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Rita
I should’ve known when we were making love that I was letting myself get too vulnerable with him. Hell, the fact that I’m even thinking of it as making love should tell me something.
I got too close.
And look what happened.
He took his opportunity to be a selfish bastard, just like everyone does. I gave him an in to Mr. Michaelson and he took it. My skin was crawling almost the entire time I was listening to that conversation.
See you on the golf course.
Why not invite along a bunch of refugee kids and seal the deal, Dallas? If you’re going to be a piss ant jerk about it.
Well, to hell with him. And to hell with me for thinking he was different.
No one’s different.
Everyone sucks and they can just all go bite the big one.
The fact that my heart is bleeding all over the place is inconsequential and my own damned fault anyway. Let that be a lesson learned.
Of course I’m crying over Dallas. What did I think would happen? That we’d live happily ever after?
God, I’m an idiot. I should’ve known better.
My only consolation is knowing that only one of us can get that editor job, and therefore the other one will be in a completely different city. Because the last thing I need is to pass Dallas Huntington in the hall again. Not there. Not here.
Not anywhere.
But if only one of us is getting the Boise job, it’s going to be me.
“I’m afraid we’ve decided to go in a different direction,” Mr. Michaelson says. “Besides, you’re such a valuable asset in Swan Pointe. We’d hate to lose you there.”
I’m clutching the phone to my ear to keep it from shaking. My desk is in a shared space and the last thing I need is for all my co-workers to see me getting all emotional.
I mean, again.
But the only witness to that one was Too Nice Nancy and what else was I going to do when she sat herself down in the break room and opened that little Styrofoam box with the chimichanga inside?
Apparently nothing else but start bawling, because one damned night with Dallas Huntington has turned me into a weak, brokenhearted female who will cry over nothing.
It’s ridiculous how much I still want him. Or how much I want to go to him and beg him to come up with some brilliant lie so I don’t have to believe he just fucked me over.
But as I listen to Mr. Michaelson tell me that Dallas will be the editor at their Boise location, what else am I to think?
He had to have known that was the position I was going for. He’s a fucking investigative journalist. He finds things out for a living. Besides, how hard would it have been? I saw him and Mr. Michaelson talking at the party.
Maybe he got the idea that I was the front-runner, as Mr. Michaelson himself had hinted at before and is telling me right this very second, and decided to lure me to the hotel so he could get some inside tips.
But you lured him, not the other way around.
And you’re the one who brought up the job, not him.
And Dallas isn’t the kind of guy to do this.
God, I’m such a confused mess and just not used to opening up my heart the way I did to Dallas that night. I’m definitely not used to getting it stomped all over.
Maybe I’m missing something here, but there was no mistaking from the conversation I overheard that Dallas decided to throw his hat into the ring at the eleventh hour, knew just where to take Mr. Michaelson to butter him up, and is now getting the job when I’m not.
I’d fucking love to tell Mr. Michaelson just where he can shove his nine iron, but he’s still my boss so I graciously thank him for the opportunity and blah blah blah and get off the phone.
I sit there staring at the phone as the clacking of keyboards and chatter of employees and shuffling of paper goes on all around me.
I glance at my screen. I’m halfway through a column titled, “Councilman’s wife suspected member of underground sex club.”
This is not suspected. It is solidly confirmed. Her husband is into it, too, so as far as I can tell it’s consensual and an open marriage and I don’t give a fuck about any of it. But the editor here at The Voice wants me to reveal the councilman’s involvement later. We have a whole series planned out in order to maximize the shock value.
And the profit.
That’s the kind of “valuable asset” I am to them here in Swan Pointe and I’m sick of it.
I pop up from my chair and storm out of the room.
“What’s the matter with you?” a co-worker asks as we’re passing each other in the Great Divide.
“Nothing. I’m great.”
Fantastic. Lovely.
I’m also done. So fucking done.
I head for the smoker’s patio, which is currently abandoned thankfully, and pull out my phone. I don’t smoke, but this was the closest place I could go. I can’t send this email quickly enough.
