It’s so short but I have to re-read it twice before I believe it’s real.
My chest does a weird flutter, like a bird is trapped inside.
He can’t sleep because he worries about me? I roll my eyes at myself, but I can’t stop the half-grin creeping up. There wasn’t even much happening when he watched us fight, and he still worries? I shouldn’t read too much into it. I’m just not used to others caring about me. Or better yet: about men caring about me.
Before I can think too hard, I stand up and push the little deadbolt on my bedroom door. The gesture is automatic. I don’t need privacy from Matthew—it’s not like he cares about enough about me to come checking but it feels right anyway.
I sink back into my bed, fingers hovering over my phone’s screen as I reply:
Dear Mr. Dickhead,
I’m fine, thanks. Just a late night. Is everything okay with you and Livy?
—J
I hover for a second, then hit send. The second the whoosh goes off; regret comes in like a tide. I shouldn’t have responded. This isn’t the behavior you’d expect from a leading attorney when dealing with clients. But the answer pops up almost instantly. It’s a relief to see someone as impatient as me, even if it’s a six foot five disaster of a human being.
Thank you for helping me today. I hope I did not make more trouble for you. If I’m being honest, and I know I shouldn’t, I don’t like the way he talks to you. You deserve better.
I smile, even though no one can see. A single tear slips from my eye, but I feel it stop.
I start to reply:You’re not trouble.
But I delete it and try again. I need to be professional. It’s from my work e-mail. I can’t flirt with Colton. Ever. So, I try something else:
Helping you is my job. I’m good at it ;). Try to get some sleep, we need you clear-headed tomorrow. And thank you for the kind words.
It’s not long before another e-mail hits my inbox.
Okay, just tell me you’re safe and he won’t hurt you. I really can’t sleep otherwise. And don’t lie. I know we don’t know each other well, but I would come for you if you needed me. Just wanted to let you know. I’ll stop now.
There. I grin again. Now it’s me being pathetic.
I’m safe, Colton. Thank you. Good night.
This time, I hit send and immediately close the app. If he wants to respond, he can, but I won’t check again. I can’t. I’ve said my piece.
I put the phone on my nightstand and let myself sink back into the pillows, pulling the blanket up to my chin again. The last thing I think before drifting off is that it’s strange how the smallest kindness can stick to you like a bandage. Even from someone you’re supposed to hate. Especially from them.
NINE
Jenna
I’m stabbing a forkful of arugula when Isla gives methelook—the one that says she knows I’m hiding something juicy. And well—I am. She owns a sports podcast with ninety thousand rabid listeners who would sacrifice their firstborns for insider Colton King gossip. And here I am, sitting on the nuclear codes. He’s not just my client, he’s practically living in my office, bleeding into my nights and weekends, consuming my every waking thought at this point. Since he was so nice to me, I can’t stop thinking about him. It was easier when I thought he’ was a jerk.
I’ve been dodging her texts for two weeks now, and this guilt-lunch at my mother’s was the best I could scrape together. We typically meet once a week, but Colton’s case is consuming all of my free time at the moment. That’s why we’re eating some salad and roasted chicken with my mom right now.
Mom’s kitchen feels smaller every time I visit: the scratched Formica table wobbles when I lean my elbows on it, and no matter how many Glade plug-ins she buys, the place still smells a bit like cat litter. But that’s what I call home.
Isla sits across from me, knees drawn up onto the chair like a goblin child, though, technically, she’s a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a driver’s license, two degrees, and what might be the world’s most committed relationship with dry shampoo. She’s three inches shorter than I am, but with enough bleach blonde hair to register as a small celestial event. Also, I’m content that her voice could shatter a pint glass at thirty paces.
“Did you guys hear the latest episode? We got ten hate mails and a marriage proposal—same guy, I think. How’s that for listener engagement?” Isla says.
My mother, who has never figured out if she’s allowed to laugh at the juicy stuff she hears onThe Dirty Jerseypodcast, does a nervous titter and then pushes a bowl of off-brand ranch dressing toward Isla with the kind of maternal resignation that comes from knowing that her daughter’s best friend will never, ever eat anything without a dip. Jenna’s like the second daughter she never had. We’ve known each other since kindergarten and have been inseparable since then.
“It’s because you keep daring your audience to send nudes,” I say, a forkful of arugula hovering somewhere between my mouth and the existential void. “Statistically, at least one man in New Jersey lives for that sort of feedback loop.”
“That is the spirit,” Isla grins and then in a dead-on imitation of her own podcast cohost, launches into: “‘Dear Isla, you godless harpy, I hope you get canceled so hard your uterus explodes—’” She breaks character long enough to shovel three leaves and an entire cherry tomato into her face. “I mean, it’s original, I’ll give him that.”
