What She Did

by Veronica Larsen

  "That's enough," Sebastian says, closing my laptop for the third time in just as many hours.

  "Just five more minutes..."

  "No, you need to focus on getting better."

  "I am better," I say.

  He only needs to tilt his head at me to drive the point home. I'm on bedrest. His bed, in fact. He watches the playful way I bite my lip, and kisses me as though I've left him no other choice.

  "Can I get you anything before I go?"

  I shake my head and when he takes my laptop away, I let out a long groan.

  "Go, quit worrying about me. I'm fine."

  Sebastian scans the room, as though assessing if there's anything else I might need. And while I do my best to feign exasperation at him fawning over me like the hottest nurse on the planet, the truth is I enjoy every minute of it. I can't remember the last time anyone took care of me this way. I can't remember the last time I allowed anyone to take care of me at all. He takes so much pride in it and is so careful and attentive. He hates leaving my side for work, and I hate being without him, too. The only consolation is the freedom to indulge in things I know he wouldn't approve of.

  That's exactly what I do when he leaves in the mornings. I slip out of bed long enough to retrieve my laptop from the dresser and slide back under the covers. I pull my laptop closer and research Dale. There's so much the police couldn't tell me. A story woven between the facts they uncovered. The basement of his parents' home had been set up to house a hostage. Me. It seems he was so sure media frenzy would surround my disappearance. Perhaps he counted on Sebastian to make it so in his efforts to find me. From Dale's social media pages, I piece together glimpses of who this man is. A loner, obsessed with knives, and prone to long rants about the media and the government. His face stares back at me from various pictures, bone chilling in how harmless he still seems. There are few monsters more terrifying than the ones indistinguishable from the sheep.

  When the national media catches on to what happened to me, my name reflects back from my television screen in headlines I despise. I watch the narrative quickly shift from referring to me as a reporter to identifying me as a victim. That's when I give a live interview. I refuse to discuss what happened to me, citing an ongoing investigation, and steer questions back to where I want them. I want the focus to be on the investigative journalism I worked on to expose the corruption boggling down the City of San Diego. When I watch the footage of myself, I'm stunned by the woman I see speaking with my voice. I recognize her from a lifetime ago, and though now she wears scars on the outside, too, she's never looked stronger.

  Another week goes by and Sebastian starts taking me for walks. The fresh air, the sunlight, it all breathes life back into me. I make the mistake of telling him so and on the fourth day of prolonged walks, he takes me on a short trail hike.

  Rocks crunch under our feet as we talk about things unrelated to what we've been through recently. We share college stories as though we'd suffered those times together. We become familiar with events from each other's lives we were never around to witness. And yet, though I've only known him a short period of time, I've never felt a stronger affinity to another human being.

  As we walk, I watch for signs of movement along the shrubbery, but whatever makes the rustling noises does not find its way onto the trail. My hand moves absently over my stomach and before I can stop myself, I'm stroking the wound over my shirt. The stitches are long gone, yet sometimes I get the sense of something foreign there.

  Sebastian stops walking and sets his hand over mine. "Are you hurting?"

  "What? No, I'm fine. It hasn't hurt in over a week. It's just...when you said you wanted to go to the park, I was expecting a park without so much..."

  "Nature? It's called a natural reserve," he teases. "Bear with me."

  "I heard there are snakes here."

  "Yeah? I think you can handle a snake just fine."

  "Does this trail loop around?"

  He shoots me a sideways glance, resuming his pace.

  "We just got here. You don't do well outside, do you?"

  "I'm a writer. I don't like outside."

  "This trail ends at the beach. I promise it will be worth it."

  "It's a little chilly for the beach."

  "I've got a blanket in my backpack. Along with some other things."

  I perk up, interested.

  "Food? Alcohol?" I lower my voice to a dramatic whisper. "Condoms?"

  "Maybe."

  "You. Criminal."

  His soft chuckle brings a smile to my lips.

  The smile refuses to budge, even as I trek through the wilderness beside him. Sebastian is the most relaxed I've seen him. His posture at ease, his lips upturned in the ghost of a grin. The part of me that fought the idea of letting him drag me out without telling me where we were going starts to appreciate our surroundings. The sun warms my skin, despite the slight bite to the early evening air. I breathe in the greenery surrounding us. The trail is beautiful, cutting through exotic looking plants and gnarled trees. We pass massive sandstone rocks and catch dramatic views of jagged cliffs dropping down to the ocean. The trail ends, as he promised, at the beach, accessible by a long set of stairs built into the rocks.

  By the time we reach the sand, the sun is low in the sky and the clouds bursting with pastel colors as soothing as the sounds of the crashing waves. Off in the distance, a woman walks her dog in the opposite direction of us.

  Sebastian sets up a blanket for us to sit on and wraps another around us. I snuggle up beside him, butterflies swarming my stomach when he kisses my lips in such a tender way.

  "What's all this?" I ask.

  "It's the beginning of our first date," he says.

  "Our first..."

  It's crazy, but despite everything we've been through, despite having slept together, despite spending countless hours together while I recovered from my surgery, we've never once been on a date.