I pull up my email and draft a note to Mr. Michaelson.
I’ve fantasized about this for months. Months. I’ve mentally written versions where I tell them what fuckers they are. I’ve written versions that are existential, long, boring explanations of how I want more out of my life. And I’ve mentally drafted the kind of resignation letters that are brief, professional, courteous, and don’t burn any bridges.
Exactly like the one I’m sending right now.
I even give them three weeks’ notice. Cuz I’m an angel like that.
I hit send, return my phone to my pocket, and look out over the bare, concrete slab that serves as the smokers retreat.
The emotions trying to surface inside me are so polar opposite, it’s rendering me numb. I’m relieved and elated to finally be free from the job I’ve grown to resent so much. I have no idea what I’ll do next, but I’m resourceful. I’ll figure it out.
The point is, it can be whatever I want.
But it can’t be with whoever I want, and that’s the thing that’s keeping me from the high I thought I’d feel when I finally left this job behind.
It was one night, Becker. Get a hold of yourself.
But that night with Dallas was like that moment in the café watching Rayce and Emma. It changed me. Touched me. And I can’t seem to go back to who I was before Dallas Huntington revealed himself to be the Rita Whisperer.
No matter how much I want to.
I calmly walk back down the Great Divide, return to my desk, grab my purse, and head home where the hot tub and a bottle of wine awaits.
By the time I’m leaving for work the next day, I’ve had all the expected conversations about my resignation with all the expected people. My editor thinks it’s about money and offered me such a sizeable raise it only made me think I’ve been ridiculously underpaid the whole time.
Mr. Michaelson wants me to stay, too, and after I made it clear I’m not staying in Swan Pointe—or freaking Boise—he said he’d find a place for me.
But I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.
Other than the obvious.
I get to the end of the Great Divide on the second floor, walk past the elevator, and head for the stairs.
“Rita!”
I freeze at the sound of his voice, coming up from behind. I’ve managed to avoid running into him ever since I’ve been back. I guess it was inevitable. Still.
I clench my teeth and start walking again, my heart galloping in my chest.
“Wait!”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I answer, my heels click clicking on the tile steps. It’s true. I don’t want to talk to him. I want to turn around and pummel him. And then kiss him while he holds me in his arms and—
No, no. I just want to pummel him.
“Rita, will you please stop?”
I stop on the landing between the second and first floors and turn to him, my arms crossed. “What?” I say, as if I couldn’t care less what he has to say. I’ve no idea if he’s buying it.
He comes up to me and it’s difficult just looking at him. He’s so handsome and so freaking right for me... or so I’d thought. I don’t even know what to do with the fact that he looks so heartbroken.
“We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I heard you quit.”
“Why do you care? I heard you got the job I was going for.”
“I—wait, what?”
Those gray eyes look so genuinely surprised and concerned. It’s confusing. But I’m not making the mistake of trusting again. I spin, intending to leave. He takes hold of my arm.
“Wait, what do you mean the job you were going for?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t know.” I yank my arm away even though it was so good to have Dallas touching me again. Too good.
“I didn’t. I swear.”
“Do I look like I was born yesterday? I’ve made a living reporting on other people’s bullshit and so have you, so don’t give me that...”
But I don’t even know if he’s listening. His face has undergone a transformation of realization.
“Rita,” he says low and soft, in that Rita Whisperer voice. It silences me immediately. “Is that what happened? You overheard my conversation and thought I was going after your job?”
I examine his face. Is he playing me, or is this for real? “You did go after my job. And got it. Congratulations.”
My mind is a confusing swirl of thoughts. I can’t handle this. I have to get out of here. I turn to leave but he gently hooks his hand under my bicep. “Rita, wait.”
I look up at him. Did he really not know? Was this all just a coincidence?
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
I want to believe him, which is exactly the danger. I want to believe him. I need to believe him. Which means I’m in the ideal frame of mind to be deceived.
