Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Nevertheless today, a Friday, when he served his last day at LBC and everyone stood in line to shake his hand and thank him for what many considered a national service, I did, too.
He squeezed my hand. “Judith.”
“Si…” I started to call him sir, knowing he hated it, before sparing both of us more headache. “Célian.” I shook my head, offering him a timid smile. “Thank you for everything.”
“No need to thank me. It was only a fraction of what I was planning to give you, anyway,” he said dryly, but his eyes were two pools of misery. It felt like I was drowning into their depths, unable to come up for air.
I shuffled a little to the side, making room for Jessica behind me. He squeezed my hand harder. “Read the notes, Judith.”
“Safe travels.” I ducked my head and went straight to the bathroom.
Brianna waited for me there with two open mini bottles of Jack Daniels.
The burn of the alcohol barely touched my throat. It slid straight to my chest. Standing there, in the unsanitary women’s bathroom, made me realize what having good friends was all about. And I was darn glad I’d made a good friend in Brianna.
In the end, it was a Sunday afternoon when everything changed—when I changed. I realized it really didn’t matter how Célian had treated me, because love was not a chess game. It was Twister. You got all wrapped up and stumbled over your own feet, but that was part of its charm.
I had holed up in the library, as per usual. I knew Célian had been spending time with Dad every Sunday, religiously, and how it was important to both of them. Dad had Mrs. Hawthorne and me every day of the week, but he missed the buddies he’d once had at work, and Célian was his dose of testosterone. I tried not to be bitter about how easily and quickly he’d forgiven Célian, but the sad truth was, even I couldn’t hate him. Not really. Not all the way. Not the way I so desperately wanted to hate the man who’d quite ironically made me realize I could love.
Phoenix found me at the library. He was the one to sneak us in some candy this time. He looked perky and mischievous today, and better than he had the last few weeks.
He seemed like the guy I’d met the first time, when he’d approached me at this very library.
“What’s with you? You look different.” I stole a handful of Sour Patch Kids from his bag.
He chewed on his candy as he began to flip through the pages of The Times. “Different how?”
“Hmm…” I looked left and right, feeling uncomfortable. “Happy?”
“I am happy.” He laughed. “It’s not a foreign concept. You should try it, too.”
“Maybe it’s contagious and I’ll catch it from you,” I mused.
But that was wishful thinking, and I knew it. I was operating on autopilot, going through the motions, when really, all I could think about was the fact that Célian was probably in my apartment right now, and possibly for the last time, leaving his scent and testosterone and sexy air all over the place. Ugh.
“Actually, I’m also pretty happy because I have a lead to give you.” Phoenix snapped the paper shut, his eyes zeroing in on mine. I closed my copy of The New Yorker and arched an eyebrow. He leaned across the table between us and squeezed my hand. “I think you’re going to appreciate this one.”
“Then why are you giving it to me?”
I’d been here for Phoenix since he’d gotten back from Syria. I’d refused to take Célian’s side and choose between them, even though many women probably would have. But that still didn’t warrant all the help he’d given me. I knew he was a freelancer, and he didn’t particularly need the money, but I was beginning to feel uncomfortable at how much I owed him in leads and sources. Part of the reason I’d become appreciated and adored in the newsroom was because he’d handed me a lot of gems that should have been his.
“This one has your name all over it,” he insisted.
“Why?” I asked.
No matter what Célian said, Phoenix was a good journalist. He had friends everywhere. He was charming and approachable. Since he’d gotten back to New York, he’d spent every evening hitting the trendy Manhattan bars where journalists swarmed and had made more contacts, even though he didn’t drink a drop of alcohol. He knew everyone and everything—his father’s son through and through. And James Townley? I was pretty certain he had a direct line to Jesus himself.
Jesus: “I was wondering when you were going to give me a comeback.”
“Because,” Phoenix said, snapping a purple Sour Patch in half between his teeth and flashing me a smirk, “it literally does have your name on it. Now, do you promise not to freak the hell out when I show you what my father found?”