Jillian
“HI, DECLAN,” I say, and take a seat at the bar. I hope my makeup effectively hides my puffy eyes.
“Ah, Jillian. How’re ya keeping, darlin’?” he asks warmly with sympathy in his green eyes. I take it as a sign that he has a hint of what’s happened. “What can I get fer ya today?”
“A club soda.”
He takes a glass, presses a button on the tap to fill it, and then perches a lime on the rim before handing it to me.
“Have you seen Raine?” I ask, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.
Declan releases a breath, and leans across the bar. “I’m guessing yer question has to do with yer tiff on Monday evening?”
Nodding, I fight to control my rising panic and blurt, “He disconnected his phone, shut down his email address, quit his internship. He even deleted his Facebook account. He’s disappeared, and I really need to find him.” I squeeze my hands around the cool, wet glass to center myself.
“I wish I had some better news, Jillian. But I don’t. All I can tell you is he walked in Tuesday night to pick up the keys to his truck, and then he quit. Said he was going away. That he needed to start over. He refused to tell me anything else because he knew I’d tell ya. If it matters, I encouraged him to go home and fix whatever it is that’s broken. Yer the best thing that’s ever happened to Mac. I mean that sincerely.”
My lips turn up into a pained smile. “Thanks, Declan. I guess I’m too late.” My voice comes out breathless and shallow.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what happened between the pair of ye, but I know he loves you more than himself. He’s off licking his wounds. Give him some time, and he’ll see the error of his ways.”
Tears well in my eyes for the hundredth time in forty-eight hours. “I’m not sure, Declan. He thinks I did something unforgivable, and I let him think he was right.”
He gives me a quizzical look. “But I’m takin’ it that you didn’t really do it?”
A hot drop rolls down my cheek. “No, I didn’t. I was afraid, so I let him believe something that wasn’t true.”
He shakes his head and takes my hand. “I’m terribly sorry, darlin’. If I see him again, I’ll gladly deliver yer message.”
“Thanks.” I pull out a five dollar bill and lay it on the bar.
Declan pushes it away. “Yer money’s no good here, Jillian. Yer family. It’s on the house.”
I blink away more tears as he walks away.
I head home after I pick up my prenatal vitamins and some take-out from Taco Truck. I’m craving Mexican today. Probably a lousy idea I’ll pay for later. My stomach is still empty from this morning’s daily purge. Over the past few days, I’ve noticed I’m better by lunchtime.
I turn on my phone and it chimes with Kitty’s fifth voicemail. I can no longer avoid her, so I send her a text.
K, Raine and I had a small disagreement. Please don’t worry. Frantically working toward my deadline. Call you this weekend when I’m done?
I breathe a sigh of relief when she replies.
Okay, I understand. Love you. K
By three o’clock, I’m frantic. I don’t know what else I can do to find Raine, short of asking John to use his contacts to hunt him down. Raine’s words haunt me: “You’re dead to me, Jillian.” Still, I didn’t expect him to do something this extreme to hide from me.
I pace in my office with my hand glued to my belly, going over the last few days in a continuous loop. Drew’s words come back to me, and I wonder if my best life actually includes Raine. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it only includes our baby. The only piece of him that I’ll ever be allowed to keep. But the fact that he’s out in the world thinking that I betrayed him and killed our child is unfair to him. Needless hurt he doesn’t deserve. Even if he no longer loves me or wants to be with me, he needs to know our child lives.
I drop down onto the couch, rest my head in my hands, and pray for inspiration. I wait, and nothing comes. Empty of ideas, I move to my desk. I still have a job to do. Commitments to uphold. I power up my laptop and resume the edits on my manuscript, jumping to the section where I left off. It’s the love scene that Raine thought set “unrealistic expectations for women.” Our first night at the beach house comes rushing back: the residual traces of bruising on Raine’s face as he studies my pages with focused concentration, and my horrified reaction when he bursts out laughing, followed by his copious note taking.
So much has happened since that night. Little did I know then that Raine’s “skills” would surpass Drew’s in my imagined love scenes.
Rummaging through my files, I find the pages with his handwriting. I smile in spite of myself as I pull them out and reread his comments. My eyes home in on one line:
This would be soooooooo much hotter with an older woman and a younger guy. Don't you think?
I freeze. Oh, my God . . . could it be that simple?
Excitement wells up inside me. “Thank you, sweetheart,” I mumble. I hit SAVE on Twisted Up in Drew, and open a new file.
I write. My heart and soul pours through my fingers and onto the page.
I cry, and I keep writing.
Darkness fell hours ago.
I take a bathroom break.
I resume writing, continuing to empty my well.
My eyes grow bleary, and I push ahead.
The sun rises.
I take another bathroom break and throw up. I settle back down, and my fingers fly frantically across the keyboard.
Once the nausea passes, my stomach growls. I take my prenatal vitamins, eat, and resume writing.
At midday, I curl up on the sofa and sleep for three hours.
When I wake, I shower and then write some more.
I “rinse and repeat” this schedule for the next few days with a heavy emphasis on writing and crying, punctuated by throwing up and eating, but lacking, for the most part, an adequate amount of sleeping and showering.
By Saturday afternoon—I think it’s Saturday—or maybe it’s Sunday? Whatever day it is, I’m done. I’ve syphoned every thought, feeling, and regret into a new manuscript. I hit SAVE for the last time, print a hard copy to edit, and make a backup copy on my external hard drive.
I drag myself upstairs, take a quick shower without washing my hair, and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep the moment my head hits the pillow.