  "Just thought we'd catch the sunset, relax before we get ready for dinner."

  "So fucking romantic," I say.

  "I did call dibs. And I want to talk about us."

  "Us?"

  Loving the sound of the word, I inhale his scent and relish in the way it touches every part of me. An antidote to the memories of all I've been through.

  "I like having you stay over at my place. I want you to move in."

  "Move in? With you?"

  I blanch, caught completely off guard.

  "Of course, with me. I want to wake up beside you, and not just while you're getting better. For good, every day. I need you close to me, Amelia. I'm in love with you." The declaration flows from his lips so easily, you'd think he'd said it a thousand times before.

  "I..." The single word hangs in the air for an eternity. And in that lifetime, I see everything I want within my grasp, and all I have to do is allow myself to crack open. So, I speak the words I never once spoke to another man before in my life. "I love you, too."

  He rests his forehead against mine and smiles, not truly realizing the way this moment shook my world. In this moment, I cracked completely open, and somehow, in this vulnerable state, I'm the most comfortable I've ever been in my life.

  CHAPTER 47

  Amelia

  SEBASTIAN'S FAST ASLEEP BESIDE ME, his arm draped over my middle. I lie on my side, staring at him. His thick eyelashes flutter, but his eyes remain closed, his face relaxed and smooth. Stubble covers his chin and jawline from our lazy weekend together of lying around eating take-out, watching movies, and exploring each other's bodies.

  I take in a deep breath, his scent filling me the way it always does. I shut my eyes and let it linger. I get the irresistible urge to kiss him. Just as I bring my face closer to his, my phone vibrates on the nightstand. I twist my upper body to reach it and answer before even glancing at the screen.

  When I hear who's on the line, I have to ask them to hold for a second. I slip out of Sebastian's arms. He stirs awake, eyes fixing on mine. His l
ips part in question, but I hold a finger to them and whisper, "I'll be right back."

  The floor creaks under my bare feet as I edge my way out of the door and into the living room. There, I take the call, my thoughts racing as fast as my heart at the news delivered by the person on the other end. I pace around in a big circle as I speak, keeping my eyes shut and hoping the huge smile on my face isn't translating into my voice. I want to sound put together, professional.

  "Thank you," I say. "I have a lot to think about. I will return your call by the end of the week."

  When I hang up, I clasp a hand over my mouth for a few seconds. Excitement rolls over me like a growing wave until I break out in a dance. My arms over my head, hips twisting. The t-shirt of Sebastian's I'm wearing rides up my thighs in the process.

  "Well, that's a sight for sore eyes."

  I spin around at Sebastian's voice. He stands in the doorway of his room, watching me. I bite into my lower lip to contain my stupid smile. He grins at the sight of my happiness, even before he knows what's behind it. He comes over and pulls me by the waist up against him.

  "What's all this about?" he asks.

  I tilt my head back to look up at him, so elated I'm sure I'm floating. "That was The New York Times. They've offered me a job."

  "Shit. Seriously?"

  I nod.

  He lifts me and spins me around. My feet leave the ground and I shut my eyes to soak in the sensation of flying. I'm soaring even after he sets me down.

  "Congratulations," he says. "This calls for a celebratory breakfast."

  I can't stop smiling, even as I follow him into the kitchen. My hands tap an energetic beat on the countertop as he moves to the cabinet and pulls out the pancake mix.

  "When do you have to be in New York?"

  His tone is casual, but his words bring my excitement to a screeching halt. I almost slap myself in the face for being so surprised at the concept. Obviously, a job with The New York Times would mean I would have to move to New York.

  New York City. About as far away from San Diego as you could get while still being in the continental US.

  "Oh my God," I whisper, shutting my eyes. "I shouldn't have broken the news like that. I got caught up in the excitement--two months ago, I saw an opening and I applied. I didn't think twice about the possibility of moving because I've never felt like I had roots anywhere. But now..."

  "Now what?"

  "Well, I just...I forgot what it would mean...for us."

  "And what does it mean...for us?"

  The playfulness in his question catches me by surprise.

  "I...I don't know. I guess we'll have to talk about that."

  "There's nothing to talk about. You're taking this job."

  I blink, a little stung at the lack of concern on his face at the prospect of me moving across the country.

  "Oh," I say, slowly. "I guess we can try a long-distance thing--"

  "Long distance? Oh no, I'm coming with you."

  My mouth falls open and for a moment, I'm not sure if he's kidding or not.

  "What--seriously?"

  "I've been turning the idea over for months. I have no family here, and for a while, I was too busy to notice, but my brother's having a baby and my sister is engaged. I don't want to miss things. I've been on the fence about moving back to Brooklyn, but now it's obvious that's where I need to be."

  "Yeah?"

  "With you going there, everything I want will be in New York."

  Elation bubbles up inside me again, this time overflowing like a volcano. "Seriously? You'd move to New York?"

  "You and me?" He gestures between us. "We had a deal, remember? I called dibs. And this? It could be our fresh start."

  "Yeah, yeah, settle down."

  He comes around the counter and claims me in a deep kiss that strips me of all my thoughts.

