The Interview

by Alice Ward

  “You did hurt me. Your silence hurt me.” She started to weep again, and several tears trickled between her fingers down to her wrists where the tennis bracelet Dad had given her for their twenty-second wedding anniversary still circled one. “If you’d told me the truth as soon as you’d known, it might have been a one-time indiscretion that I could have forgiven. Now, look what’s happened!”

  “I can’t believe you’re blaming me for this.” My heart was beating a million miles a minute again, but not with anxiety. I spun on my heel and waved a hand at her over my shoulder. “You can sit here and be pissed at Dad and be pissed at me if you want, but I’m not taking responsibility for you two not being able to keep your marriage together.”

  She grabbed the nearest thing to her, one of their satin throw pillows, and whipped it at me. “GET OUT!”

  So, I did.

  ***

  Tears were raining from my eyes, but I didn’t wipe them away. They dripped from my chin to my arms, which were crossed tightly over my chest in a protective hug, and from my arms to my lap. I ignored it all. The dampness was nothing to the ache inside me.

  Dishonesty and deception had torn my family apart. That was the cross I bore, and I hadn’t felt its weight until now. Time had repaired the abandonment issues I’d developed toward my dad, and my mother and I were on speaking terms enough to maintain a Sunday morning churchgoing tradition, but the scars ran so much deeper.

  The clouds had parted, and I was basking in the sunlight of my truth. I could finally understand why I was so misguided when it came to Tate.

  Sorrow gripped my heart with icy talons, and I let myself break. Just like my mother had done when I was sixteen years old, and she found my father in bed with another woman, I covered my face with my hands and sobbed for every stab of agony I felt.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tate

  My stomach was in knots. I took my millionth sip of the ginger tea concoction I’d ordered to settle my nerves, but every time I looked out the plate glass window, I started to feel like I was going to throw up.

  The woman I was waiting for was a stranger to me, so each female who strolled down the sidewalk sent waves of nausea crashing over me. So far, I’d been certain I was about to meet a woman carrying a chihuahua wearing a pink tracksuit, a woman with more shopping bags than Saks had in their entire store, and a woman who couldn’t walk a straight line in six-inch heels. I’d been wrong on all counts, and my wait continued.

  The coffee shop I’d chosen for the meeting wasn’t even open to the public yet. They were set to open their doors officially in three days, and the interior was outfitted with party decorations that clashed against the bamboo and hemp décor.

  When I’d called them to find out if they’d be willing to allow me to do an interview there in privacy, however, the manager — who’d sounded like a hardcore stoner but who turned out to be a very professional thirtysomething with a hipster beard — had almost cried with gratitude. He generously welcomed me on the condition that he could market his new business venture with the statement that Tate McGrath was his first customer. I didn’t mind. It was an even trade to me.

  Another woman appeared in front of the shop, and I knew at once this was the person I was waiting for. She was tall and held herself confidently, and there was a glint in her eye even as she approached the door that reminded me of a fierce lioness stalking the Serengeti. When she entered, she glanced around with a critical downturn on her lips before spotting me.

  “About time we met.” The greeting was far from friendly, and it was nothing less than I’d expected. Sadie’s stories about her best friend had painted a colorful picture.

  I removed the sunglasses I was wearing to conceal my identity, along with the hood on my sweatshirt, and repositioned my chair to turn my back to the window. I didn’t want any fans or paparazzi spotting me and interrupting us. This was too important.

  “Jenna, I presume.” I stood up and extended a hand.

  She shook it with a firm grip. “Yeah, and you’re Tate McGrath. Introductions over.” She released her hold, pulled out the chair opposite mine with a screech that echoed through the shop, and slid onto it with the smoothness of butter. The no-nonsense attitude she was shooting toward me was admirable, but I didn’t know if it was coming from a dedicated journalist or a protective friend. “So, you want to do an exposé?”

