I stand at the bar as I look over at the table, and Aaron has his hand over his mouth in uncontrollable giggles. I drop my head to hide my goofy smile.
This is hilarious . . . because it’s not happening to me.
“Hey.” I smile as Robbie opens his front door.
“Hey, you.” He smiles as he wraps me in his arms. “This is a surprise.”
“I know. I was missing you, so I flew home this morning for the night.”
“Come in.” He drags me into his converted garage.
I couldn’t sleep last night. I was worried about my feelings, and I can’t stop thinking about stupid Jameson Miles. I got up and went straight to the airport and caught the flight out. I look around Robbie’s tiny studio apartment and at the empty pizza boxes and dirty glasses lying around. “What have you been doing?” I ask.
“Nothing much.” He smiles; he lies on the bed and taps it beside him. I lie down, and he slides his hand up my top as he looks down at me.
“Did you go to any job interviews this week?” I ask.
“Nah, nothing suited me.”
I frown. “Any job is a good job . . . isn’t it?” I ask hopefully.
“I’m waiting for the right one.” He kisses me softly.
I stare up at him as I feel his erection grow up against my leg. “Robbie, come back to New York with me. There are so many jobs there, and it would be a fresh start for you. We could discover the city together.”
He snatches his hand away from my breast and pulls away from me. “Don’t start your fucking shit. I told you I’m not moving to New York.”
I sit up in a rush. “What’s stopping you? You have no job here. What’s holding you back? Explain it to me.”
“I like living here. I don’t pay rent, and my mother cooks all my food. I have a good deal here. Why would I leave?”
“You’re twenty-five, Robbie.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps.
“Don’t you want to support yourself and experience something different?”
“No. I like it here.”
“You need to grow up,” I snap, and we both stand up.
“And you need to come back to fucking earth. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“I want to live in New York.” I take his hand as I try to get through to him. “You should see New York, Robbie. You would love it there. It has this vibe like I’ve never felt anywhere else.”
“New York is your dream, Emily, not mine. I’m never moving there.”
Oh hell. We are worlds apart. “How are we supposed to be together from different sides of the country?” I ask softly.
He shrugs. “You should have thought of that before you applied for this stupid job.”
“It’s not a stupid job.” I plead, “Don’t you want to support me in my dream? Are you going to come and visit me at all?”
“I told you—I don’t like cities.”
“So what you’re saying is, if I don’t fly back to California, I won’t see you at all.”
He shrugs and sits down and picks up his PlayStation remote.
“Are you serious?” I snap as I begin to see red. “I flew all the way home to discuss our future, and you’re going to play fucking Fortnite.”
He rolls his eyes and starts the game. “Quit your nagging.”
“Quit my nagging,” I snap. “I don’t want to live in your fucking parents’ garage, Robbie.”
“Don’t, then.”
“What is wrong with you?” I cry in outrage. “Why do you want to waste away here? You’re twenty-five, Robbie. You need to grow up.”
He rolls his eyes. “If you flew all the way back here to be a bitch, you needn’t have bothered.”
Steam shoots from my ears. “If I walk out that door, Robbie, we are over,” I say.
His eyes rise to meet mine.
“I mean it,” I whisper. “I want you in my life, but I won’t sacrifice my happiness because you are too fucking lazy to get off your ass and make a future for yourself.”
He clenches his jaw and goes back to his game. He begins to play.
I watch him through tears as I hear my angry heartbeat in my ears. “Robbie, please,” I whisper. “Come with me.”
He keeps his eyes on the screen as he begins to shoot people in his game. “Close the door on your way out.” He puts his headphones on to block me out.
I get a lump in my throat as I finally see our relationship for what it really is.
A sham.
I take a long look around his room as he plays his game, and I know that this is it.
The defining moment where I decide what I’m worth. What I want from life.
I can’t save him . . . if he doesn’t want to be saved.
What I want is someone who wants to grow with me, and I don’t even know what growth I want. But I can’t be stagnant here in his parents’ garage any longer.
I don’t even know who he is anymore . . . but this isn’t me.
The woman I want to be lives in New York and has the job of her dreams.
Sadness overwhelms me. I know what I have to do.
I walk over to him and take his headphones off. “I’m going.”
He stares at me.
“You’re better than this,” I whisper.
He clenches his jaw.
“Robbie,” I whisper. “You’re much more than just a football star. You need to believe that.”
