The Journalist: A Sexy Contemporary Romance

by Tia Lewis

  Teenage me. I didn't know how this kept happening and despite the fact that I was not in the dream, I wondered to myself. But was this still a dream? Could one wonder in a dream? Could one talk to oneself in the dream?

  As with the previous dream, the girl and her family were seated and having fun.

  The mother was playing with her hair, and the father was teasing her. Just when I was starting to get used to the sereneness to this particular aspect of the dream, the cloud changed again. There was a flash in the sky, then covered by yet another flash.

  Another pair of hands appeared from behind the woman who was the girl's mother again and snatched her out of the picture. I stared in disbelief at the empty spot where she had just been grabbed from. Why did this keep happening? Why was this coming to me? Was it a repressed memory, I thought.

  The girl had turned to her father again, and she was about to start arguing with him, the cloud went dark. This time I was prepared for what was to come and I dreaded it. Who was the pair of hands going to grab this time? The girl or her father? As the girl continued to blame her father, a pair of hands appeared from nowhere and grabbed the father. The girl screamed as she watched the hands take her father away.

  She collapsed to the floor and started to cry and wail. Then a voice from nowhere cried out with a rant. The rant was "Life has taken all you hold dear."

  I stared at the email, and I was gripped with fear. Reading the mail the way she sent it, I felt she has described the dream to me just the way she visualized it. I was scared for her and for her safety. I didn't think before I pick up my phone.

  “I'm coming over.” I texted to her.

  19

  Alexa

  I was glad I sent that message to Dylan. Knowing that he cared enough to want to come all the way here at this hour warmed my heart. Dylan was a good man. Another time and if we had met under totally different circumstances, I might have jumped at the idea of getting romantically involved with him. But I couldn't. We were different people who wanted different things out of life. We would never last.

  The minute he texted me that he was coming over, I sent a reply asking him not to. I told him that I would be fine and that Patrice was staying the night with me. He was still worried sick and asked if I was sure I would be fine. I texted him that I would and that he could come over tomorrow instead. That way he could check up on me, and we would also tie up loose ends and put finishing touches on the story. All the while, Patrice was staring intently at me and most likely wondering why exactly I was typing away on my phone despite the shock of the dream. When I put the phone away, she was glaring at me.

  "Patrice, I'm fine now. You can go to sleep."

  "I can't just go to sleep, and you know that. Who was that?"

  "Who?" I asked a little lost to what she was talking about.

  "Your phone. You took quite a while to put it away after you picked it up initially."

  "Patrice, I might've said this before to you today, and I'm pretty damned sure I've said it a lot since we became friends, but honestly, I don't have the strength to deal with your drama. So I'm just going to say it, and ignore whatever you decide to mutter when I'm done. It was Dylan."

  "Oh him?" she asked. I can see she was trying her hardest to conceal her shock.

  "Yeah him."

  "Okay. So he contributed anything meaningful to this situation."

  "Yes, he has."

  "I'm glad you called him then. Let's just go to bed now. You can try to catch some sleep."

  "I don't know if I can actually go back to bed. Sleep just seems like a return to those images. I don't know if I want to see any of that anymore."

  "Nothing a cup of hot cocoa won't help with," Patrice said and padded off to the kitchen. I smiled. It felt good to have someone waiting on me, and I realized at that moment that I had a couple of people doing just that for me.

  I laid my head on the pillow and waited for Patrice to come with her hot cocoa with the hopes that I would finally be able to sleep. The next thing I realized was that there is a rapping knock on my door. I jumped off the bed with a start, confused as to who could be knocking at my door at such an ungodly hour. I looked to my side, and Patrice was no longer there. She was probably in the bathroom.

  Grudgingly, I padded toward the door and opened it. Dylan was standing there with a worried look on his face. Upon sighting me, the worry etched on his face disappeared, and he actually smiled. Despite my bad mood and the sleep that I so desperately wanted to go back to, I smiled at him, too. It was good to see him even though he apparently decided to ignore my suggestion not to come over tonight.

  "Come on in," I said and moved out of the way.

  "I'm glad you're alright," he said as he entered the apartment.

  "Why would you think I wouldn't be? I'm fine. It was just a really scary dream. And I thought I told you not to come tonight? What are you doing here?"

  "And we agreed it would be best if I come this morning. So here I am."

  "This morning?" I said, confused. How could it be this morning? I could have sworn I was just asleep for about thirty seconds. I run toward my room and grab my phone to check the time. My jaw dropped to the floor when my phone told me it was past nine in the morning. Where did the time go? No wonder Patrice was nowhere in sight. She had probably left for home when it was daylight. I hadn't even heard my alarm go off. I went back to meet Dylan in the living room. He was holding a cup of coffee and a piece of paper.

  "Seeing as you have no idea what time it is, I decided to make you a cup. And I found this from Patrice," he said and handed me both the note and the coffee.

  I took both from him with an appreciative smile and plopped myself onto the bean bag. "Thank you. You're a lifesaver," I said and sipped some of the scalding hot coffee. I turned the note over, and it read:

  I didn't want to wake you when I was leaving, but I knew the first place you'd hit was the coffee maker. Take care of yourself, babe. I'll see you soon. If I can't come over before it's night, I'll call to check up on you. Make sure you eat something.

