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“That was the right thing,” I say out loud, as if somehow that’ll make it easier.
I want to scream. I want to punch something. Maybe this is what Ward is dealing with—this overwhelming urge to do something to release this horrible energy inside. To hurt something. Destroy it.
Instead, the tears I’ve been holding back since I arrived here finally break free. One minute my eyes are completely dry, and the next, they’re pouring down my cheeks. And once I’ve started, I can’t stop.
My cell phone falls off my lap and hits the floor. I reach down, trying to grab it, and then I’m on the floor, too. I draw my knees up to my chest and press my face against them and just cry.
I don’t know if it’s everything that happened last night or just all the overwhelming emotions I’ve had to deal with since coming back here. I don’t know if these tears are healthy or a sign that I’m on the verge of a major breakdown. I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate, but I fight against the panic. I rock back and forth, trying to calm myself down.
You did the right thing with Ian, I tell myself over and over again. Maybe there’s hope for me figuring all this out. Maybe I have a chance to be a normal, healthy person. But I can’t escape the knowledge that I’m alone again, that I’ve cut ties to my last lifeline. I’m on my own once more, and that terrifies me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when the tears finally slow down. Too long, I’m sure. Mr. Haymore’s probably going insane.
I wipe my cheeks and get to my feet, brushing the carpet fuzz off of my skirt.
You’ve got this, I tell myself. You can handle this. I’ve made one step in the right direction today. I can be stronger. Better. No more distractions. No more bad habits.
Unfortunately, some bad habits have a way of finding their way back into your life whether you want them there or not.
CHAPTER NINE
Those last few days before the press members arrive go by in a blur. Mr. Haymore apparently thinks I’m the Energizer Bunny. He has me doing so many things I’m shocked that I’m still standing.
But I like being busy. I feel productive. And that’s a much better alternative than stewing on my problems. I don’t have time to think about the fact that Ian hasn’t responded to my message—whether to worry about how he’s taking the news or to be relieved that he’s accepted my decision. And I don’t have time to think about Ward—to wonder how he’s recovering from his injuries or think about the fact that the impending grand opening means his work here is very close to done. Even if he’s well enough to get back on the job, there’s a chance I’ll never see him again.
By the time the big morning comes, I’m both physically and mentally exhausted. The only reason I’m not in a puddle on the floor is that I’m jacked up on four cups of coffee. If I stand in one place for too long, my entire body starts to tremble and shake.
Unfortunately, as Mr. Haymore’s assistant, I’ve gotten roped into helping him greet all the arriving press members. They intentionally made this week very exclusive, inviting only fifty or so members of various media outlets, and Haymore’s insisting on welcoming every visitor personally. That means spending the better part of the day in the front lobby. I can tell my boss is a nervous wreck because his mustache is twitching even more than usual, but he pulls it together whenever someone walks through the door.
Me? I’m so drained that I’m having trouble standing upright. I, lucky girl that I am, get to check in everyone as they arrive. I mark their names off my list and hand them their name tags and welcome packets (ever a favorite of Mr. Haymore’s) while my boss joyfully babbles on about our fine accommodations. I’m not really cut out for reception duty, but all of the usual Guest Services employees have been asked to help ferry the press members to their respective rooms. Apparently normal baggage boys won’t cut it with this crowd.
I do okay at the beginning. But as the morning drags on and I’ve reached four consecutive hours without a cup of coffee, I’m starting to get a little spazzy. Several times I have to ask for names more than once, and once I even drop one of the welcome packets as I’m passing it across the counter. It falls open on its way down, and papers flutter everywhere.
“Crap.” I rush around the counter, all too aware of Mr. Haymore’s glare. The journalist I was supposed to be helping is already crouched down, gathering things up. I drop to my knees and help. I’m not even sure why I care so much—it’s not like I’m particularly invested in this place’s success—but I still feel bad.
“I’m sorry, Mr.—” And dang, I’ve already forgotten his name. I just marked it off the list about fifteen seconds ago.
“Julian,” he says. “Asher Julian.”
He sounds friendly, not annoyed, so I risk a glance up. He’s youngish—probably late twenties—and not unattractive. Not Ward levels of hot or anything—not that I’m thinking about Ward—but not halfway bad looking. Though he’s got a look about his eyes that makes me suspect this guy has the potential to be a major douche if he wants to.
My eyes drop to the badge I handed him less than a minute ago. Beneath his name it lists the name of the company he’s from, and my stomach clenches with recognition. He’s from Look! Magazine, one of the big celebrity news publications. I can imagine which angle of this story he’s covering.
I sit back on my knees, pasting on my practiced smile. It’s only after I’ve finished putting the packet together that I look up and realize that Mr. Julian is looking at me oddly.
“Have we met before?” he says. “You look really familiar.”
I go cold. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that some of our new visitors might recognize me, but that was a careless oversight. Sure, some of these people are from travel and luxury news outlets, but many are from websites or papers that would have closely followed my family’s story. How could I have been so stupid? What if someone figures out who I am? A bad dye-job and extra lipstick aren’t going to protect me from observant people like these guys.
My heart is bouncing against my ribs.
Breathe, I tell myself. Flash him a smile and breathe. Don’t let him see you sweat.
“Oh, I get that a lot,” I say, and thankfully it sounds casual and light. “I guess I just have one of those faces.”
I hold my breath, but he nods and smiles. “I guess you do.”
