But in the face of my evaporating executive producer experience, would a correspondent spot do anything for me? Ithought of the hours of work and research I’d poured into my project on addiction, time equity that had gone completely unrecognized. Correspondent work could help me leverage my own aspirations, my own goals.
I stood alone, watching Phoebe and Josef work the news desk below. They were amiable; they were beautiful. They were slightly stuffy and a little boring. Two days ago, I would’ve been internally screaming with the excitement of telling Wells that I was going to be offered a huge promotion, maybe some autonomy in the track of my career. On top of the relief that came with financial security, maybe this could lead to me being able to write and produce documentaries the way I’d always wanted.
But now, I was lonely in a room full of dozens of coworkers. I grabbed my phone.Let’s do it,I sent to Caleb.Dinner next week?
Twelve
I stood outside our apartment door, straining to listen for sounds inside. Our hallway smelled unusual—greasy. Like fast food. I squeezed the handle of the suitcase I’d retrieved from our basement storage closet, as if the secret to emotional invincibility was measured by the strength of my grip. Blowing a silent breath, I jammed my keys into our lock and turned.
Wells sat at our tiny counter bar, fork paused halfway to his mouth. The familiarity of his features hurt more than I’d anticipated. How many times had I cupped his cheek, zipped my fingers along his stubble, scraped my teeth on the tip of his nose? I couldn’t figure out what was stronger: the vibration of my anger or the raw longing for the life I’d thought I’d had. I understood then, all at once and not without shame, why people returned to partners who betray them.
Hope struck his eyes at the sight of me, then dimmed when he noticed my suitcase. “Olivia. Congratulations!” He slid from the stool and darkened his phone screen. The same one I’d thrown at the wall... I calculated. Thirty-nine hours ago? Forty? How could that be?
“Congratulations?” I repeated. In all the scenarios I’d played out in my head, this was not one I’d forecasted. Each of those had started withyou’rehomeorI can’t believe you’re hereorI was worried I’d never see you again.
“You looked so beautiful on screen yesterday.” The whites of his eyes were splotched with residual redness.
“Why are you talking to me like things are normal?”
“Things aren’t. I know that.” He scrubbed a hand against his neck. “This Soulmail thing is—”
“You,” I interrupted, “have lost the right to talk to me about nearly everything. This included.” I started for our bedroom, trailing the suitcase—and, incidentally, Wells—behind me.
“Oh, Liv.” Wells’s voice broke over the small gasping noise he made before he cried, a sound that had melted a past self and now revolted me. My dresser drawer slid open with a soft snick. I began yanking out folded clothes without bothering to see what they were. My sole focus was to get this done as soon as I could, to remove myself from this liar. To set up shop in Natalie’s guest cove.
Wells drew in a shaky breath. “I’ll regret it every moment of the rest of my life.”
“Good for you.” I slammed my top drawer closed as much as soft-close drawers can slam, teeming with competing feelings. An open calendar where my wedding and future had been. Betrayal. Bone-crushing, fatigue-driven yearning for my perfect bed, ruined by the fact that Cambrey Coyle had sprawled there, too. I quick-stepped to our hot-floored bathroom, sweeping my skin care and makeup into a bag. Back in my room, I dumped it into my suitcase, trying to move as fast as I could away from Wells’s doleful eyes, his pained grimace.
“If you’ll just give me another chance—”
TheOhthat emerged from my throat was two parts snarl and one part sigh. “No. What I need from you is silence. Absolute silence. I need no contact, no chats, no chances, no explanations.” My eyes filled with fury tears. “If you ever loved me the way you say you did—”
“Do,” he corrected, wide-eyed.
“—then I want—need—you to respect that wish.”
Silence. Consideration painted his face, a look I rarely saw on him. And finally, his answer was a stiff nod. “Please let meknow when you’re ready to talk,” he said, rising. He stepped backward to our door, rapped awkwardly against its frame, then hesitated. “One more thing?”
There was no chance he’d misinterpret my glare.
“The wedding.” His swallow was audible. “I’m not asking you for a decision, but my parents are up my back about it.”
Air huffed from my nose. His parents had already signed the paperwork for the venue. I should have probably red-flagged the part where my signature was nowhere on my own wedding’s paperwork. “I’m going to have to talk to the network to cancel that stupid special as it is.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry I’ve made such a mess of this. And the wedding.”
“There is no wedding, Wells.” His recoil was slight, but there. “At what point did I give you the impression that I would be fine with this?” Mascara stung my eyes. “How could you think this would ever be okay?”
“I didn’t. I’m just trying to be honest.” His blink produced a tear. “Now,” he added. “I’m not seeing her again. She told her husband. They’re working things out for Julep.”
That poor kid. First thatname, now this. I didn’t envy Cambrey’s husband, either, choosing to stay for the sake of their kid. Apparently, nothing in life is simple once you crest a certain age. “I can’t talk about this right now.” I paused. “Maybe never. You need to call it off.”
“I’ll leave you alone,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But soon, we’ll need to—”
“Go through things,” I said, finishing his sentence for what I hoped would be the last time.
Thirteen
