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“You good madam?” I look at the driver eyeing me in the rear-view mirror and notice my pallid face. I nod and look back at my notepad. The hollow in my chest expands. I slept with him. With that monster.
I try to dismiss my thoughts but his face keeps popping in front of me. I find it difficult to focus. Tears swim in my eyes. Whether from the realisation that has dawned on me or from the severe headache, I don’t know. I clutch my forehead. What am I doing?
What if he comes after me for this? I remember telling him about my workplace. I am such an idiot. Even if he was too drunk to remember it, he’ll find out. He must have connections.
But I have to publish this anyway. The pleas of the restaurant owner replay like a haunting loop in my head. Did Frank know about this?
I need to send him the article. He needs to know about the trouble these sponsors are shoving us into. I close my eyes and tilt my head back. What if I cross paths with Tommaso again? The thought sends a shudder down my spine.
No. Won’t happen.
Tortuous memories flash through my mind. The gliding, holding hands, kissing, his bed, his smell, his coldness, his dark, brooding, sexy stare. I feel stupid all of a sudden. How easily he thrusted me into his fancy penthouse just to fuck me.
I look at the nearly-finished article on my lap. My phone starts to buzz. It’s Reed. I stare at the screen with watery eyes. I decline the call and text him instead. Be home in a bit. Stuck at work.
“Drop me here.” I say, when we are a block away from my apartment. I decide to walk to make sense of everything in my head.
“Have a good night, madam!” the driver offers a courteous smile as I refuse to take the change.
Collecting my bag, I shrug on my flannel. I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t fill the void in my chest. I walk with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating what I’ll do next.
I have never thought twice about the submission of an article. But I feel my confidence falter as Tommaso’s dark face comes in my mind. You have to do this, Ella.
It takes me another fifteen minutes to reach the apartment. I fumble for the keys, assuming Reed will be asleep by now but I hear his voice, ‘Ella, that you?’
The door creaks open and I make my way inside, trying my best to conceal the look of shock and devastation of my face.
Reed's head peeks out from the French doors that lead into my bedroom. "There you are," he says. And here I was beginning to think you’d stay the night again." Please don’t remind me of that. I try to smile at him.
"This isn't a very good time," I hedge. I log on my laptop as he talks. Low battery. Damn it. I look for the charger while he goes on about singing at a premiere tomorrow.
"How in God's name did you convince them you could sing the blues?" I give him the attention he wants, hoping he’ll let me be afterwards.
He walks inside the bedroom, ostensibly to rummage for something in my desk drawers. "I lied," he calls out. I pull the flannel closer around my shoulders, drawing my secret to myself.
"How can you just do that?" I say. "I mean, don't you ever get your stories crossed?" He sounds half like Frank.
He waltzes by my side, juggling a bunch of keys, "Ella, know what, your problem is that you've been too honest for too long. Once you start doing it," he says easily, "lying is simpler than breathing." He sounds totally like Frank.
He starts to shuffle through the markers and pens, and then grabs one. "You done?” I say. I shift in the chair, plugging the charger in the socket, wincing as my side presses against the arm of the chair.
Reed glances down at me, and his eyes cloud.
"You're not getting sick, are you?" Maybe. I mean, I feel sick thinking about him. I let him press his palm against my forehead as I had taught him to do years before, and I pull the flannel tight around my shoulders.
“Cool as a cucumber.” He smiles and goes out with a bunch of keys and my pen. I look at the screen as it turns on. I start meticulously typing the finished article and check it for any typos before sending it to my publisher.
Perfect. Includes every detail except our hook-up. I feel nauseous at the thought. I take a deep breath, my fingers trembling slightly as I attach the article and video proof to the email. It's a risk, I know, but the truth deserves to be heard.
As I hit send, a surge of anticipation rushes through me. It's only a matter of time before the publisher receives the email. The thought brings both adrenaline and anxiety.
I begin pacing my small room, my heart racing. The silence is deafening as I wait for that familiar ding, signaling an incoming message. Minutes stretch into eternity, each passing second amplifying the thumping of my heart.
Finally, a notification pops up on my screen. My pulse quickens as I open the email, scanning.
I freeze as my eyes scan the words on the screen.
Ella, this article is not what we were expecting. We had agreed on a positive restaurant review. We cannot publish this piece. Please focus on your initial assignment and submit a review for the restaurant as soon as possible.
