The Bad Break

by Jill Orr

  “I’ll get right to it. The woman you saw at my apartment, her name is Ginny, and she’s my partner.”

  “Okay, great,” I said, standing up. “Thanks for telling me. I hope you two are very happy together.”

  “No,” he said, and he stood up too, so we were standing face to face. “You don’t understand—”

  “Jay,” I said, aware of how close we were standing to each other and how much harder that made this conversation. “You don’t have to say anything else. It’s fine. We want different things, apparently. Just go home to your girlfriend—oh sorry, partner,” I said. “Excuse me for not being up on the current terminology.”

  “What?” A deep crease appeared over the bridge of his nose. “No, from the DEA. Ginny was my partner at the agency up in Camden for five years.”

  Oh. That kind of partner. I should have been more embarrassed for myself, but I honestly didn’t have the energy. I didn’t even try to hide the hope from my voice when I asked, “So she’s not your girlfriend?”

  “No. You are my girlfriend.”

  “I am?” The stress of the day caught up to me and I could feel tears building at the base of my eyes. I looked down. “The only one?”

  Jay’s finger swept down my cheekbone and rested under my chin. He tilted it up so that we were once again eye to eye. “The only one.”

  I threw my arms around his head and kissed him with enough enthusiasm to hopefully make up for being so crazy the past couple of days.

  He kissed me back and then, just when it seemed like things were going to get more interesting, pulled away. “There’s something else I need to tell you though.”

  “Anything,” I said, my arms still around his neck.

  “Ginny came to town yesterday to give me some big news . . .” He paused, staring at me for an unreasonably long interval.

  She won the lottery? She’s getting married? She got pulled onstage at a Maroon 5 concert? “Well—what is it?”

  He sighed, looked down, and then straight up into my eyes. “She’s been made the special agent in charge of the DC office . . . and she’s asked me to come work for her.” He hesitated, and it was as if I could see the guilt settle on his shoulders like a cloak. “And I said yes. I leave in two weeks.”

  I unclasped my hands from around his neck. “Oh.” It was all I could think to say. I had gone from crushed to blissfully happy to crushed again in an instant. Jay was moving away.

  “I’ve been struggling with how to tell you,” he said. “Mobility is a condition of the job, and I think I always knew I’d be transferred away from here, but I’ve just been having so much fun hanging out with you, I didn’t want to think about it.” He took a step closer to me and reached for my hands, which now hung limp by my sides. He then lifted them to his mouth and kissed them one by one.

  “DC is only a couple of hours away . . . we can still see each other on weekends?”

  It was the kind of thing you say because you want it to be true, but I think we both knew we weren’t going to take our relationship long distance. We’d only been together for a few months, and as busy as we both were with our jobs, it’d never work. Plus, what was the endgame? I wasn’t planning on moving to DC and he wasn’t likely to move back here.

  I looked up at him, my bleary eyes saying what neither of us wanted to admit. This meant it was over. It had to be.

  Jay lowered his head and said in a near-whisper, “I’m so sorry.”

  I think I was almost too tired to feel anything at that point. I nodded silently and took a step closer to him and let him wrap his arms around me. It was my way of saying “I understand,” even though I didn’t want to. I let him hug me tight and kiss my neck and then eventually take me into my room where he tucked me into bed. I lay on his chest while he ran his hands through my hair and we talked until I fell asleep.

  When I woke up the next morning, he was gone.

  Dear Jenna,

  Turns out, my guy wasn’t dating other people after all. But he just told me he’s moving away. I’m heartbroken and I could really use a little advice, or maybe just a (virtual) shoulder to cry on.

  All best,

  Riley

  Dear Jenna,

  Haven’t heard back from you yet. Usually you respond so quickly. Anyway, still feeling bummed about things and could really use some words of wisdom. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve actually really grown to rely on our little “talks.” I think I may even spring for the $89.99/month after the free trial runs out!