  "Roots don't have to be a place, you know," he kisses my lips again, then my forehead. "Roots can be a person."

  Is it possible? Am I finally in a position where I don't have to choose? Can I have the job of my dreams and the man of my dreams?

  I want our fresh start.

  All my life, I've had to choose between the things I wanted. There never seemed to be enough room for it all. If I wanted the career I burned for, I had to be alone. If I sought out a connection with anyone, the other parts of my life were compromised. Never, never ever could I have imagined the picture could be complete.

  Never could I have predicted my life would finally grow roots, and those roots would have a name.

  Sebastian Reed.

  Don't Stop Now...

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  PREVIEW OF THE EDGE OF US

  Chapter One

  Mila

  The spotlight overhead showers me with prickling awareness. I'm exposed on this stage, in this backless gown, with every nuance of my expression open to the silent scrutiny of the faces peering up at me.

  The audience is filled with women I admire, trailblazers who are fearless in the pursuit of their ambitions. Women who never worry about ruffling feathers. Politicians, actresses, media gurus, and entrepreneurs. Their applause dies out in scattered spurts. All that's left are faint murmurs and the rustling of fabric against seats.

  I clutch the award tighter, stealing a glance at the stainless-steel cutout of an abstract female figure. Bold words are engraved on the front.

  Mila Zelenko

  Female Entrepreneur of the Year

  Adrenaline courses through me, and the trapped breath I release into the microphone echoes around the room.

  "Thank you so much for this," I say, my voice blaring from the surrounding speakers. "I am honored to be standing here in front of such awe-inspiring women."

  I cannot control the breathless way the words leave my lips. I pause to glance down at my notes on the podium, willing myself toward calm. This may be the most important speech I've ever given in my career. When I wrote it, I was objective and careful in the message I wanted the words to convey. But I'd underestimated the effect this day would have on me. A day marking an anniversary I want nothing more than to forget.

  I search the crowd for the only person who could anchor me in this moment. Someone who's been there for me through everything. The faces in the crowd blur together as I scan them, and I can't tell if he's among them.

  I swallow, and begin again.

  "When I was a little girl, I'd sneak down the stairs of our dingy little house in Long Island to spy on my mother's Tarot card readings. By day, she worked at a hair salon, but by night, she'd have visits from all sorts of people seeking her wisdom. One man came to see my mother every Sunday, without fail. He dressed in a sharp black suit and looked too important to be sitting on our tacky, plastic-covered furniture."

  I pause to offer a tentative smile to Tobias Kreisler, sitting in the audience. I hadn't expected him to be here to witness this speech. But the man who's unwittingly been my mentor in many ways offers me a small nod of encouragement to tell the story he knows well.

  "I'll never forget the intensity of those sessions and how this man hung on to my mother's every word as she explained his fate in her thick Ukrainian accent. I didn't know who he was. I didn't realize he was the most successful real estate tycoon in the country. So there he was--arguably the richest man in the city--asking my mother a stunning question: 'What should I do?' He'd wait with bated breath to be dealt advice from a woman who hadn't even finished primary school. It would be years before I understood the impact these moments had on me."

  I swallow, fighting away the unrelated memory flashing before my eyes. Me in my wedding gown, storming over to my mother and snatching her beloved Tarot cards from her hands as my bridal party watched in silence. I'd been hurt at her insistence to taint the most important day of my life with ominous warnings.

  "My mother, though by all appearances an uneducated immigrant, possessed one o
f the sharpest intellects of anyone I've ever known," I continue. "She had a gift. Not of card reading, but of reading people, of understanding their motivations and of seeing connections in their lives and relationships they themselves couldn't."

  The way she did when she predicted there would be no wedding. She was right, of course. She was always right and I sometimes hated her for it.

  I push past the smallest of knots forming in my throat and continue speaking.

  "You see, my mother had much to offer the world, but she understood that without money, a title, or education, her words would be dismissed, her voice muted and overridden. And so, the Tarot cards became her proxy. They became the way through which she could assert herself. Not only did people come from all over to seek her wisdom, they marveled at it. As a child, I saw my mother's confidence in her own abilities, her fearlessness in showing them to the world. The unapologetic way she expressed her views and opinions, and the power she manifested when those opinions emboldened the actions of powerful people. It drove a need in me to do important work, to turn my thoughts into actions, and actions into change. But despite graduating top of my class from one of the most prestigious business programs in the country, I found myself underestimated at every turn. As a young woman, I was taken less seriously than my male counterparts. And though I was, by the estimation of my superiors, both sharper and better prepared than many of my peers, I was repeatedly passed up for promotions and overlooked for opportunities. Until the day I'd finally had enough. I realized that, like my mother, I too would need a proxy in order to be taken seriously. I decided the proxy would be a title, Chief Executive Officer. A title I would give to myself if no one else would--"

  The audience cuts me off, erupting in cheers. A smile creeps onto my face as the nerves finally melt away. All that's left is the electrical current running through the room. The thread of the experience I've shared. The buzz of excitement brings on a sort of high, giving me the ability to take in the details of the crowd.