  “Yes.” I sat down as well and wrapped two fingers around the handle on my teacup, though I didn’t drink. “Do you want to order anything before we get started?”

  “I’ve downed two mugs of coffee in the last half hour.”

  I assumed that meant she was satisfied for the moment, so I settled back. If I was going to lay it all out for the world to see, I might as well have been comfortable. “Let’s get going then.”

  “First, you need to tell me something.” She leaned forward, hands resting sweetly in her lap but with an expression like a warrior. “What’s your game here?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You spent the entire month you were with Sadie as quiet as a clam. She spent weeks, weeks, feeling like she was inadequate because you wouldn’t tell her a damn thing about yourself aside from your favorite foods and positions in bed. You refused to open up even when she said it was the only way your relationship could continue, and you actually let her walk out of your life. That broke…” The tip of her nose turned pink and tears gathered in her eyes.

  My stomach twisted. “I’m sor—”

  She held up a hand. “Let me finish.” She pointed a finger at me. “You broke her heart. You have no idea how badly. Then, you take her to California to spill your guts to her, and now you want to let the world in on your little secrets too?” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and dabbed at them with a napkin. “Sadie might be determined to see the best in you, but I’m not that naïve. What’s in it for you?”

  I had to admire her for her dedication to her friend, but I wholly resented the insinuation that I’d reached out to her for less than pure reasons. And I was also curious, if not slightly mortified, just how much she knew about my favorite positions in bed.

  “The only thing I’m hoping to gain out of doing this interview is Sadie’s trust,” I told her. It was the bluntest, most honest answer I could give in light of her doubts. “There will be some freedom in knowing I don’t have to hide behind pretenses anymore, but that’s secondary.”

  “Uh huh.”

  My temper flared, and I rested my elbows on the table to stare her unflinchingly in the eyes. She stared right back without batting a lash. “You’re trying to be a good friend, Jenna, and I respect that. I also know you’ve seen her at some very low points because of me.”

  “Yeah, I have.” Her jaw sharpened as she set her teeth.

  “But I never sought to intentionally hurt her, and you know that damn well.”

  “I’ve never met you.” She flipped loose hair over her shoulder. “I don’t know a thing about your intentions, and I frankly don’t give a shit either. What matters to me is Sadie’s happiness.”

  My chest warmed as images of Sadie’s beaming face blossomed in my mind. “Yeah. Me too.”

  “Good, then you’ll have no problem telling me why you’re here.”

  I quirked a brow. “I already told you. Sadie’s trust.” Lifting the teacup to my mouth, I blew on the liquid to cool it down. “Why are you here?”

  “To make sure you don’t break her heart.” Jenna’s eyes flashed. “Again.”

  “And?”

  She squinted at me, and I got a better look at the dramatic indigo eyeshadow coating her lids. This was evidently a woman who fancied flash and attention, which explained quite a bit about her domineering demeanor. “And what?”

  “You could let me know exactly what you think of me and protect your friend’s heart with a phone call. You could camp out at Sadie’s apartment and whack her with a spatula every time she reaches to text me. Hell, you could stick a LoJack
on her and track her all around the city to make sure she’s nowhere near me, if that’s your aim.” I took a sip of tea, holding the cup aloft even after swallowing. “You agreed to do this interview. So, tell me, Miss Grammer, why are you here?”

  She was looking at me like I’d sprouted a third eye in the center of my forehead and a series of tentacles from my scalp. “It’s an opportunity to be the journalist behind Tate McGrath’s exposé. That’s like being offered the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling paint job. Who would turn that down?”

  “Nobody.” Another sip. I was building my case. “So, I think we can agree you’re here for reasons other than Sadie’s vulnerable heart, yes?”

  Her hesitance wasn’t disagreement. I could read this woman already; she just didn’t want to give me the satisfaction. When she replied, it was begrudgingly. “Sure.”

  “Then, why don’t we put aside any discussion about misappropriated intentions and focus on getting this interview done so we can move on with the rest of the day?”

