Dirty Headlines Page 27

  Eight weeks had passed. Four weeks after he’d shown up at my doorstep with flowers and chocolate, Célian had invited everyone into the conference room and announced that he’d taken a position at a competing network in Los Angeles and would only be staying for another month.

  After he made that announcement, he’d shot me a look, searching my face. Whatever he found there made him ask me to stay after the meeting was over so we could talk about it.

  I’d wanted to, badly, but I knew nothing had changed.

  I wasn’t going to move to Los Angeles, and we couldn’t even make it work when we lived in the same city. So there was just no way we could pull it off if he lived across the country.

  Besides, I still loved him more than he was capable of ever loving me back, and an unbalanced relationship was a doomed one.

  “Sir, I have a lot of work. I’d really rather not.” My fingers had twitched under the desk.

  His bottom-of-the-iceberg blue eyes had run down my body to see my shoes. I’d worn generic black flats. I couldn’t bring myself to show him how I felt every day. It felt too intimate, now that he knew what each color meant.

  I’d also refused to unfold the little Post-it notes he’d started shoving into my desk drawer about a month after everything blew up. It wasn’t every day, but whenever I found one, my mood would turn sour.

  Even so, I knew he was not seeing Lily anymore, and that was official. The wedding venue had been canceled, Ava and Gray had reported to me excitedly one day, and after losing her beloved grandmother and her fiancé in the same month, Lily had decided to check into a Utah-based rehab center to treat her addiction to alcohol.

  Ava and Grayson were obsessed with my post-Célian life. They seemed to know every single detail I wasn’t privy to—like how Milton had been fired from The Thinking Man and was now working as a researcher at some local newspaper nobody had heard of. Or how Célian was packing his things and getting ready to move away. I couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing Célian every day, but I also knew I didn’t have it in me to be hurt by him again.

  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?”

  “Your father?” My eyes widened. “James Townley did some actual journalistic work?” I didn’t mean to be rude or anything, but I figured he didn’t need to, seeing as he was a news god.

  Phoenix waggled his brows. “Let’s just say he had some open business with the person in question, so when he overheard this hot piece of gossip, he was eager to dig up the bone at the end of that hole. Turned out the bone was meaty.”

  “Okay.” My teeth sank to my lower lip. “Tell me.”

  He did.

  Everything.

  Then he slid a file across the table.

  I shoved it in my backpack and bolted to the train station.

  I had to show it to Célian.

  And I knew exactly where to find him.

  …Or maybe I didn’t.

  Our apartment was empty when I got to it. I climbed up to Mrs. Hawthorne’s place, but she said Célian and my dad had left in a cab a couple hours before. She asked if I wanted to come in for tea. I told her I did, but not right now, and I could see the disappointment in her face. I pulled the sleeve of her dress and hugged her on her threshold without warning. She yelped at the sudden gesture, but eased into the hug after a second. She patted my back.

  “I would like to get to know you bet
ter, Jude. I see how well you take care of your father, and I admire that. A lot.”

  “We will,” I promised, and I meant it, even though my mind was elsewhere—with the hot news I wanted to deliver. “I promise. I don’t take all you do for Dad for granted, either. We will spend some time together. I know we will.”

  I then took the stairs three at a time, hitting the call button frantically. Célian’s phone went straight to voicemail. I would’ve thought the worst if I didn’t know he was with my dad.

  Dad.

  Oh, God, Dad.

  I threw my backpack on the floor and started calling my father. He’d seemed okay before I left the house. He seemed okay in general. They said the tumor was shrinking, but how promising was it? It was an experimental treatment, and he was still weak. He never left the building. Ever. Now he was out with Célian, god-knows-where, and I was supposed to do…what, exactly? Sit around and wait for his safe return?

  I started sending him and Célian messages simultaneously. For Dad, it was the usual call me back/I’m worried/you should have left a note/when are you coming back. With Célian, however, I allowed myself to be more creative. Maybe it was the pent-up anger I’d harbored for the past eight weeks that did it.

  Jude: Where’s my dad?

  Jude: I’m going to kill you, Célian.

  Jude: (Not literally, in case this message finds its way to the authorities)

  Jude: I’m so worried. Please have him call me.

  Jude: Where did you take him? Why? You know he never leaves the house.

  I paced the apartment, back and forth. I didn’t know what to do with myself, and that scared me to death. I went back to my backpack and pulled out the documents Phoenix had given me, examining them with shaky hands.

  Kipling slipped from my bag and spilled open, spitting out business cards and the folded Post-it notes Célian had left me like confetti. I’d taken them out of the drawer before I’d left the office Friday because they were overflowing and I didn’t have space for my own stuff.

  Why didn’t I just recycle them? Why did he send them?

  I’d asked myself this question a million times. Why did Célian try to reach out to me with notes? He was the most verbal person I knew, and he seemed to have a magnetic power over me every time we were together. But maybe that was it.

  He didn’t want to have a magnetic power over me.

  He wanted us to talk.

  Or just to tell me how he felt.

  Now, as I waited for him or my dad to answer me, I had no choice but to try to distract myself by finding out what the notes said. I sank to the floor, my back dragging along the wall, and unfolded the first yellow note.

  The word “music” comes from the Muses, goddesses of the arts in Greek mythology.

  I never said it before, because I thought it was tacky, but you’re my goddess (especially your ass).—Célian

  John Lennon started his music career as a choir boy.

  I never said it before, because it terrified me to admit it, but you’re my church (although I plan to be inside you way more than just on Sundays).—Célian

  Your heart mimics the beat of the music you’re listening to.

