by Laura Burton
But just as I concoct the idea to set a fire somehow so the sprinklers shower us all, Helen hands the paper to Wyatt. I watch the exchange with a sinking feeling in my chest. My knees knock against each other, and I grind my teeth with frustration.
Watching Wyatt read my article is like watching a train crash in slow motion.
The color drains from his face and his jaw juts out. His eyes flash with a mixture of hurt and anger. After three agonizingly long minutes, during which I’m sure I couldn’t breathe, Wyatt looks up and meets my terrified stare. “Is this about me?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lucy
Helen pushes back from her desk and rises to a tentative stand. She looks from Wyatt to me, then back to Wyatt again while opening and closing her mouth in silence. I guess she senses the tension in the room, because she makes for the door on tiptoe, as though she’s worried that if she walked properly, a bomb might set off. “I’m going to grab a coffee. Does anyone want a coffee? Anyone?” She looks from Wyatt to me again, but the two of us remain still, hardly hearing her at all. “Right,” Helen says after a beat. “Well, I’ll just leave you both to… to talk.”
The door closes and I’m left alone with Wyatt. He’s staring at me, and his eyes are dull. I stare back, still reeling from the revelation that he’s my boss’s boss and I had no idea. All this time.
“You were trying to manipulate me.” His voice is emotionless, like he’s just telling me the sky is blue.
But his words land on me like a thunderclap. I can’t bring myself to answer. Wyatt’s face twists with devastation, and his shoulders slump in defeat. “Was any of it real?”
The question unlocks my voice and I take a step forward. “Yes. Yes, it was real. It was all real… Well, almost all…”
“I have to say I’m impressed. You really did your research. Did you get my parents in on it as well?”
I blink several times, stunned. “Wait, what? No!”
Wyatt drags a hand through his hair. “So, what? How did you know I’ve been obsessed with Lord of the Rings since I was a little boy? Huh? The autism thing… Was that all an act to get me to open up about myself? And did they tell you to act goofy to make me feel less like a dork when I’m around lots of people?”
Goofy. I wrack my brain trying to think of a time I behaved goofy. Also, why can’t I seem to escape that word?
“Wait, I don’t…”
But Wyatt isn’t finished. He starts to pace the room, breathing so hard through his nose, his breath comes out like puffs. “And you invited me to your sister’s place so that I’d meet Blaze, because somehow you knew I was an only child and I’ve always wanted a brother.”
I take a step back. He’s not mentioned the glossy hair, the dresses, or the fake laughter. All the times I was pretending.
“Wyatt. None of that was an act.”
Wyatt stops and frowns at me. “But your article says…”
“That being true to myself earned me your love.”
His nostrils flare at the word love, but he doesn’t deny it.
“But you lied. You’ve written all these… these…”
“Lies?” I say, tears welling in my eyes. “They’re not lies, Wyatt. Tell me which part of that article isn’t the truth.”
Wyatt looks at me blankly, then looks at the sheet of paper and shakes his head. “All of it.”
“All of it? Really? You really think all of it is just lies?” I cross my arms.
Wyatt blinks several times, his temples growing red, and I know he’s struggling to process it all. I drop my hands with a sigh.
“If I wasn’t wearing that pretty dress on the subway, with my hair all made up like it was, would you even have given me a second look?” It’s a question I don’t want answered. But Wyatt doesn’t know that. He thinks about it.
“I might have.”
Wrong answer.
“No, you wouldn’t.” I swallow against the growing lump in my throat. “I know you wouldn’t because we’d met before, and you don’t even remember.” Tears spill out of my eyes and wet my cheeks as I look at him.
Wyatt’s brows pinch. “What? No. We met on the subway.”
I shake my head, wiping my eyes. “No. You just don’t remember. Because men don’t pay any attention to girls like me. It seems a lot like we’re totally right for each other, but you wouldn’t have taken the time to find out if I hadn’t dressed up to look like a catch.”
