My phone rings as I stare at my ceiling in a daze, while quiet tears stream down my splotchy cheeks. I snap out of my funk and quickly sit up to look at who’s calling.
“Please let it be Jack,” I whisper into the stagnant air of my apartment. I don’t recognize the number, but that doesn’t mean it’s not him.
I answer with a hopeful, “Hello?”
“Is this Paige O’Malley?”
“Yes,” I reply cautiously to the vaguely familiar female voice.
“Hi. It’s Victoria Hunt, returning your call. Sorry it’s taken me a few days to get back to you. Things have been a bit busy over here. Do you have a few minutes to chat?”
I quickly cover my disappointment that it’s not Jack. “Yes, I do. Thank you for returning my call.”
“Absolutely. Listen, I have to ask, especially after our conversation at the Chronicle
a couple of weeks ago, did you write that article about Jack Fuller?”
“No. I didn’t.”
She hums knowingly. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
I’m surprised that she believed me so quickly. “You didn’t?”
“Not at all. As soon as I read it, I knew it had to be a ghostwriter. After only a few minutes of talking to you, I knew that you’d never write about the man you told me about. His privacy was more sacred to you than a critical source’s identity.”
My heart hurts so much that Jack, who arguably knows me better than anyone, still believes I wrote it—if his silence is any indication—but this woman who only spent five minutes with me never believed for a minute that I wrote that article. I can barely breathe, so I just make an affirmative grunt that she’s right.
“Jack knows you didn’t write it, doesn’t he?”
“Um…” I choke back the sob that wants to break out. I take a few deep breaths in an
attempt to compose myself. “I don’t think so. He’s not returned any of my calls.” I mentally pat myself on the back for getting that out without my voice breaking.
“Oh, Paige. I’m so sorry.”
“Actually, you might be able to help me.”
“How?” I’m hopeful that she sounds so intrigued. “Well, I had this idea for an article…”
I wake abruptly to my phone buzzing. I see it’s a text from Gina checking on me. The past four days have been absolutely miserable. I stopped trying to get ahold of Jack after my long voicemail explaining the situation. I figured if I tried to call or text him anymore, he'd report me as some kind of stalker. The reality is if he wanted to talk to me, he would have. Clearly, he doesn’t, and the pain that causes me is nearly unbearable.
The only thing getting me through my heartache is the article I’ve been working on. I’ve barely slept between bouts of crying and obsessive writing.
It’s been two days since my phone call with Victoria Hunt. She was impressed with my writing portfolio, but even more intrigued by the article I wanted to write to clear my name—and Jack’s. She loved the idea I had and was happy to share it on her new online media platform called Newsworthy
. Her phone call was the chance for redemption that I was desperate for.
Thinking about how positive and supportive Victoria has been motivates me to finish the final edits to the piece I’ve been toiling over. This has to be just right since it will most likely be my only chance to publicly clear the air and tell the truth. I print out the final copy, fold it carefully, and slide it into my purse. Next, the hard part.
I sit down gently on the stadium seat where I’ve sat so many times this season and look out onto the field. I spent extra time getting ready for this game because I haven’t seen Jack in nearly a week, and I didn’t want his first visual of me to be red, puffy eyes.
I’m wearing my favorite pair of dark-wash skinny jeans, black Rothy flats, and a cream blouse with polka dots and cap sleeves. It’s a bit dressier than anything I would typically wear to a game, but I wanted to look good. My confidence in my relationship with Jack is very nearly depleted, and at this point I’m resigned to the fact that this is basically my personal Hail Mary pass.
The players run out to the field, and I see Jack’s tall form instantly. My heart beats heavily in my chest being this close to
him but still feeling like we’re miles away from each other. God, what I wouldn’t give to be able to touch him and kiss him right now. I miss him so fucking much.
He glances toward the seats and then does a double take. I hold my breath and sit up a little taller when his blue gaze settles on me. I’m bracing myself for the warmth that always accompanies his gaze, but I feel nothing but cold when he scowls and turns toward the field. He never looks back up at me.
As every second of the game passes without him looking at me, my heart sinks further.
My eyes never leave him while I silently beg look at me.
It’s not until I feel a tap on my shoulder that I finally avert my gaze, only for it to land on another familiar face.
“Max?” I can’t help the hopefulness in my voice. Does this mean Jack wants to see me?
Max looks incredibly uncomfortable when he bends down next to my aisle seat. He leans toward me. “Paige, I’m here to ask you to leave.”
I stare at him, my eyes wide and my jaw dropped, but my shock quickly morphs to pain. It’s in this moment that my heart finally gives up on Jack, and I feel that loss in every fiber of my being.
Tears silently slip down my face, despite my useless attempts to stop them. This can’t be happening. He never even gave me a chance to talk to him. Max’s look turns sympathetic, which only adds to my misery. He clearly feels sorry for me.
God, how pathetic I must look.
My pain is quickly masked with anger.
I can’t believe Jack’s doing this. He seriously won’t even fucking talk to me?
I look back out to the field, giving myself this last glimpse of Jack that I’ll ever have. I grab my purse, stand up, and shove past Max, but turn back around because I just can’t help myself.
“That’s it, then?” The people around us look between Max and me, but I couldn’t care less about them.
“I’m sorry, Paige. Really,” he says sadly.
I shake my head and look up to the sky, attempting once again to stop the flow of my tears. My attempt is pointless as I make eye contact with him and feel them continue to slip down my cheeks.
“He’s just giving up?” I shake my head. “God, I can’t believe this. He’s doing it all over again.”
Max looks at me curiously. “Doing what?”
“Giving up on us without a fight,” I reply sadly, defeat evident in every inch of my body. I’m done. There’s no point trying anymore.
Why fight for someone who’s not willing to fight for you?
“Goodbye, Max,” I whisper.
I quickly walk away and out of the stadium as fast as I can. By the time I make it to my car, my tears have completely obliterated my makeup.
I always knew that if I gave Jack my heart again, I would never be the same. I just never thought it meant that I’d have to find a way to live without him again. This time, instead of merely breaking my heart, he’s torn it out altogether.