He puts both hands on my arms. This time, I let him.
I’m trusting him. But I don’t know if I should. “Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not. You never said which job it was. And it didn’t even occur to me that it’d be that one.”
“Why? Because you think I couldn’t handle it?”
“Are you kidding?” he says, like the thought never crossed his mind. “No, I... I guess I figured it’d still be a writing position because it seemed like you wanted something that fed you more creatively.”
“I—hey, this isn’t about that.”
He cocks his head at me and his gray eyes sharpen, like he’s just figured something out. I get that sensation I had with him before. That sensation of being seen. Being vulnerable.
“You’re right. It’s not about that. You’ve been telling yourself you left because of what you overheard that morning.”
This investigative reporter is onto something, I can tell. But I don’t know what. “I was just done,” I say weakly. “Like I told you.”
“Uh huh. Who’s bullshitting who?”
“I’m not bullshitting you.”
Am I?
“No, you’re bullshitting yourself.”
“No, I—”
“You absolutely are. And I know why. But let’s talk about the job thing for a minute, all right?”
“Uh...”
“Are we really not allowed to apply for the same job? Especially a job that you yourself said you were lukewarm about.”
“Um...”
“It’s not the job,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s not what this is about. You didn’t even talk to me about it. Why?”
I want to pull away but he’s tearing down my resistance. Maybe I did just overreact. And I definitely wasn’t being fair not to at least talk to him.
But I was so hurt. So fucking hurt. And I’m not used to people having the ability to hurt me like that.
It’s terrifying, how tied into him I already am. After just one night.
And now?
Now I can’t even argue. He’s right. It wasn’t really about the job at all.
“What this is really about,” he says, coming closer and softening his voice, “is you being vulnerable and afraid to trust people.” I look up at him, tears welling up in my eyes. Tears. There is no part of me this guy can’t touch, and he’s right. That scares the shit out of me.
“Right?” he asks.
Maybe.
But maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe I can’t handle what he’s giving me, or maybe I can’t give him something so basic as a mature relationship where people talk about things instead of storming off and avoiding the other person for days after.
“I wasn’t trying to move in on your job,” he says gently. And I believe every word. “I understand what you thought you heard, but that wasn’t what happened.”
He’s sucking me right in. If he’s lying to me, he’s doing exactly what I’ve been wishing for. I wanted to fall back into that hole with him again. But now that it’s happening, I’m terrified.
What if I take off my armor only to get squashed again?
“I...” I say weakly. I blink back those tears. I want to throw up my barriers, tell him it’s nothing like he says and that I just got my fix. A one-night stand and no more.
But I also want to open all the way up again. No walls. No protection.
Nothing but trust.
And as if he knows exactly what kind of conflict is raging inside me, he’s giving me the most handsome, understanding, sympathetic look. How has this man figured me out so quickly?
“Come on.” He slowly pulls me into his arms. His forehead drops against mine. “Be brave with me, Rita.”
And as I look into his eyes, I soften in his arms.
“You scare me,” I whisper.
He smiles and brushes my cheek with the back of his fingers. “I know. But don’t be scared. I’m the Rita Whisperer remember? I’ve got you.”
My heart flutters in my chest.
He’s got me?
“I don’t think I’m good at this.”
He smiles. “You’re a fast learner. I’ll teach you.”
I slowly wrap my arms around his waist, still looking in his eyes. “I don’t want to screw this up.”
“Just relax. I’ve got you.”
“You’re not going to let me fall?” I whisper. “You promise?”
“Only in the good way,” he says, cupping my face with both hands. “If I’m lucky. If you’ll let us.”
Oh hell. What am I going to do. I mean, really. I guess I should follow my own advice. Sometimes you just have to see where life takes you.
“I’ll let us,” I say, slowly rising on tiptoe. “Just promise you’ll catch me.”
Then our lips meet and our embrace tightens and I truly am falling. Seventeen floors and more, but Dallas is right here.
He’s got me.