“I can’t believe what you’re saying. How shallow do you think men are? Is that really how little you think of me?”
Before I can argue, Wyatt charges out of the office in a rage. I want to run after him and tell him about the time we first met. I want to explain it all. But I can’t move. My feet stay glued to the carpet and I stand helplessly on the spot, tears falling down my face, probably forming big ugly lines of mascara.
Helen enters the room and watches Wyatt disappear down the hall with her brows raised. Then she points at me. “You. What on earth were you thinking, seducing the CEO for the article? Now there’s no way I can publish this… this… trash!”
She strides to her desk, settles into her chair with a poker straight back, acting like she’s queen of the castle now that Mr. Croft has left the building. “Sit down, we’re going to talk.”
I look at the chair and think back to all the times Helen has shouted at me or thrown me a carrot––like when she told me I’d get a column if I did the makeover, only to move the goal post and say I had to write the article that she’d titled before I could write my own articles like she’d promised.
And now what? What will I have to do next?
But is this even really what I want? My own column for Young and Me? Do I really want to work in this musty office for the rest of my career?
Sure, I’m used to the routine. I like sitting at the same desk––even though it’s under the AC vent. And there’s the old saying, “Better the devil you know...” I’ve always thought having Helen as my boss was fine, especially when I reasoned that the next boss might be worse.
But really, I’m just miserable. And Wyatt is gone. The game is over. I’m done.
“Helen. I quit.”
The calm confidence of my voice is surprising to me. I’ve voiced those words so many times in my head over the years. I’ve even shouted them in the shower, and screamed them into my pillow at night. But now the moment has arrived and it’s nothing like any of the scenarios I imagined. The moment is a lot simpler. Well, apart from the trails of mascara running down my cheeks, of course. Oh, and the way my knees keep wobbling.
Helen bows her head for a moment and closes her eyes as if to send up a prayer. I hover on the spot, wondering whether now is the appropriate time to leave. She looks up at me with an exaggerated sigh.
“Lucy, sit down. Please.” She points to the chair, but I stand my ground. If I cave in and sit on that disgusting thing, she’ll sink her hooks into me and change my mind. I can’t let that happen.
When she sees I won’t budge, Helen places her hands on the desk. “Your makeover goes to print in two days. Come on. The article was clearly a disaster, but I’m sure we can work something out.”
I roll my lips in and clamp down. Then I shake my head very slowly. “Nope. No. Uh-uh.” I wipe my cheeks with my sleeve, more sure now than I’ve ever been of anything in my life. “I’m going to pack up my things now. It’s… been a learning experience, working here. Thank you for everything and I wish you the best of luck in the future.”
Before Helen can argue, I swivel on the spot and march out of her office, feeling several inches taller.
An enthusiastic applause follows, and I realize the whole office must have been eavesdropping on the conversation. The guys in the office clap and hoot as I walk past. They begin to chant, “Goofy. Lucy.” For the first time, the nickname makes me grin.
They can call me Goofy Lucy. I’m okay with that now. And it’s not because I’m weak or silly, or a total push over.
Two days later, Leila, Chessy, and I settle into a booth in our favorite bar. I’m back in my comfy leggings and oversized shirt. My hair sits in a neat bun at the top of my head, and when I look at the menu, I have to push my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
I haven’t heard a peep from Wyatt.
But I didn’t hesitate to delete his number from my phone. Leila calls me cut-throat, but what’s the point of dragging out the pain? Chessy gets it. She cuts guys off on a weekly basis.
Chessy orders us a round of drinks and a club soda for me, but Leila holds up her hand. “Make those two club sodas.”
Chessy and I look at Leila with identical looks of surprise. She eyes us sheepishly then lets out a squeal, like she’s been holding it in for days. “Okay. So you know I’ve been acting a little––”
“Pretentious, needy, odd––” Chessy and I start listing off words. Leila holds up her hands. “All right, all right.” She rolls her eyes. I was going to say…. Different.”
