Come As You Are

“I know. I wish I could help.”

She nods, her expression softening. “I appreciate the sentiment, but right now the job I want is covering your business. I’ve tried to convince myself every night that I can feel how I do about you and still do my job objectively,” she says, and my heart sits up, hoping. “But I can’t. And I think maybe it’s best if we stop . . .” She takes a beat, swallows, and seems to gird herself to say the harder part. “Stop seeing each other like this.”

A kick in the gut. I saw it coming, but it still smarts like a screaming demon. Only, I don’t want her to know how much this hurts. I don’t want to let on for a second that I’m in pain.

“Absolutely. I absolutely agree.” I drop her hand, making it clear I’m 100 percent on board with this.

That’s a lie.

But I’m not interested in letting the truth shine through. Not when there’s a hole in my chest from the punch she delivered.

24

Sabrina

Kermit writes back that afternoon. He wants to see me later this week.

To: Sabrina G

From: Kermit LF

Had to catch a flight to Palo Alto. I’ll call you, or text you, or really, you should make time for me on Wednesday.

It’s not presented as optional.

I don’t know why, but I can guess. I suspect he’s going to aim that Nerf gun of his in my direction and blow my cover.

Reveal my dirty little secret.

He’s going to topple the vase, like a destructive cat, and gleefully watch as the glass shatters.

Writing back, I tell him I’ll see him on Wednesday.

It’s like scheduling an appointment with the executioner, and the only thing left is to decide how I want my neck sliced. Do I do it myself, or let Kermit the Douche drop the blade?

My stomach churns as I pace my tiny apartment, wishing for answers. Wishing for someone to swoop in and tell me what to do.

But the thing is—that’s my job.

It’s been my job since I was eighteen and my mom up and left. Since she grabbed her fake Louis Vuitton and said, “See you later, kids, I’m outta here.” Once it was clear she wasn’t coming back, I secured guardianship of Kevin, somehow juggling college and official surrogate parenthood at the same damn time. The balancing act was no fun at all, but it was so rewarding to see my little brother turn into the finest of men.

I’d do it all over again, even the hard parts, even the not-fun parts.

I’ve learned something else that’s no fun at all.

This.

This is what it feels like to fall in love, have your gut punched, and miss the man you can’t be with.

For the record, it feels like complete and utter crap.

As I work on a new design for an adorable skirt made from a dove-gray patterned fabric with script-y French words across it, I cut my finger. I curse, and blood spurts all over my hand, making a beeline for the word reve. Fitting, that dream should be bloodied.

I jump from the table, run to the sink, and wash the blood off my finger. More crimson pours and the slice hurts. This should feel symbolic, but it mostly feels annoying. Because everything is irksome now.

A man like Flynn Parker came into my life at exactly the moment when I didn’t just need him, I wanted him. He came like a beautiful summer day, like blue skies and sunshine, a walk along the beach, and peaceful easy times. He’s evenings under the stars too, nights spent dancing, laughing, tumbling together and kissing, hot and fevered and sweaty.

Giving myself to Flynn would be easy because he wouldn’t hurt me.

That’s what I let slip through my fingers for a possibility.

But I had to. I had no choice.

I keep running the water, and the blood spills into the sink.

I don’t think Flynn would hurt me like Ray did. I don’t believe he’s like that. I believe he’s a man of his word, a man I can trust, and saying those words to him—we need to stop seeing each other—hurt way more than this sliced finger.

When the blood ceases to flow, I wrap a towel tight around my finger, find a Band-Aid, and put it on the cut. Giving the sewing a break, I settle back in with the article, review Kevin’s notes, and make my final tweaks. Then I stand and pace like a lion in the zoo. Cross the kitchen. Walk to the futon. Cover the same path again.

I draw a deep breath and scan my little place. The walls seem to hover, to sway. This apartment is suddenly too tiny. It can’t contain me and all these rampant emotions pinballing through my chest.

I call Kevin and tell him I’m taking the next train to come see him.

A couple hours later, the train rattles into the station in the sleepy little New England town where he goes to divinity school. He meets me at the depot, and his smile is magnetic. It hits me in a raw, visceral way. I throw my arms around him, and he hugs me.

A strange relief works its way into me as we reconnect. He’s my person. I needed to see him. I desperately need to talk to him. I can’t stand trying to sort out all these feelings on my own.

We leave the station and head into town where we settle in at a café and order tea.

He slides my cup toward me. “It must be good if you came all the way out here to see me.”

I heave a painful sigh, emotions clogging my throat. “Tell me what to do. Tell me what’s the right thing to do.”

He leans back in his chair, parking his hands behind his head. “It’s the guy, isn’t it?”

I give him more details. “I know I won’t get the job if I’m seeing him. I can’t cover his sector if I’m involved with him. Who would give that gig to me? That’s crazy. It’s one thing to disclose at the end of a story that you’re involved with somebody, the way a publication would disclose you own stock. Jane Smith has stock in Company X. Jane Smith is in a romantic relationship with Fred Jones. It’s another thing to assign someone to cover an industry on an ongoing basis when their boyfriend or girlfriend is a key player.”

Kevin nods thoughtfully. “What happens in other situations though? What if a reporter already has a job, is covering the business, and she falls for somebody she covers?”

I’ve seen this situation happen at my old paper, and I’ve seen it happen to journalists I know. “He or she is reassigned usually. Our job is to be fair. Our job is to be accurate. I’m not curing cancer or saving the whales, but at the very least, I’m trying to write something unbiased.”

His blue eyes are piercing as he stares at me. “Do you think, then, that you should tell Mr. Galloway?”

He’s tossing ethics back at me, perhaps treating me as he would a parishioner someday.

“I have to tell him, don’t I?” I squeak out. “Even though I’m not involved with Flynn, I have to tell my editor.”

He rests his palm on my hand, giving a gentle squeeze. “I read the piece. I think you did an amazing job. But I’m not unbiased either. I love you to the ends of the earth and back, and I think everything you do is amazing. I tried to give it a critical eye, and I think it’s incredible. But what if my take on it is colored by how much I love you? And what if your approach was colored by your feelings for Flynn?”

I groan and drop my forehead onto the table. “This was such a big chance for me. And I blew it by falling for this guy.”

He rubs my forearm. “I don’t know that falling for someone is ever blowing it. I don’t know if I have any answers as to what you should do. But I don’t think letting yourself feel something real and true, especially after what happened to you, is a bad thing.”