  -P

  I smiled. "I take it you know what's in the note already."

  "As a matter of fact, I do. That's the only way I could have known who wrote it and who to give it to."

  "You snooping brat," I said jokingly. "It could have been some new catch of mine that had to go to work or decided to go get me breakfast or something like that."

  "Couldn't possibly have."

  "Been a new catch? You underestimate my abilities."

  "I actually don't doubt the new catch part. The part I doubt is the breakfast part. He couldn't possibly have gone to get you breakfast and then ask you to make sure you eat something."

  "Alright smartass, have your seat. My eyes are aching from having to look up at you as I speak to you. And thanks again for the coffee."

  "You're very much welcome. So how are you now?"

  "I am fine. I was fine before now, too."

  "I doubt that seeing the dream had you pretty shaken up, and for you to have emailed me, it shows it really got to you."

  "Or yours is the first number on my called list."

  "We both know that's not why you called me. I could've come yesterday if you had let me."

  "And do what? Rub your hands on my back and shoulder and tell me that it's going to be alright? And when we're done where would you sleep with Patrice here. And talking of Patrice, how in the world would I've explained you coming over that late?"

  Dylan gave a tired smile. "Go easy tiger. I was just saying."

  "So was I," I said and once again sipped my coffee. It wasn't as hot as before, and this time I found it relatively easier to swallow.

  "But really, no banter, no teasing remarks, no evading the truth; how are you feeling?" he asked. I saw a softness to him that I hadn't noticed before. He wasn't asking just out of courtesy. He was asking because he actually cared about me. This was beginning to feel quite scary for me. Or maybe it was just me imagining thi
ngs.

  "I'm fine, Dylan. I was just really scared last night. The dreams have been coming and going, but not once has it affected the father. The man never gets hurt before I wake up. But this time, for the first time ever, something actually happened to him. It wasn't just him fighting with the girl. Something happened."

  "The girl? Is that all you see her as? The girl?"

  "That is what she is," I said, my chin set and ready for an argument.

  "You said it yourself, so there is no point going back or even starting to argue. The girl is you. I see the way you're looking at me, and I know you're gunning for a fight. Don't."

  The tightness in my jaw disappeared at that moment. He did know me well, after all. "Fine. ME."

  "So if the girl in the dreams happens to be you, does that mean those people are your father and mother?"

  "Nice work, Sherlock. You figured that out all by yourself," I said with every iota of un-seriousness I could draw out from within me. I didn't want to talk about this. I didn't have the strength for it right now.

  "I won't be fooled by your attempt at turning this into a joke, Alexa. Remember what I told you once before. I know you."

  "It's been just two weeks. You don't know me."

  "I know a lot more than a lot of people do about you. I've worked with you for the past two weeks, and in that time, we've become friends, we've had sex, we've annoyed the hell out of each other, and we've had good times. I know you. Now back to this," he said with a serious look on his face.

  This was one of those moments when I hated Dylan. He was even worse than Patrice apparently. The two of them deserved each other. Maybe I should try to hook them up.

  I doubted that Patrice would be thrilled by the idea of me trying to hook her up with a guy I had had sex with countless times. My mind turned back to the situation at hand.

  I guessed the earlier I dealt with this, the faster I got a handle on it.

  "Those two are my parents. My mother and my father. Anything else?"

  "Where's your mother?" he asked, and a shadow fell over my face immediately.

  This was one the reasons I didn't want to talk about this. Dylan sensed the hesitation and reached out to me. He tipped my chin back with his index finger. "Why aren't you saying anything?"

  "My mother died when I was 16 going on seventeen," I finally replied.

  "Oh my God! I'm really sorry. It must've been hard on you." I stared at him as I processed his empathy. He was not the forced kind; his sorry was not just one of those things people say to other people that suffer loss. I could sense that he actually felt it.

  "It's alright. It's been forever."

  "Not really. It was just four years ago," he said and then all of a sudden his eyes grew wide. "Four years," he repeats. "It's just been four years."

  "I know, and you've just said that like a million times already. Stop saying that"

  "I just came to a realization is why. Is she by any chance the reason you ran away from home?"

  "Maybe."

  "Maybe?"

  "Sort of."

  "I don't understand any of this, and I need you to please explain this to me. These one-word and two-word answers won't do anything."

  "My mother died when I was sixteen. Cancer. Of the breast. She found out shortly before she died that she had it and that it was quite advanced. She didn't want to do surgery, but my dad thought she should. He said it would make her better.

  "The doctors said the same thing, too. Mom was adamant about wanting to go holistic, but dad wouldn't hear of it. He pushed and pushed until finally one day, mom decided to do the mastectomy. She died two days after surgery."

  "Wow. That must've been pretty tough on you and your dad most especially."

  "It was hard on me. And then every time I saw dad, I remembered it was him who wanted her to have surgery at all cost. I blamed him for her death. I blamed him for her cancer. I blamed him for every single wrong that had ever happened on this planet. I didn't even want to see him."