  The cocoa-colored liner around her eyes stretched as she ogled me, and I was pleased to see I’d both impressed and irritated her. She reached into her bag, which was large enough to hold an entire stack of magazines, and pulled out a pad of paper identical to the one Sadie had used when she’d conducted her interview with me.

  “Fine.” A pen followed the pad, and a recorder followed the pen. “You won’t mind if I record this, will you?”

  “Not at all.”

  She placed the device at the edge of the small, round table. It was one of those made from an actual tree trunk that probably cost a fortune but gave the space the earthy feel that the owner seemed to be going for. I lowered my teacup onto its saucer and pushed it off to the side, then moved the recorder smack into the middle of the rings that revealed the upcycled tree’s age. Jenna raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Trust me,” I said. A split second later, a siren started ringing through the entire neighborhood.

  She watched an ambulance speed past the window. “How’d you know that was going to happen?”

  “That’s the third one since I got here. I don’t want the interview to be drowned out when you play this back.”

  “Ah.” She flipped the pad open to a fresh page, clicked her pen, and poised it between thumb and forefinger. “Okay. There’s one question everyone will want to—”

  “Wait.” I held up my hand to stop her, and she halted mid-sentence with a flustered expression. It was obvious by the rising color in her cheeks and narrowing of her eyes that she wasn’t used to be interrupted, let alone challenged and overridden. “I need you to make me a promise.”

  The laugh she let out was more of a scoff than girlish amusement. “Because I’m not doing you enough favors as it is?”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that, Miss Gossip Columnist.”

  She pursed her lips. “Fine. What’s this promise you need me to make?”

  “You can’t tell Sadie about this. The interview or the meeting in general.”

  Jenna leaned into her canvas-backed chair and gave me one of those looks people reserve for idiots. “I hate to burst your bubble on this one, but I’m pretty sure she’s going to know you did the interview and that we met up when she reads the article in the paper and sees my name in the byline.” She tapped her temple with one finger.

  “Obviously. I don’t want her to know before this goes to print.” I chose to ignore the not so subtle insults to my intelligence. “I need your word, or I’ll have to find another journalist.”

  “Is that some kind of threat?”

  “It’s a reality.” She was certainly a defensive woman. I found her somewhat annoying, but her unwavering dedication to Sadie’s well-being also gave her an endearing quality I couldn’t help but acknowledge.

  With a hefty sigh, she rocked her head from side to side. Her neck cracked aggressively twice, and she rolled her shoulders to produce the same sound from her back. Straightening up, she returned her focus to me.

  “Okay. I promise I won’t tell Sadie about the interview, or about our meeting, or even that I’m aware of your existence outside of what she tells me. She’ll find out when the rest of New York finds out. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “Yes.” I finally lowered my hand back onto the table. “Thank you.”

  “God, you’re difficult,” she muttered. She sounded so much like Sadie in that moment that I couldn’t stop the smile from creeping onto my face. Luckily, she was looking down at the notepad and didn’t notice. “So, like I was saying… Everyone is going to want to know why you’ve decided, after all these years, to do this exposé piece. Why now?”

  It was a perfectly reasonable question, one I’d been expecting, but I suddenly didn’t know the right answer. There were the kinds of answers my agent would advise me to say, diplomatic fillers that were neither untruthful nor overly revealing. There was also the absolute, transparent truth. I wasn’t comfortable with the latter after going with the former for so long, but the point of an exposé was to expose those things that made me the least comfortable, right?

  And what the world was going to think had taken a backseat to Sadie.

  Taking a deep breath, I started to talk. It was all going to come out now in this tiny organic coffee shop.

  “I met a woman who taught me I’m worth loving. She deserves to know the man who’s in love with her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sadie

  “Sadie? Sadie.”