  All best,

  Riley

  Dear Jenna,

  I was looking for some wisdom, but I’ll take anything at this point. Do you have any “wise words” from celebrities for me, or can you tell me WWBD (What Would Beyoncé Do)? I’d even consider downloading one of your apps—haha, lol. I’m only kidding—kind of.

  But seriously, I’m starting to get worried about you. Are you okay?

  All best,

  Riley

  Dear Riley,

  My name is Dylanne M and I am a supervisor at Bestmillenniallife.com. I’m sorry to report that Jenna B is no longer with the company. She left very suddenly when she was offered the role of “Woman Eating Bagel” in the next Eddie Redmayne film. One of the perks of working at Bestmillenniallife.com is that we encourage our Personal Success Concierges™ to FOLLOW THEIR BLISS, just as we encourage our clients to do the same. We like to think this breeds CONSISTENCY OF MESSAGE, though I don’t mind telling you it can create some staffing challenges!

  As a gesture of goodwill for your understanding of this unforeseen circumstance, we would like to offer you 50% off your first full month of Bestmillenniallife.com. And we will immediately get you set up with Kenny R, one of our highest-rated Personal Success Concierges.™

  We apologize for this speedbump on your road toward PERSONAL FULFILLMENT. We hope you’ll decide to continue on this journey with us (at half off!).

  Warmest regards,

  Dylanne M

  Supervisor, Level II

  Bestmillenniallife.com

  Dear Dylanne,

  Is there any chance that you can apply the 50% off to Click.com? I think I’m in need of Regina H’s services again.

  PS: If you can get a message to Jenna B, please tell her I said, “In the wise words of Adele, ‘I wish nothing but the best for you.’ Haha lol.”

  All best,

  Riley

  CHAPTER 43

  My parents insisted on taking me out to dinner Sunday night to celebrate my big professional success. They came over to pick me up wearing matching T-shirts they’d made that read We Read Riley in huge block letters on the front and Proud Parents of a Newspaper Reporter on the back. I was at once mortified and touched, and as soon as I saw them I started bawling like a three-year-old who just lost her binky.

  My dad, who suffers from sympathetic crying syndrome, immediately started crying too. “I told you it was too much, Jeannie.”

  “Hey, hey,” my mom said, pulling me into a tight hug. “What’s all this about?”

  So unfortunately, instead of celebrating my success, we ended up spending most of the evening talking about my broken heart. I explained to my parents about Jay’s job offer and how he’d already accepted it and would be moving soon. I told them how we’d decided to end things before it got weird or ugly with the distance, and how it felt like the emotional equivalent of dancing to a song you love and then having some jackass DJ stop it suddenly partway through.

  “You never know, honey,” my dad said. “Maybe another big drug lord will move down to Tuttle and Jay can come back?”

  “Cheers to that!” My mom laughed and lifted her drink.

  “Yes, cheers to an increase in the Tuttle Corner drug trade—” My dad fell silent mid-toast. We followed his eyes to see Hal Flick walking up to our table. My mom set her glass down without taking a sip.

  I had yet to fill my parents in on how well Flick and I worked together on the Davenport obit, so I couldn�
��t blame them for their chilly reception.

  “Hi, Flick!” I said, hoping my tone would signal my parents that there’d been a shift in our relationship.

  “Hello,” Flick said, his eyes triangulating the table. “Sorry to interrupt. I saw your car out front and . . .” He broke off.

  As close as I had been to Flick as a young girl, my parents had been even closer—my dad, in particular. He’d gone on many a weekend fishing trip with his father and Flick, and Flick was a regular at our holiday table because his own family was scattered throughout the country. But in large part because of me and how betrayed I’d felt when Flick refused to see granddad’s death for what I thought it was, my parents had stopped talking to him. If there was one thing you could say about my parents, it’s that they were firmly on my team, for better or worse. (One needed look no further than their shirts as evidence of that.)