  "And then you ran away? I understand that it was a hard time for you. You just suffered the loss of someone dear to you, and it must've been difficult, but so did your father. When you lost your mother, he lost his wife, his companion, and his partner."

  "He didn't lose shit. Or rather he didn't care."

  "Don't talk like that, Alexa. What was he supposed to have done? Watch your mother suffer like that, when he knew that she could be helped with surgery? Your mother's death would've hurt even more if he hadn't tried. You would've blamed him for not trying hard enough to convince her to do the surgery when he knew it would help out. He wouldn't have been able to forgive himself is she had died without surgery. He lost his wife, Alexa," Dylan said in a whisper.

  "Don't think you know the whole story until you actually hear it all. He lost his wife quite alright but he quickly bought himself another, and the bitch was quick to jump into his arms."

  Dylan blinked twice and stared at me in dazed confusion. He didn't understand what just happened obviously. This was why people should never feel like they knew it all.

  "You're surprised. You didn't wait before you jumped to all the conclusions you did. Sometime after my eighteenth, a year and some after; actually I think I should say barely a year later, my father decided it was time to move the fuck on with his life and not give a hoot about my mother. It wasn't even two years yet, Dylan. Not two fucking years yet, and he had found someone to replace her."

  "He got a girlfriend?"

  "No, he fucking got a fiancée. He fucking got engaged. And came to me telling me a load of bull crap about him missing mom too much, but he was sure she would want all of us to be happy even if she wasn't here, and that it had been a tough time without her there and me being difficult.

  "They had met at some stupid conference, and he had become friends with her, and she was a good listener, and before he knew it they were so much in love, and he couldn't wait. Barely a fucking year! This is someone who would go on business trips for months, and mom would wait for him. He couldn't fucking respect her for more than a year and some months."

  My voice was almost getting heavy with emotions at this point, so I swallowed as hard and almost as unnoticeable as I could. I couldn't afford to cry. Dylan was here, and I didn't want to appear weak. Who would have thought that after so long, it would still hurt like hell? I had thought that I could do this; live my life without hurting when I thought of all this shit. I was wrong. It hurt like hell and so did having to hold such a grudge.

  "Wow. I actually don't know what to say anymore," Dylan finally said.

  "You don't have to say anything. That was the last straw for me, especially seeing as I still blamed him for mom. So I left home. Went as far from home as I could. Changed my last name into something else. I wanted nothing to do with him. I still want nothing to do with him."

  "But it's been a while."

  "I don't care. He eventually married the bitch a year ago. I stumbled on the piece in a newspaper."

  "Newspaper. Is he that well known for his wedding to be in the papers?"

  "Oh, trust me, he is. They say it was a low-key ceremony, but I don't care, he still got married to her."

  "Is that why you didn't want to take loans or anything that could have you on any record?"

  "Right again, Sherlock. He has a large, effective team, and they would find me somehow."

  "Seeing as they haven't found you yet, I doubt their effectiveness."

  "They're good. I've just been better," I said and stalked off to the bathroom. It was time to let out all those tears I had been hiding away so I wouldn't look weak in front of Dylan.

  20

  Dylan

  Sitting here, I realized how hard all of this was for Alexa. I doubted that she had had that many people to share this part of her life with. Definitely not from her old life. Those could be a desperate lot when they wanted to be. They wouldn't mind turning her into her father just for a pittance or maybe for their freedom. Although
, now that I think of it, they can't all possibly be bad. There would be some good eggs amongst them, who would take her secret to their grave. But either way that leaves Patrice and now me as the only people she could actually talk to.

  Alexa was still in the bathroom; had been for the past five minutes. I was almost sure she was crying in there. I normally would have burst in if I had any fears of her hurting herself in there. But every odd minute or so, she did something to make me know she was still in there and fine. Regardless, I couldn't let her stay in there forever. I walked up to the bathroom door and knocked gently on it.

  "Alexa?" I called out to her.

  "I'll be right out, Dylan."

  "You said that like three minutes ago."

  "I'm busy in here."

  "Crying? Come out and let me comfort you as you cry. I'll rub your back and squeeze your shoulders. Maybe even throw in ice cream."

  "Nice try, but I'm not crying. And stop being so cheesy. Talking about rubbing my back and squeezing my shoulder. Doesn't suit you."

  "I'm sure you smiled, and that was the purpose of the cheesy talk. But now on a more serious note, Alexa. Come on out. You've been in there for a really long time. Please?"

  "Fine," she said, and some seconds later, I heard the lock. When she did open the door, her eyes were red and kind of looked swollen. She gave me a look that was supposed to distract me from all of this, but I saw it all the same.

  "Stop looking at me like that," she said and shoved me out of her way. "I wasn't crying. I just had weed."

  "Right and for some reason, I can't smell anything."

  "Whatever."

  "Alexa, don't you think it's time to forgive and move on?"

  "Forgive who? And move on to what? A life where I'm back with my father, living with him and his new wife and we play house? A life where I'd be watched on hand and foot by my father and his people because he either don't trust I won't run away or because he's trying to 'make up for lost time'? Which of these scenarios has my mom in there?"