  I blinked a couple times and spun around, realizing someone was saying my name over and over again. Sandra was looking up at me from her desk with annoyance and concern, and she was holding a manila folder out to me.

  “This is for you.”

  Still in a fog, I took the folder from her and flipped it open. Lying inside was the review I’d written for a low-budget play I’d seen two nights ago in Greenwich Village. It wouldn’t have even been worth reviewing if it wasn’t for the leading actress, Astrid Wailer.

  She’d been a Broadway headliner at one point in her career, but a run-in with a meth addiction had sent her through the ringer of rehabs. This was her return to the stage, and since no worthwhile producer was willing to cast her for fear she’d relapse during the show’s run, she had ended up on a stage in a renovated billiards bar.

  The set hadn’t been more than a cardboard cityscape, and the lighting was provided by the cheap stained-glass lamps left over from the bar, but Wailer’s performance was a decent tribute to her former self, and I’d been mildly impressed.

  “Why didn’t Jim just leave this on my desk?” I asked, frowning as I looked over the extraordinary amount of red pen marks on the article.

  Sandra shrugged noncommittally. “I guess he thought you wouldn’t see it.”

  “If it’s on my desk, how can I not see it?”

  “Well, you missed the last one he left there, and the review ended up printed a day late.” She turned her attention to her computer screen, clearly bored by the conversation.

  I frowned and closed the folder with a snap. “That was an accident.”

  She shrugged again, and I sighed. Sandra was an extremely competent receptionist with exactly the kind of attitude needed to field callers with unfavorable comments or infuriated restaurant owners demanding retractions when their food was deemed subpar, but she sorely lacked in the bedside manner of a fulfilling confidante.

  I ended our conversation with a wave, which she didn’t return, and headed toward my cubicle with the unsatisfactory review already drifting to the back of my mind.

  My work was suffering. There was no denying that, no matter how much I tried to justify the recent bout of returned reviews. My interest in theater had waned in proportion to my emotional stability, and I couldn’t seem to bring myself back to the good ol’ days of enjoying great performances and finding amusement in bad ones. Tate was undeniably a large portion of my unfocused state, but the acknowledgment of the damage my parents’ divorce had
done to me was infinitely greater a hindrance.

  I’d waffled back and forth between calling each parent to chew them a new one for ruining me and calling a therapist to fix me. Thus far, I’d done neither, but each passing day was making it more obvious I needed to do one or the other if I had any chance of inward peace.

  The mess on my desk was exactly as I’d left it the night before, no manila folders in sight. I dropped the hateful folder beside my keyboard, figuring I’d tackle it after dealing with the list of upcoming openings I needed to schedule, and plopped down in my chair with a heavy heart. There was a wicked lack of happiness in this cubicle. It was claustrophobic and bland and busy, much like the innermost portions of my brain. Maybe I needed a vacation.

  Anywhere but California.

  I heard footsteps approaching, but I didn’t bother turning around, instead choosing to fire up my computer for the day. It was probably Jenna coming by to perform her usual routine of complaining about no sleep, gossiping about whatever celebrity she’d been tracking lately, and raving about how awful a person Tate was to make me this way.

  I wasn’t in the mood.

  I was never in the mood anymore.

  Jenna used to be a great way to think about something shallow and harmless for a little bit, but now I couldn’t focus on her rambling long enough to get any benefit. And it didn’t help that once she’d gotten her issues out of her system, she turned her guns on Tate. Thinking about him was difficult enough. I didn’t care to talk about him, positively or negatively, on top of it.

  “Hey.” Indeed, it was Jenna. I looked over my shoulder to find her chin crooked over the top of my cubicle as usual. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going.”

  “Sandra talk to you?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Yeah… why?”

  “Jim came by my desk after you left last night. He wanted me to give you your review back for corrections.” She cast a dirty look toward Jim’s office, which was one of only two with four proper walls and a door. “I told him I wasn’t going to be his messenger, and he ought to keep his issues with your work between you two.”