She picks up a napkin, closes her eyes, and dabs the corners of her mouth carefully. Anyone who knows Leila would recognize she’s gathering courage to say something. It’s either that or she’s resisting the urge to vomit. One can’t exactly be sure. Chessy and I grow tense in anticipation.
“Remember that dizzy spell on the weekend? I’ve been getting a lot of them lately. And truth be told, I haven’t been feeling like myself.”
“You’re pregnant!” Chessy yelps, clutching her face with a grin. Leila gives her a pointed look and a grimace. “Really? You had to blurt it out like that? I wanted to say it.”
I look at my older sister with surprise. “I knew it!” Chessy squeals. I personally had no idea. Pregnancy wasn’t even on my radar. Pregnancy can make someone highly sensitive? Dizzy? Change a person’s behavior?
If so, I am completely uninterested in procreating. Sheesh. No, thank you. Besides, the idea of growing a tiny human and somehow pushing it out––and living to tell the tale––awakens a host of deep-rooted anxieties.
“Are you happy about it?” I ask, sounding blunt.
Leila laughs, but I don’t understand the joke. “Yes. I’m very happy.”
“And Blaze? Is he ready to be a father?” I ask.
Leila nods and reaches forward to take my hand.
“This is the part where you say congratulations,” she says, looking at me in amusement. Chessy is vibrating the table in her excitement. She squeals again and hugs our older sister with a giggle. “I’m going to be an auntie! Oh, I hope it’s a girl. I’ll teach her all about clothes and makeup and guys…”
“No!” Leila and I say in unison. Chessy sits back and rolls her eyes.
The server places our drinks on the table, and when he walks away, I lean in close to Leila. “Congratulations. This is big news.”
We share a sisterly look, one of mutual understanding of the fact that we are totally different, and on different life paths. But we’ll always be there for each other through the thick and thin.
Then Leila clears her throat and raises her glass. “Now let’s have a toast to Lucy, our very own model. This year, Young and Me, next year, Estelle!”
I smirk, slide my finger across the rim of my glass, and pick it up. “And to Leila, who’s going to be the best mom ever!”
Chessy gives us a nervous look before she sucks in a deep breath and raises her glass in the air. “And to my new job! As a grade two teacher in New York!”
Leila and I lower our glasses in shock. “What?” The question comes from both of us at the same time.
Chessy licks her bottom lip and clears her throat with a little laugh. “Well, it’s a funny story. But I was so inspired by everything you were doing, Lucy. I mean, you’ve really put yourself out of your comfort zone.” She pats my hand. Then she turns to Leila. “And you, you’re married to a billionaire. Now you’ll have a billion babies.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s just the one,” Leila corrects her.
Chessy flicks her hair back. “When I saw the job posting, I thought I had no chance. But then I figured I had nothing to lose. So, I applied. They wanted a telephone interview, then I went into the school. And oh my goodness, you guys, the kids are adorable. There are pictures all over the halls… The other teachers are so friendly and welcoming…”
My eyes dampen as I listen to Chessy describe a fairytale land, not a primary school. I wish I could see the world through her rose tinted glasses. She could get a job as a prison warden and convince us all it was paradise.
“To new beginnings,” I suggest, raising my glass again. My sisters repeat the words and we chink glasses.
“So what are you going to do now, Lucy?” Leila asks, setting her drink down.
I heave a theatric sigh. “Well, I was thinking about writing fanfiction again.”
My sisters’ eyes widen with horror, which only fuels my determination. “And I’ve started an Instagram account where I’ll post pictures of myself doing cosplay. I heard you can make money doing that.”
When Chessy and Leila exchange looks of dismay, I can’t continue. I double over, snorting and laughing. “You two should see your faces!”
My sisters laugh nervously, not entirely sure if I’m really joking or not.
