A few days later, I’m knee deep in take-out boxes and misery. They say time heals a broken heart, but at this rate, it’ll be 2082 before I come up for air.
It hurts.
Everything hurts.
“Special delivery,” April announces, arriving with a brightly colored beverage clutched in one hand. “They were out of the mango, so I got you the pineapple-kale instead. You need your vitamins,” she adds, looking around at the mess of pizza cartons and chips. “A woman cannot survive on carbs alone.”
“Want to test me?” I ask, barely lifting my head off the throw pillow. I’m lying on the couch in the same position I’ve been ever since I got back from Gatsby-themed hell. I’m pretty sure the cat thinks I’m part of the furniture at this point, and I can’t say I blame her. But what reason do I have to drag myself upright? My job and relationship both have just evaporated in a cloud of guilt and self-loathing, and all I have is this ache in my chest.
I miss him. I miss him bad.
“Come on, the last thing you need right now is scurvy,” April says, nudging the smoothie closer.
I take an obedient gulp, then fish my phone out from in between the sofa cushions. I’ve been checking obsessively to see if Justin has called or texted back—which, surprise surprise, he hasn’t. I’ve been trying desperately to get in touch with him—to apologize, to explain—but he’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me ever again.
Honestly, I can’t say I blame him.
“Nothing yet?” April asks, looking sympathetic.
“He hates me,” I sigh. “And I deserve it.”
“You were just trying to save your friends’ jobs,” April reminds me gently. “You were trying to save the paper you love. And yes, things got tricky. But your heart was in the right place. Eventually Justin will see that, and he’ll come around.”
I remember the utter betrayal on his face that night at the party and feel a wash of shame all over again. He trusted me, and I let him down. “I don’t think so,” I say. “And I didn’t even save anybody’s job in the end. The opposite, actually. Without Walter to invest, Rockford is shutting the whole place down.”
“Well,” April says thoughtfully, reaching out and helping herself to a sip of my smoothie, “can you do something about that?”
I consider the idea for a moment. Actually, she’s got a point. Even if Justin won’t talk to me, there’s no reason I can’t try my damnedest to make things right at the Gazette. He was willing to make a Hail Mary pass—so why can’t I?
Which is how I find myself in the lobby of Walter’s uptown offices that afternoon, face washed and hair combed for the first time in days, dressed in my most professional-looking suit.
Well, my only suit, actually.
Still, there’s no reason for anyone else to know that—although Walter’s lemon-faced assistant certainly seems to have his suspicions.
“There’s no way for Mr. Vanderfleet to see you today,” he explains tightly. “I can certainly let him know you stopped by, but a man with his schedule simply doesn’t have the time—”
“I was just at his anniversary party this weekend,” I explain, trying to keep my voice even. I’m fully aware there’s a fine line between this is very important and I’m a crazy stalker come to kill him with a plastic spork. “I was out on his yacht.”
The secretary looks at me like he’s seriously considering calling security. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But you’re going to have to—”
That’s when the elevator door opens and Walter himself comes strolling out.
“Mr. Vanderfleet!” I yelp—almost tripping over my own feet in my mad dash to intercept him. “It’s me, Natalie. From the party this weekend?”
“Of course,” he says dryly. “How could I forget?”
I cringe. “I know you’ve got no reason to give me the time of day,” I tell him honestly, “after everything that happened at the party. But if you can just give me a chance to explain. Please? Ten minutes of your time. I brought you coffee,” I tell him, thrusting the paper cup out. “From the place you love on 5th Avenue. You told Forbes it was your favorite.”
“Fine,” he says, giving me an assessing look. “And you better hope that coffee is hot.”
I don’t waste one second of time, and five minutes later, I’ve explained the whole sorry story. “I never meant to trick you or to take advantage of your hospitality by bringing Lucinda to the party,” I finish, my heart in my throat. “Everything just snowballed. I was trying to save the newspaper, and—” I break off, swallowing hard. “I blew it.”
For a moment, Walter just looks at me, unreadable as my heart races. Then, to my surprise, he starts to laugh.
Laugh!
“Mr. Vanderfleet?” I say uncertainly, watching as he chortles merrily “Are . . . are you all right?”
“It’s a wild story,” he says, smiling. “But I have to admit, I admire your moxie.”
I exhale in a whoosh of relief. Moxie is good. Moxie isn’t “call security and throw me out on my sorry ass”!
I’ve still got a chance.
“I swear, I didn’t set out to lie, I was just trying to keep everything together.”
“Well, you certainly picked an imaginative way to do it,” he says, smirking. “How did you even come up with the columns?”
“I just read a lot of the old ones, and sort of cobbled them together,” I admit. “I tried to make them positive. I figure, everyone wants to read that something good is going to happen. Not that I mean any disrespect to the people who believe in it,” I add, remembering his wife, the astrology super-fan.
“Personally, I think astrology is a bunch of bull pucky,” he proclaims. “Still, I’m not in the business of lying to my readers.”
“Me either!” I promise eagerly. Then, hearing myself, I feel my face fall. “Well, not normally, at least. I don’t think even Pearl can live the seafaring life forever. She should be back from her cruise soon. If you don’t want to take her back, you can hire somebody with real qualifications—whatever that means.” I take a breath. “The point is, Mr. Vanderfleet, you shouldn’t hold my harebrained plan against the paper—or against Justin.”
He raises one bushy white eyebrow. “I shouldn’t?”
“No!” I exclaim. “Justin was a great CEO, and the financials he showed you were solid. He’s smart and creative and a quick thinker, and I’ve never seen anyone work so hard. He was the first one in and the last one to leave every single day.” I swallow hard. “I know that he has what it takes to turn the paper into something truly spectacular—to honor its history while still moving it forward.”
