My text alert sounded but I ignored it.
“This job has also been a part of my life for a very long time. It has a lot of perks I enjoy. Travel?—”
“You said you never even see the cities you’re working in.”
“Clothes,” she continued as if she hasn’t heard me.
“You hardly wear anything but sweats.”
My text alert sounded again.
“Money.”
“Don’t you have a fortune by now?”
She was silent again and I knew I’d overstepped.
“Sorry,” I said, ignoring two more text alerts. “I’m just… well, I’m confused too. You were so upset last night. Why would you keep doing something that makes you so miserable? Besides the travel, clothes, and money. It just doesn’t seem worth it to me.”
She sighed. “Graham, why were you at my house when I got home yesterday?”
An uncomfortable feeling washed over me.
“What do you mean? I thought it would be nice to see you and bring you a treat after your flight.”
“No. There was another reason. I could see it in your eyes. Tell me the truth.”
I got up from my chair and started up the stairs to my bedroom as several more texts came in. I glanced at the screen. Fran. She could wait. I had a feeling I was going to need to lie down for the rest of this phone conversation.
“Fine,” I said. “I was going to tell you I thought it would be best if we didn’t see each other for a while. Your job breeds drama and chaos. I’m always on edge when we go anywhere, even though you’re a pro at blending in. But it wouldn’t always be like that. I know that the moment we get dressed up and you aren’t covered by a hat and sunglasses, people will start hounding us and I just can’t live a life like that again. It’s intrusive and crazy-making.” I paused, my heart beating hard in my chest. “I like you, Lior. I?—”
I cut myself off, afraid to say more.
“You what?”
I ran a hand through my hair and sat on the edge of my bed as my phone went off again.
“I have real feelings for you,” I said. “I’m sure that’s obvious. And I’m sure on paper we’re a great match. But the fact is, I hate what your job brings. And I know you’re still hurting from past relationships and don’t trust yourself to be in a real one because of how you’ve been treated before. Which is understandable, but also hurtful to be put in a category with those guys. I’m a good person and would never do what other men have done to you. I just think that neither of us is in any condition to be in a relationship right now. And while I love being your friend, we’ve veered more than once into more-than-friend territory. I think it’s a recipe for one or both of us to get really hurt.”
I stopped talking. No sound came from the other end. Had she hung up? I looked at the phone but the counter was still adding seconds.
“You may not be a user,” she said, her voice low. “But you want to change me. Or— maybe you don’t want to change me, but you want something about me to change. And I get it. The lifestyle is a lot. But I’ve been in so many relationships where the guy tried shoving me into a perfect-partner-shaped-box so that they felt comfortable. Pushing me down, trying to make me conform to rules they thought I should live by until I couldn’t breathe.” She paused and I heard her sniff. When she spoke again, there were tears in her voice. “I’m so tired, Graham. I’m tired of trying to be what everyone else wants so that everyone else feels secure. I’m tired of having to do the thing that makes others feel good and safe and happy. Yes, I am sick of certain aspects of this job, but it’s also the only thing I’ve done for years and I’m really good at it. I have status and success and a career I can be proud of. It’s not easy to just let that go. Even for someone I have feelings for. And I do have feelings for you. Great big ones. But I’m not going to overhaul my life just because you were married to some snotty little twat who abused your kindness. That’s not fair to me, and I would never ask that of you. I too am a good person. And I’m furious that you refuse to even try giving me a real chance.”
She hung up then and I stared down at my phone, her profile picture staring up at me, along with a dozen or more text alerts I continued to ignore. I’d taken the photo of her at the bistro table in front of Mornin’ Joe’s. She was sporting a jaunty foam mustache and winking into the camera.
I looked over to Brontë’s bed.
“Well. I fucked that up,” I said, and then startled at a clatter downstairs.
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I hurried down the stairs, stopping on the last step when I saw the mail had come and was sitting on the doormat. There was the usual bills and ads, and then something thick in a padded manilla envelope. Probably a manuscript I was waiting on, for an author hoping for a blurb.
I scooped up the pile and took it to the kitchen, ripping open the large envelope and pouring the contents out onto the table.
And there it was. Vogue magazine.
On the cover for all the world to see was me and Lior Flynn. I was bare-chested with only a pair of black jeans on, and she was standing in front of me in a sheer pink dress, her hands gripping my thighs, my arms were wrapped around her torso, covering her breasts.
We looked sexy as fuck, and my soul ached for her.