  “Riley did a hell of a job this week at the Times,” Flick said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his cotton Dockers.

  My mom smiled automatically. My dad looked at Flick, then looked to me.

  I wanted to show them that it was okay, that my position on Flick was changing. “Thanks.” I smiled at him. “You helped me a ton.”

  He shrugged. “Eh, you didn’t need much help.”

  An awkward silence settled around us, made more awkward because there was one empty chair at our table. I saw Flick’s eyes dart to the chair. Dad saw it too. He looked at me again and I gave him a small nod.

  “Would you like to join us?” My dad’s voice sounded tight but sincere.

  I thought I saw some color creep into Flick’s cheeks, but he shook his head. “I was just hoping I could talk to Riley for a minute?”

  Surprised, I got up and followed Flick toward the front of the restaurant, where he pushed open the door and walked to a spot far enough away from anyone who might be listening in on our conversation.

  “What’s up?”

  “Listen,” he said. The tentative, shifty-eyed manner was gone now. He looked directly into my eyes. “Something has come up. Something about Albert’s case . . .”

  Albert’s case. My stomach got that swoopy feeling. “What is it?”

  “I’m going to be up in DC for a few days looking into some things that Albert was working on when he died.”

  “What things?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t say. But I wanted you to know that if I—if I’m not able to get back here, there’s a file at the Times. Kay knows where it is. I’ve given her instructions to give it to you and Holman if anything should happen to me.”

  “What’re you talking about? What do you mean if anything should happen to you?” This conversation was scaring me.

  “It’s just a precaution, I’m sure everything will be fine. But I just wanted you to know . . . it’s just important to me that you know I’ve been working all this time to find out what really happened to Albert. I didn’t tell you before because . . . well, because it felt like I was betraying him. He wanted me to keep you safe, and I thought if you knew what I’m looking into you might—might—”

  “Might what?”

  “Not be.” His mouth flattened into a thin line.

  “I don’t understand, Flick, you have to give me more. You can’t just come here and—”

  “As soon as I have something concrete, I will, okay?”

  It was not okay. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know exactly what “things” he was looking into, and I wanted to know for sure if he thought my granddad killed himself or was killed by someone else, and I wanted to know that if it was the latter, who did he think was responsible? I wanted to know why he wasn’t working with the police on this, and what was so important up in DC, and why he had a secret file hidden at the Times, and why I couldn’t see it right away.

  But I could tell by the steely look in his eyes that he wasn’t going to answer any of those questions.

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  He looked at me a moment longer. “Thank your parents for the invitation to sit down,” he said. He spoke with more than a twinge of softness in his voice. “And tell them those T-shirts are ridiculous.”

  I laughed and then, out of pure instinct, I put my arms around him and gave him a hug. “Be careful.”

  It took a moment, but eventually he hugged me back. And then a moment later, without a word Flick turned and walked back toward the parking lot, leaving me as he so often had, with more questions than answers.

  CHAPTER 44

  The last place you want to be when you’ve just realized your relationship has no future is at a friend’s wedding, but that’s exactly where I found myself a little less than a week later.

  When the back patio doors opened and Tabitha St. Simon appeared under the dramatic antler arch, she looked positively radiant. She wore a long ivory dress made from hand-stitched lace with a long train that took two bridesmaids to lift down the stone steps. She looked like a porcelain doll with her big brown eyes and impossibly long lashes, light pink cheeks, and dark hair swept up in a loose chignon. True, she had a rather bulky cast on her left ankle and she had to walk down the aisle using crutches, but she made it work. And by the time the reception came around she had changed into a shorter dress and broken out her wheeled knee-walker, and she was cutting it up on the dance floor without a care in the world.

  While it was great to see Thad and Tabitha so happy—especially after everything they’d been through—it had been a tough week for me personally. The bright spot was that Holman had come back from his undercover assignment; a nice comfort. Until he started driving me crazy.

