.”
In the two seconds I take to look down at the picture, she leaps forward and off the ledge of the roof. Instinctively, I reach out to catch her, but it’s too late. My hand only catches air.
She’s gone.
Flying . . .
Flying . . .
Gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Emerson
DECEMBER 21, 2008
I am numb. And it’s not from the sub-twenty-degree temperature at the cemetery. It’s because the woman I loved, the woman I couldn’t save, is gone. I shove my hands into my wool coat and peek out from behind the tree.
A mass of people, all in black, stand as they carry her coffin to its place in the ground. I feel hot tears burn my cold cheeks. I look down at the red roses I bought from a bodega down the street. Chloe deserves better than bodega flowers. I’m not even sure she liked red roses. Something tells me she did, but in an ironic sort of way. Like the way she only drank Starbucks. “Might as well give in to societal inclinations,” she would say, grinning and sipping her raspberry mocha.
Give in. Or give up?
I angrily kick the snow underneath me. Fuck Chloe. Fuck her for leaving me. She was my solace. She understood me in ways that nobody else ever had. She pushed me to write Underground Love. That book was her doing. That book was ALL HER. And now she’s gone—my muse is dead, cold in the ground.
I slide onto the ground and watch the rest of the funeral. Everyone begins to leave, slowly trickling out. I wonder how many of them knew Chloe—really knew her. I wonder how many of them will think of her after today, next week, a year from now . . .
And then I see her.
Finley Matthews.
Take care of her.
Those four words have been on repeat every day since the day Chloe left me.
Everyone is gone now, but she sits, staring at the fresh dirt before her. I’m at least one hundred feet away, but I can see her shaking from the cold. My heart rips in half, and some sort of compulsory instinct takes over. I take the picture out of my pocket and look at it for the hundredth time. In the picture Chloe gave me, Finley is younger. Her face is open, free, youthful. I clutch it to my chest and stand.
Take care of her.
I slowly slide out of my jacket and move quietly toward her. She’s in some kind of weird trance. Her eyes are open, but she’s not watching anything. I carefully slide the jacket over her shoulders, and she doesn’t even flinch. It’s mammoth on her tiny frame, but at least she won’t be cold now. I back away, hoping she doesn’t decide to turn around.
She doesn’t.
Take care of her.
I rub my arms as I walk away. The chilly air permeates my thin wool sweater, but I don’t care. As long as Finley is warm, that’s all that matters to me.
Chloe’s dying wish will be my new purpose.
I hope it’ll save me as much as it’ll save her.
Finley Matthews.
Take care of her.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Emerson
JANUARY 14, 2009
I sit down in front of the dean of the NYU Stern School of Business. I’ve only ever met with the dean of the Tisch School of Arts. I let out a tight breath—the one that’s been building ever since I received an email from him ten hours ago. I clasp my hands together and vow to tell the truth. Maybe the truth will save my job—maybe not. But I can’t pretend it didn’t happen anymore.
“Emerson,” he says, his voice rich and concerned.
“Sir,” I reply seriously.
“I’m going to ask you once and only once. Were you involved in the death of Chloe Matthews?”
I look down. “I was present when she . . .” I look up, and I can feel my eyes narrow. “If that’s what you mean.”
Professor Cooley sighs. “The stateme
nt you gave the police states you were having an ongoing affair with Ms. Matthews. Is that true?”
I nod and sit up straight. “That’s true.”
He sighs and runs a hand across his bald scalp. “This is a problem for us. Do you see that?”
“Yes,” I whisper. My heart is beating a thousand beats per second. I’m going to lose my job. What does that matter? I have already lost my life. My love.
“A senior with a promising future commits suicide down the street, and you’re purported to have been there and to have been having relations with her. Even if you had nothing to do with her death—”
“I had nothing to do with her death. I tried to stop her. I loved her.” I hiss the last sentence, and spit flies out of my mouth.
I’ve startled Professor Cooley. He’s watching me with raised eyebrows. “However it unfolded, this is a PR disaster for the university.”
I start to shake. “I’m being fired, aren’t I?” I look at him defiantly.
He nods. “We have to let you go, Emerson. It’s against policy to have relations with a student. Too many people know what happened between the two of you. Turns out, you weren’t very discrete. We’ve had multiple people come forward. I’m working with Mr. Martins at Tisch to cover this whole thing up. Ms. Matthews’s parents have agreed to look the other way. Now it’s time for you to move on.”
Look the other way?
Are they fucking insane?
Their daughter killed herself. They know she was involved with me. They. Should. Be. Screaming. For. The. Loss. Of. Their. Daughter.
Looking the other way? I’m speechless. I’m in agony missing Chloe so much. I feel like an empty shell. They’re looking the other way. Fuck, Chloe. You deserved so much more.
Between the Pages: A Novel Page 19