  I didn’t know I even had one before you came along, and now I do, and it hurts like a motherfucker (thanks for that).—Célian

  I stole your iPod before you stole my wallet. It was tucked inside my jacket before I even removed your panties. I wanted to know what you were listening to. (And I was sorely disappointed there were no Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake songs in sight, because it made not falling for you so much fucking harder.)—Célian

  I tried to tell myself I broke up with Lily because I was better than my father. Bullshit. I broke up with her because I couldn’t not be with you (and I’ve spent a respectable amount of time denying that shit to myself).—Célian

  The day I went to the Davises, I wanted you to find out. I wanted you to show me your ugly side. I wanted you to be ugly, for once in your life, so I could shake you off. (You weren’t ugly that day. I was.)—Célian

  The last one, which was actually many Post-it notes stuck together, had been tucked inside my drawer on Friday, and it read:

  I’m in love with you, and I might not be able to tell you that in person, because you clearly don’t want to hear it, and because I’ll be gone soon. But I am, and I fucking hate it. Don’t think for one minute I wanted to fall in love with you, Jude. But that makes my love for you so much stronger. So next time you wrongly assume you’re the only person hurting in this, just remember the first rule of journalism. There are two sides to every story. (And if you’re at all open to hearing mine, this is probably my last chance.)—Célian

  The lock rattled in the door to the apartment. I quickly wiped the tears from my face, but there was very little point in doing that, I realized. My clothes were soaked with them. So were the Post-it notes. I gulped in a breath and turned around. Dad walked in wearing a Yankees cap and waving a baseball in his hand.

  “Guess what your old man caught?” His grin collapsed the minute he saw me sitting on the floor, surrounded by a sea of yellow papers. He rushed to my side.

  “Is everything okay, JoJo?”

  I stood up, not wanting to waste another minute.

  “Where were you?”

  “The Yankees game. Célian thought it’d be a nice way to say goodbye. Then we went for hot dogs. I figured I’d be home before you got back.”

  “I cut my library time short. Where’s Célian?” I sniffed.

  “Are you okay?” he asked again, rubbing my back.

  Was I? A part of me was. A part of me was more than okay, knowing I was about to help a man who deserved my help more than anyone I knew, after everything he’d given me and my dad. Another part of me was gutted and torn—to give him a chance and to risk the full demolition of my heart or try to move on?

  “I’m fine, Dad. Where’s Célian?”

  “He said he had to get something from the office…”

  Of course.

  I was out the door before I had the chance to hear what it was.

  The cardboard boxes remained untouched and empty in the corner of my office. All I really needed to take was my laptop.

  I rarely got attached to people, let alone possessions.

  I had no pictures of my family and no bullshit funny mugs on my desk. Every award I’d received had been thrown in the trash the night it was given to me—I didn’t make the news to get a pat on the back; I made the news because I wanted to change lives, and perspective, and the world, and to prove I was deserving of all I had been given. The only thing I had gotten attached to on this floor would like to see me castrated by a butcher, so there was really no need to prolong my departure. I’d insisted on not having a goodbye party, explaining there was nothing happy about my exit. I wasn’t moving on to bigger, better things after a mutual understanding with the management. I was jumping out of a sinking ship, leaving my staff to drown.

  It was like planning your own funeral.

  I shut my laptop and shoved it into the trash with the heel of my Oxford, deciding I didn’t want to take anything with me from this place. Fuck it.

  CSP, a competing channel, was building a news division in Los Angeles, and it seemed like a good idea to put a few thousand miles between me and Mathias. But that wasn’t why I’d quit my job.

  I didn’t want to see Judith’s face every day, knowing I’d put the scowl there.

  So I made way for her, because I would never fire her, and because really, she’d earned her place in my newsroom perhaps even more than I had.

  There hadn’t been a huge breakdown to compliment my heartbreak. It was quiet, yet somehow a thousand times worse than I’d ever experienced. Every day when she left the office, she took something with her.

  Another piece of my fucking heart.

  Another song on her playlist I’d never be able to listen to without thinking of her.

  I’d had my phone off all day—I wanted to
do this without interruption—and I finally turned it back on and shoved it in my pocket. I grabbed my jacket, throwing one last look at the place that had once been my kingdom, the place I thought I’d have my fucking retirement party, and shook my head.

  I turned around, closed the door, and bumped into something small and hot.

  Judith.

  She shoved a file to my chest, pointing at me.

  “First things first, next time you take my father out of the house, you let me know by text or a phone call. Agreed?”

  I blinked rapidly. Was I imagining things now? Because that kind of shit needed to be checked and medicated. I arched an eyebrow.

  “You do realize Los Angeles is not around the block, right? I won’t be seeing much of him anytime soon.”

  Still an asshole. But hell if she didn’t like it.

  “There’s a special place in hell for you.” She shoved her delicate finger in my face.

  Would it be too much if I bit the tip? Probably.

  I smirked. “Not surprised. I have a rock star realtor. What are you doing here on a Sunday, Chucks?”

  “Saving your ass.” She unplastered the file from my chest and walked over to her station in the newsroom.

  I followed. Her ass looked fantastic, as always, but that wasn’t what made me smile until I’d almost cut my face in half.

  She laid all the docs on her desk, yet wouldn’t let me peek into the file. I eyed her curiously, not sure what her deal was, but intrigued nonetheless. More than anything, I liked that she was talking to me again, and wasn’t planning on fucking it up.

  “Prepare to have your mind blown,” she said.

  “Is this an invitation for a hookup? Because I find it hard to believe anything but your cunt can evoke such—or any—emotion in me.”