“Mr. Vanderfleet,” the secretary calls impatiently, looking at me with open annoyance. “Your car is waiting outside. I’m afraid you’re going to be late for your next appointment.”
“I’m seventy-eight years old,” Walter reminds him cheerfully. “They can wait.” Then he looks back at me. “I suppose I’ve got to be going,” he says, “but you’ve given me a lot to think about.”
I open my mouth to beg some more, but figure I should quit while I’m ahead. “Thank you for making time to talk,” I say instead. “Whatever you choose, just know, I’m sorry for all the mess I’ve made.”
And now, there’s nothing left for me to do but hope.
Well, almost nothing . . .
I head into work the next day like a condemned man facing the executioner. I check the job listings on my commute, figuring I may as well get a head start on my unemployed future. I could make a thousand bucks by letting some businessmen eat a cheese plate off my naked body at a party in midtown, I note with some queasiness. I could sit in one of those glass booths at the subway station, maybe, or sell essential oils as part of a multilevel marketing scheme. Worst case scenario, I could move back home to Queens and work for my dad. God knows I can snake a toilet with the best of them.
“How do you think the guy dressed as Elmo in Times Square got his job?” I ask Lori when I finally get into the office. “More importantly, do you think he needs an assistant?”
She’s opening her mouth to answer when the elevator door opens and Justin steps off, looking—if this is even possible—more handsome than ever in a pair of cords and a deep blue sweater that brings out his eyes.
Damn. My insides twist at the sight of him: he was all mine, for a moment there. And somehow I managed to mess it all up.
But he messed up too, thinks a tiny, stubborn part of me. He could have listened when I tried to explain what I was doing with Lucinda. He could have trusted me; he could have tried to understand instead of jumping straight to the worst conclusion. I deserved that much, after all the time we spent together.
Didn’t I?
“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Justin asks now, standing at the far end of the newsroom. “I know you’ve probably all heard some pretty crazy rumors about the future of the paper. I’ve tried my hardest to be transparent with you in my time as your CEO—but unfortunately, that time is up.”
Wait, what?
A nervous hum goes up in the bullpen, and we all exchange panicked looks. Are we shutting down after all?
“Effective immediately, the Gazette is no longer a Rockford property,” Justin continues, his voice calm and steady. “I’ve assembled a private investment team and organized a buyout. This means my father won’t be shutting the place down, but also, I will no longer be here as CEO. They’ve assured me your jobs—everyone’s jobs—are safe. I’ll pass more information along to you as I get it, but in the meantime, I wanted to set all your minds at ease. I’ve really enjoyed our time together, and I owe you all my gratitude for how flexible and hardworking you’ve been during all this upheaval. I like to think we’re all parting ways as friends.”
The newsroom erupts in celebration, and relief floods through me at the knowledge that the paper—that my home—is safe, once and for all. But Justin is leaving?
He gave up the newspaper to save us all.
Crap. As if he wasn’t heart-meltingly amazing enough.
I take a deep breath, wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, and go knock on his office door.
“Hey,” I say quietly, easing it open. “So, all’s well that ends well, huh?”
Justin barely looks up from his computer. “Something like that.”
“I didn’t mean—” I shake my head, cringing. “I’m just really glad everybody’s jobs are safe, that’s all. That I didn’t completely ruin the newspaper with one bad decision.”
Justin doesn’t answer. “The buyout will work the same for you as it does for everyone else,” he says instead, shuffling through the papers on his desk without making eye contact. “There should be a staff position available for you again, unless you want to leave, in which case I can offer you excellent references.” He looks up at me then, his face like a mask. “Was there anything else?”
His coldness strikes me to the core. “Justin,” I breathe. “Come on.”
Justin’s expression doesn’t change. “What?”
“Can we talk about this? Please?”
He shakes his head like he has no idea what I’m talking about—like he hasn’t held my hand and kissed my thighs and told me all the things he’s afraid of, the two of us whispering under the covers all night long. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he says icily. “We had a good time, Natalie. But it’s over now. And I think it’s best that we both get back to our lives and careers without any . . . distractions.”
“This wasn’t a distraction to me,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “This meant something to me, Justin, and now you’re just going to turn around and act like it wasn’t—like you didn’t—” I stop short, my voice cracking dangerously. I really, really don’t want to cry right now, but I’m coming apart at the seams here.
I should be happy—the newspaper is safe, I still have a job—but somehow, losing Justin hurts more than any of it.
I could find another job, but there’s no one else like him.
“Was any of it real?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Because you don’t just turn away from someone if you really cared about them. I’m nothing like your father,” I add, “and I know things are fucked up between you two, but it’s not fair to blame me for whatever’s wrong in your relationship—”
“Enough.” Justin cuts me off. For a second something in his face changes. Ever so briefly I catch a flash of the person I think of as my Justin—the same guy who stopped a cab driver in the middle of 8th Avenue to get me a dozen doughnuts and told me dumb knock-knock jokes while I brushed my teeth in the morning. Talk to me, I think urgently. You know me, come back. Then he blinks and it’s gone.
“I think we’re done here,” he says, his tone blandly pleasant as a vanilla wafer. “Would you mind shutting the door on your way out?”
I bite my tongue so hard I taste copper, aching. But part of being a journalist is knowing when there’s no more story left to tell. “OK,” I say finally, shoulders sagging inside my button-down. “Goodbye, Justin.”
“Goodbye,” he says, turning back to his computer. He doesn’t look up as I leave.