His eyes search mine.
“Go and get some help.” I look around his room. “It’s going to be too late for us, but I want it for you.”
He drops his head and stares at the floor. I take his hand in mine. “Come with me,” I whisper. “Please, Robbie, pull out of this . . . if not for me, for yourself.”
“I can’t, Em.”
My eyes fill with tears, and I bend and kiss him softly one last time. I rub my fingers through his stubble and stare into his eyes. “Go and find whatever it is that makes you happy,” I whisper.
“You too,” he breathes sadly. I realize he doesn’t even want to fight it; he knows this is for the best. I smile at the bittersweet moment, and I kiss him softly, with tears rolling down my cheeks.
I get into my mother’s car and stare at his house for an extended time.
That was much easier and much harder than I imagined.
I slowly start the car and pull out onto the road. I wipe my tears with my forearm as I feel a chapter of my life close.
I drive down the road and out of Robbie McIntyre’s life. “Goodbye, Robbie,” I whisper out loud. “When it was good, it was great.”
Monday morning
“And what do you think would happen if you told the police of your suspicions?” I ask.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” the frail old woman replies. She has to be at least ninety. Her white hair is in perfect finger waves, and her dress is a pretty shade of mauve. “They’re useless.”
I dutifully scribble down her reply on my notepad. I’m out in the field today, following up my own lead. There has been a string of satanic graffiti on the fronts of houses lately, and this particular woman’s house has been done three times. Fed up with the lack of support from the police department, she contacted Miles Media, and I was the lucky one who picked up the phone.
“So . . . tell me when this all began,” I ask.
“Back in November.” She pauses as she tries to remember. “November sixteenth was the first time. A huge mural of the devil himself.”
“Right.” I look up from my notes. “What did it look like?”
“Evil.” She gets a faraway look in her eye. “Pure evil, so lifelike, with huge fangs and blood dripping everywhere.”
“It must have been terrifying for you.”
“It was. That was the night when a jewelry store got robbed around the corner, so I remember it well.”
“Oh.” I frown. She didn’t mention this before. “Do you think it’s related?”
She stares at me blankly.
“The graffiti and the robbery, I mean,” I clarify.
“Don’t know.” She pauses for a moment and then contorts her face as if in pain. “I’ve never thought of that before, but it’s all making sense now. The police are in on this conspiracy.” She begins to pace. “Yes, yes, that’s it.” She taps her hand on the top of her head as she walks back and forth.
Hmm. There’s something off here. Is this woman of sound mind? “What did you do when you found the graffiti on your house?”
“I called the police, and they told me that they don’t have time to come out for graffiti but to take a picture of it and email it to them.”
“And you did that?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“My son got my house acid washed and removed it, but three nights later it happened again. But this time it was an image of someone getting murdered. A woman had been stabbed. The graffiti was so intricate that it looked like a painting.”
“Oh.” I continue to take notes. “What did you do this time?”
“I went down to the police station and demanded someone come and look at my house. My neighbor had his house vandalized too.”
“Okay.” I scribble down her story. “What’s your neighbor’s name?”
“Robert Day Daniels.”
I glance up from my notes, surprised by his name. “His name is Robert Day Daniels?”
“Or is it Daniel Day Roberts?” Her voice trails off as she thinks. “Hmm.”
I stare at her as I wait for her to decide which it is.
“I forgot his name.” She scrubs her hands in her hair as if about to launch into a panic.
“That’s okay. I’ll just write Robert Day Daniels for the moment, and then we’ll come back to it a little later.”
“Yes, okay.” She smiles, pleased that I’m not pushing her for an exact name.
“What was drawn on his house?” I ask.
“One of those horrible devil stars.”
“I see. Tell me, what did the police do this time?”
“Nothing. They didn’t even come out here.”
“They’re very busy,” I reassure her as I write. “Tell me about the last time it happened.”
“The entire house was painted red.”
I glance up in surprise. “The entire house was red?”
“The whole street.”
Uneasiness sweeps over me. “That is weird.” I frown.
She leans in close so that only I can hear her. “Do you think it’s the devil?” she whispers.
“What?” I smile. “No, it’s probably just kids acting up,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Have you told anyone else about this?”
“No, only Miles Media. I want you to publish this story so that the police will actually pay some attention. I’m getting scared that it’s something more sinister.”
I take her hand in mine. “Yes, I think we have enough to go forward with the story.”
