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Still, it wasn’t all good news. The feedback was starting to come in, and some of the readers were let down. After Allen’s Tribune article, they’d expected a juicer story. They’d wanted a tabloid-worthy exposition of what it was like to seduce a man into a relationship for the sake of a story, only to find out he didn’t want you in the first place.
Instead they’d gotten a love letter about heartache.
One columnist for a local paper had called her story classy, brave, and utterly dull. The New York Tattler thought she’d stolen the story from an eleventh grader’s diary. And then there was Allen Carsons’s follow-up article. He’d accused her of being a first-class swindler who’d resorted to playing the victim upon being outsmarted by his own “superior journalism.”
Julie ran faster, her breath coming in sharp gasps. Swindler, her ass. She’d poured her heart and soul into that article. She’d held nothing back.
And he hadn’t called.
Had he even read it? She suspected that the control freak in him would want to know what she’d said about him.
But the Mitchell who had stared at her that last day? That Mitchell had been done with her. For good.
Julie swore as she nearly tripped on a root. Maybe running in Central Park at dusk hadn’t been the best plan. She slowed her pace to a jog so that she could better see where she was going.
The breakneck sprint hadn’t accomplished what she’d hoped, anyway. She still couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Damn it, it was supposed to have gotten easier after writing the article, but she still couldn’t seem to go five minutes without checking her phone, desperate to see the one message that never came.
Still, the actual writing process had been therapeutic. Not only because she’d had a chance to spill her guts, but because she had hoped that it would help some other lovesick girl along the way.
Love is not a game, ladies. Treat it like one, and you’re bound to lose.
Everyone talks about the rewards of finding that one person. Nobody warns you about the pain of losing him.
She shook her head to clear it. Her own words had been running on repeat in her mind, and she just wanted to think about something else, anything else. But it was everywhere she turned. Riley had deemed her ballsy for spilling her guts. Grace had called her gracious. But right now she felt stupid. She’d told her story to strangers, and the one person who mattered didn’t give a damn.
Julie slowed to a walk and punched her hands into her hips as she gasped at the muggy summer air and fought back the tears.
Mitchell, I miss you.
Julie walked until her breathing returned to normal, but the anguished feeling didn’t leave. Running might have been a good idea, but running the exact same path she’d run with Mitchell that first day had not.
She kept seeing him with his easy pace ahead of her, glancing back to make sure she hadn’t fallen into the bushes or stolen someone’s bicycle. She pictured the teasing smile that was completely at odds with his stuffy image and high-tech running gear.
She pictured him waiting on the bench, ready with a hot dog and water bottle. The memory was so clear, so poignant that for a moment she really did see him. Saw the bench, saw Mitchell—
Julie stopped in her tracks.
Blinked. Blinked again. Squinted and crept closer.
It wasn’t a memory.
It was Mitchell.
Except this time, there was no teasing smile of welcome.
There was, however, a Stiletto magazine by his side.
He’d read it.
The heartbeat that had just barely returned to normal sped up to triple time as she slowly approached, her eyes locked on his, desperate for a sign of what he was feeling. Was he pissed? Pleased?
Did he still love her? Had he ever loved her?
But his blue eyes betrayed nothing. So afraid to hope that she could barely breathe, Julie wordlessly sat on the bench beside him.
She ordered herself to speak. Hi. Hello. I’m sorry. I love you.