“The truth is, I don’t know,” I say, wiping my eyes. “But I’ve got money saved and I’ll probably start applying for other jobs at magazines. But I’m hoping something opens up in the gaming sector…”
Leila holds up her hand, her face brightening. “You know what? Blaze has a friend who runs a gaming blog. It’s super successful and––”
“Is it I Game? GameNow? GamesforGeeks?” I list off all the popular blogs I follow. “I don’t know…” Leila says, looking at me with some concern. She’s probably wondering why I know so many of them by heart. “But I’m sure he can ask if he’s got any openings you could apply for. Heck, I bet Blaze could get you a job there if he asked.”
I beam at Leila, straightening my back. Good old nepotism. What use is having a billionaire brother-in-law, if he can’t pull some favors and get me an interview at my dream job? “I always said I liked Blaze.” Leila chuckles.
“No, you didn’t. In fact, if I remember it right, you told me several times to dump him.”
I pretend to look shocked. “I did not!”
My sisters and I spend the night laughing and exchanging banter, like old times. At the back of our minds, I know we’re all thinking about the coming changes. I can tell by the way Chessy’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes that she’s nervous about relocating to New York and starting out at a whole new job. Leila’s hand keeps resting on her non-existent bump, probably wondering what color to paint the nursery. And then there’s me. Single, unemployed, but oddly happy.
Am I sad that things went sour with Wyatt? Sure. But I think deep down I always knew our breakup was inevitable. A relationship founded on something as flimsy as a lie, or a bet, or an agenda to write a story… just isn’t strong enough to weather the storms of life. True love can’t be forced, or faked.
But Wyatt did show me that there are people out there in the world who can appreciate me for who I am. That it’s okay to lower the walls sometimes and let other people in.
After a long night of eating too many carbs and dancing, I say goodbye and head home in a taxi. Rain pummels the roof of the cab with a succession of thuds and streaks of water snake down the windows.
I lift my jacket over my head as the taxi pulls to a stop outside my apartment block. When I open the door, a loud clap of thunder almost makes me jump out of my skin.
I dash through the puddles on the sidewalk in front of my house, soaking my leggings in a spray of cold water, and fumble with my keys as I run up the steps to my front door. Then I bump headfirst into something––or someone––squishy.
I jump back at the sound of a grunt, blink raindrops from my lashes and squint throu
gh the fogged up lens of my glasses at the shadowy figure standing in front of my door.
When he steps forward, the streetlights illuminate a pair of hazel eyes. I take off my glasses and clean them for a better look. Wyatt?
Any ordinary woman would probably ask him what he’s doing here. Or yell at him for turning up unannounced and waiting outside like a creep. But the purely logical side of my brain is in charge tonight. Especially as another rumble of thunder sets the hairs on the back of my neck on edge.
“Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.” I walk past, fit my keys in the lock and open the door to my apartment. Then I flick the hall light on and head straight for the kitchen area to turn on the coffee machine. The front door slams shut, and I keep my back turned. I’m not sure I can look at him in the face.
“Lucy, turn around.”
His voice is soft but broken. Like the words took great effort to say. But he’s out of luck, because I can’t move. I couldn’t turn around even if I wanted to. And I don’t, because if I do, I might just do something foolish like cry or shout or stomp my feet like a petulant child.
So, I stand still, with my feet firmly rooted to the spot. A foot starts to tap of its own accord, uneasy at the anxiety flooding my veins.
What does he think he’s doing, coming all this way? No phone call, not even a text, and he just shows up outside my door looking all cute and soggy.
Does he want to get back together? Is he serving notice and suing me for the article? Surely he knows Helen didn’t print it. There’s no need to take me to court.
Maybe he’s come for an apology. Well, he’s not getting that, either. Because I’m not sorry. I’d do everything again if I went back in time. Because every part of that article was true––an article that he supposedly approved of! Unless Helen lied to me about that too.
I can hear his teeth chattering and I clench my fists, pressing each finger nail into my palm one at a time. The pinch distracts me from the tightness in my chest and the longing to roll back and replay the night we spent in my apartment––before I found out he was Mr. Croft, and he found out about my article.
