I wrap my arms around my legs and put my cheek on my knee, exhaling as I try to push the part-dream, part-memory out of my mind. I go into the bathroom, splash my face, look into my eyes and I’m still the lost girl in the elevator. When did I become this girl? I’m not this girl, I think in frustration as I stamp out to my room.
I go back to bed and cover myself with the sheets all the way to my neck, rolling my cheek into the pillow and punching it as I stare unseeingly in the direction of my window. A stream of streetlight filters inside. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the sounds of the city outside. I wonder where he is right now.
You’re fucking haunting me, Sin.
You’re fucking haunting my every second.
I can’t sleep, can’t think of anything but the way I feel when I stand close to you. When you look at me. When we’re in the same room.
The way you were in your office . . . I couldn’t read you. I couldn’t read you and it’s killing me.
Turning on the light, I lose a battle I’ve been waging with myself for a whole month.
I go get my laptop and boot it up in the darkness, then I do something I haven’t done in a while. Gina had forbidden me to. I had forbidden myself, for survival. And sanity. I haven’t checked in so long it’s not even coming up in my browser. But now I brave Saint’s social media and brace myself for what I find as I skim through. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Or maybe I do. I’m looking for anything, anything that links me to him.
Hey @MalcolmSaint I’m Leyla, Danis’ friend ;)
@MalcolmSaint Hey bro meet us at Raze
@malcolmsaint is better off without that bitch who betrayed him
Marry me @malcolmsaint!
@Malcolmsaint I’ll be your slut and I’ll mud wrestle your lying bitch ex to the death, if need be!
@MalcolmSaint are you going to forgive your girlfriend? PLS forgive her, you look beautiful together!
Speaking of bitches @MalcolmSaint should know
@malcolmsaint please tell me you told your exgirlfriend to go fuck herself! YOU DESERVE SO MUCH BETTER YOU DESERVE A PRINCESS
Interface wall:
Bro! Call us when you’re in town, there’s someone we’d like you to meet
And then, there’s the picture of a woman blowing him a kiss.
I scowl over her protruding nipples, clearly visible in her wet designer top.
Then, I scroll over his tagged pictures and find one of him. Him flipping off the reporter who asks him about my betrayal, a pair of cool aviators shading his eyes, his jaw as tough as a granite slab.
God help me. Now that I’ve started looking I can’t seem to stop. On a famous local vlog, I find this:
“Indeed there has been speculation on whether his daredevil attitude for the past month has anything to do with the recent breakup with journalist Rachel Livingston, what is rumored to be his first relationship ever. Livingston, who had been investigating Saint when they met, had a huge fallout with the tycoon when her investigation leaked and her own version published shortly after on Edge. Rumors of whether M4 is integrating a news section into their Interface media website were abuzz when Livingston was spotted back at M4 . . .”
“In the meantime Saint himself has been skydiving, and, according to a witness, taking over businesses at a speed that has been alarming to the members of his board . . .”
And on Facebook:
#TBT ThrowbackThursday: remember this picture? We had bets going on how long it’d last but nobody bet on it lasting as long as it did! I know it seems she played you but we know better than that, nobody plays as hard as you do—hope you used her good!
I stare at my computer screen. I’m suddenly sick with dread wondering what he’s read too. Is this how he thinks of me? A bitch? I’m a bitch and a slut, who “whored” myself into his bed for information? I’m stunned to realize that even when I poured my heart into my article—it was, like Helen says, a love letter to him—the words I wrote didn’t matter. My actions trumped it all.
Saint values truth and loyalty.
I can’t take it.
I open up an email and search through the several emails of his I’ve got.
Even if it’s suicidal.
Even if he’s the most unobtainable thing in the world, placed so far off, I’d need a satellite to hoist me up high enough to snatch him. He’s my own personal moon . . .
In End the Violence, I’m always waiting to see what I can do to help those who’ve been exposed to loss. I always seem to be waiting to see if my mom’s health is stable. Waiting for the right story.
I don’t want to wait anymore.
I don’t want to wait for the story, wait for the right time, wait for the muse, wait to forget him, wait to be wanted by him, wait to see if time will be on my side and help me fix things with him.
With all the nerves in the world but a determination to match it, I select his M4 email. The early one we used to use when I started to interview him. I have no idea who will read this email, but I keep it business and type out a message, knowing that keeping it simple is the best chance I’ve got.
Mr. Saint,
I’m writing to let you know how much I appreciate your offer. I’d like to discuss it further with you. Would you please let me know if there’s any convenient time I could stop by your office? I will adjust my schedule to yours.
Thank you,
Rachel
WORK & WRITING
I’m running on three hours of sleep, but I’m determined to make something good out of my day the next morning. I even smile at a few strangers as I get out of the cab, take the building elevators, and walk into Edge. I chitchat with a few colleagues as we get coffee, call my mother to say good morning, answer a few emails from my sources.
But there’s that tiny little buzz still in my body.
I still stare at green eyes whenever I stare at . . . anything, really.
I see a full mouth.
A full mouth, smiling in the way he used to smile at me.
I exhale slowly, do my best to push the thought of yesterday aside, and stare at my computer screen.
My very blank, very white computer screen.
Keyboards are clacking, reporters talking over their cubicle walls. Edge has been doing a little better after my love letter to Saint. The job cuts have stopped, two new journalists have been hired, and although there are only a dozen of us, we still somehow manage to make noise. Oh boy, do we make noise. We’re the specialists of making every event of the day seem more monumental than it is. It’s our job to hunt for news, after all. Create stories.
Write something¸ Rachel.