  The day after Arthur’s obituary ran in the paper, Holman returned to Tuttle with the proof he needed to expose TransVirginia Shipping Company’s illegal dumping practices. In fact, he said that by his second day at sea he’d witnessed enough to prove the allegations, but was stuck on the ship for the rest of the weeklong voyage.

  On his first day back in the office, I filled him in on everything that had happened since he left town. He was proud of my work on the Davenport story, which he showed by saying simply, “I told you so.” Then without further comment he said, “Aunt Beast looks thin.” He pursed his lips as he watched her swim around the bowl. “Are you sure you followed my instructions?”

  “Yes, Holman.”

  “Hmm.” He put his bug eye right up to the side of the glass. “Her scales aren’t as vibrant as usual either. I’m giving you a C– on fish feeding.”

  I rolled my eyes. “But what do I get on reporting?”

  He blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if I get a C– as a fish feeder, what grade do I get as a reporter?”

  “Reporters don’t get grades, Riley.” He looked confused. “We aren’t in school.”

  “Yeah, but if fish feeders—” I stopped myself. It was good to have Holman back, and I didn’t want to argue with him.

  Jay and I had mutually agreed that it would be a bad idea for him to come to the wedding as my date—why make a difficult situation even worse—so Holman had been kind enough to be my plus one. And even though he’d been regaling everyone we talked to with stories of his maritime adventures (which mostly included the irony of how many frozen fish sticks the crew ate), I was grateful not to be there alone. Romance was in the air and Holman, bless his heart, provided the perfect antidote.

  The wedding ceremony took place on the Davenport estate’s massive stone patio, and the reception extended down the steps to the back lawn. Tables with white cloths and lavish flower arrangements surrounded a parquet dance floor covered by crisscrossing strings of twinkle lights. It felt like dancing under the stars. It was a beautiful event, down to the last detail, and I was in awe of Tabitha’s ability to pull it off given the events of the past two weeks.

  The toasts were in full swing, and we’d just suffered through a multi-stanza poem by all nine bridesmaids, who each recited one verse and passed the mic down the line. (I never knew you could rhyme so m
any words with amazing.)

  When it was the Best Man’s turn, David Davenport, looking back to health and extraordinarily handsome in his jet-black tuxedo, told a charming story about how Thad had come home from his first date with Tabitha three years ago and said, “Tonight I think I met the girl I’m going to marry.” When David asked how he knew, Thad said, “She told me so.” Everyone laughed, and Tabitha’s cheeks turned a deep pink, which made her look even more beautiful.

  Then David paused, his tone turning serious. “We all know that these past couple of weeks have been hard for our family. We lost our father, many of you lost your doctor, and many more still, your friend. Arthur wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination—he probably worked too much, drank too much, expected too much from the people closest to him—but he was a good doctor, a good friend, and a good father. He loved Thad and me, and our mom, God rest her soul.” He paused, looking out over the crowd, whose faces had all turned serious too. I saw him share a look with Thad from across the lawn, a shared understanding of a common loss.

  David went on. “And he didn’t deserve what happened to him. But if there’s one thing Dad believed down to his very soul, it’s that this life doesn’t owe you anything, so we will try to focus on the good he did while he was in this world rather than the injustice of how he left it.” The crowd was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. None of us were sure where exactly David was going with this toast.

  “So, in that spirit, I’d like to share something from Dad’s obituary that I think lends itself particularly well to this moment. Tuttle’s newest intrepid obituary writer, Riley Ellison, who is here tonight, uncovered this quote that Dad said at a 2014 awards banquet.” David’s eyes found mine and he gave me a little wink. “He was being honored with an award for excellence in healthcare, as voted on by his patients. Those of you who knew him know my dad didn’t miss an opportunity to grab the spotlight, so as he looked out into the crowd of his former patients who’d turned up for the reception, he said, ‘All you ladies out there remember that I was the only man who ever truly found his way into your heart.’”