Then, a sudden flash blinds me, and I snap my head to a paparazzi camera. These motherfuckers. Without rational thought, without hesitation, frustration overpowers my muscles and I lunge toward the him, my rage boiling over.
I grab the camera and smash it against the pavement. The lens shatters, and for a fleeting moment, the streets of Manhattan fall silent.
I turn to Emery, my chest heaving with pent-up frustration. “We might both need lawyers now.”
Emery doesn’t scold me. She doesn’t chastise me. She simply chucks her half-eaten ice cream in the trash and starts home.
THE ATOMIC BOMB
EMERY
A dull,static pain pulses at my temples as Quin paces back and forth on the phone with his attorney. It’s remarkable how easily money can solve problems. Fifty thousand dollars and a new camera, and suddenly it’s all fixed. Truthfully, I think that bastard could’ve demanded more. Why settle for fifty grand? Why not ask for a hundred? Two hundred? Hell, half a million. It’s not like Quinton doesn’t have the money. This might’ve been the only opportunity for that paparazzi scum to retire early and spend the rest of his pathetic days drinking shitty beer on a shitty beach.
I shake my head, a sour taste coating my tongue. If only money could solvemyproblem. If only I could chuck a million dollars in Damon’s direction, and allwould be well. All would be right. But money doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t piece back together the shattered fragments of our past. It doesn’t scrape away the filth of our mistakes. It doesn’t paint over the tainted canvas, making it white and stark and fresh. It doesn’t do shit.
Quin sighs, hanging up. “At least that’s settled.” He glances down at me, frowning. He knows better than to ask me if I’m okay. He knows better than to try and attempt to cauterize the giant, gushing wound that’s penetrated my soul with a flimsy little Band-Aid. “Would you like some tea?”
I expel an airy snort. He’s trying so damn hard to keep me from falling apart. I wish I were stronger. I wish I could get a fucking grip and realize that I’m not alone. Because I’m not. He’s right here. Standing before me. And the defeated look on his face breaks my goddamn heart.
If Quin were a weak man, he'd ask me why he’s not enough for me. He’d ask why I can’t appreciate what I have versus dwell on what I’ve lost. He’d be angry, resentful, jealous that the tears I’ve cried didn’t spell out his name.
But Quin is not a weak man.
“Darling.” He kneels down in front of me, clasping my hands. His thumb glides against my skin in short, tender strokes. So delicate. So soft. Again, because he fears I’ll break. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea, but then I have to head back to the office.” He pauses, searching my eyes for a semblance of life, of coherence. “I could cancel my meeting, though. If you need to?—”
“Don’t be silly,” I whisper, forcing a smile. “I’ll be fine.” My gaze drifts to my purse on the side table. “I-I’ll be fine.”
He brings my knuckles to his lips and kisses promises onto my flesh. I promise to love you. I promise to catch you. I promise tostay. He warily disappears into the kitchen, and I stare off into nothingness.
I can’t keep going like this. I can’t continue to push him away. I’m not trying to dig a trench between us, but I am. Every day, the hole gets bigger, wider, deeper. Sooner or later, he won’t be able to jump across. He won’t be able to reach me. And my shovel will be responsible for the damage, for the distance. I need to do something.
I need help.
Fishing out Amir’s sister’s business card from my purse, I chew on the inside of my cheek as my fingers hover over the keypad on my phone.
Anything you tell her, she’ll keep private. Anything.
Amir’s words replay over and over in my head. The last thing I want to do is reveal Damon’s secret to someone who could use it against us, who could call the police and open an investigation. But damn it, I need fucking help. And I-I trust Amir. I don’t know how it happened, or when, but…but we’re friends. He might be the first friend I’ve ever had.
With a deep breath, I dial the number, inwardly wincing as it rings.
“Dr. Hadid speaking.”
I clear my throat. “Umm, hi. Uh…” Great start. “This is Emery Jones calling. I got your number from?—”
“Yes. Amir mentioned I should expect a call from you. I am fairly busy today, but I have an opening in my schedule from 3 p.m. to 4 p.m. My office is located in building C, fourth floor. Room 565. Don’t be late.”
And she hangs up.
I blink at the screen, taken aback by her curt demeanor. Given Amir’s playful personality, I expected his sister to be a bit more…welcoming.
With a resigned sigh, I shake off the less than desirable first impression and start toward the bathroom to shower.
This better not be a giant mistake.
My heart poundswith each step I take through the quiet halls of Columbia University. It's eerily silent, devoid of the usual chatter of students. Maybe because it’s a Sunday and they’re all off campus, enjoying life. I squint at the ascending room numbers as I meander down the hall.
As I approach Room 565, voices drift out from inside. I pause, catching snippets of a conversation.