“Oh, thank you, dear.” She holds my hand tightly.
“Is there anything else you can think of that may be relevant?” I ask.
“Just that I’m living in fear every night that the devil is coming back. My neighbors said to go and speak to them too.”
“Okay, great.” I hand her my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
“Yes, I will.” She clutches the card.
I go down the street and interview seven more people, and the stories all correlate. I definitely have enough evidence to go forward. I go back to the office and type the story up and hand it in to Hayden. It feels good breaking news.
I sit at my desk and stare at my computer screen. It’s four o’clock on Monday, and I’m in a funk. Since I got back to New York late last night, I’ve had a bad case of the guilts. Even though I knew that Robbie and I were reaching our expiration date, I kind of feel like I sped it up and didn’t let it run its course. But then, on the other hand, we’d been stagnant for months, and if I took this job knowing he wasn’t coming with me . . . I think I subconsciously knew we were close to the end.
“The god is here,” Aaron whispers.
I glance up. “Who?”
“Tristan Miles,” he whispers.
I spy over the screening above my desk as he talks to the manager of the floor, Rebecca.
He’s wearing a pin-striped navy suit, his brown wavy hair is in just-fucked perfection, and he has this dreamy smile on his face as he talks. He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen and huge dimples.
“She’s giggling like a schoolgirl.” Aaron frowns.
“He’s never on this level,” Molly says.
“What do you reckon he’s doing here?” Aaron whispers as his eyes stay glued to the fine specimen.
“His job,” I reply flatly. “He does work here, you know.”
The more I think about it, the more I know I’ve romanticized this whole Jameson Miles thing. He doesn’t like me—he’s just horny, and there’s a big difference. He’s probably had sex with five women since Friday night when I spoke to him. I haven’t heard from him since, and I don’t want to either.
I didn’t leave Robbie because Jameson told me to; I left Robbie because he’d stopped putting in any effort. If Jameson knows we broke up, he’s going to assume it’s because I want to sleep with him . . . and I don’t.
I really don’t. Stupid men.
I’m not telling my coworkers that we broke up. I don’t want to make a fanfare of it. I want to take my time to get my head around it.
Tristan Miles says something, and Rebecca laughs. Then he disappears into the elevator, and we all get back to work.
I struggle with my umbrella as I trudge down the pavement in the rain. New York isn’t as dreamy in the wet. I grab the Gazette while I’m waiting for the lights to change and stuff it in my bag. I’ll read this while I wait for my coffee. My phone rings.
“Hello, Emily Foster speaking,” I answer as I power walk among the crowd.
“Hello, Emily,” a familiar voice says.
I frown, unable to place who it is. “Who’s speaking, please?”
“This is Marjorie. We spoke yesterday.”
Oh shit—the graffiti lady.“Oh yes, hello, Marjorie. It’s a bad line, and I couldn’t hear you properly,” I lie.
“It’s Danny Rupert,” she replies.
“I’m sorry?” I frown.
“My neighbor’s name is Danny Rupert. I couldn’t remember it yesterday.”
I screw up my face and cringe. Oh God. I hope it hasn’t gone to print. I completely forgot to go back to it. Panic begins to swirl in my stomach.
Shit.
“I think the story has already gone to print, Marjorie. I’m so sorry I didn’t recheck it with you.”
“Oh, that’s okay, dear. It doesn’t matter—no harm done. I felt foolish being unable to remember, and I wanted to call you.”
My stomach rolls. It does matter—you don’t get names wrong in a story. Reporting 101.
Fuck.
I puff air into my cheeks as disappointment in myself runs through me. Damn it. This is not a little mistake; it’s a major fuckup. “Thanks for the call, Marjorie. I’ll call you when I get into the office and let you know when it’s running.” With any luck it won’t be until tomorrow, and I will have time to change it.
I hang up and internally kick myself. Damn it.Focus.
I walk into the café opposite the Miles Media building and order my coffee. I drag the paper out of my bag and slam it onto the table.
I am not going to hold on to this job with sloppy mistakes like that. I’m so annoyed at myself.
I flick through the paper, and then something catches my eye.
Satanic Graffiti in New York
A spate of bizarre graffiti attacks on houses in the West Village has the residents running scared. Marjorie Bishop’s house has been graffitied three times, and the police are refusing to take action. Another resident, Robert Day Daniels, has been suffering too.
I frown as I read the story. What?