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“I don’t want to publish my book anymore.”
That isn’t what I’d expected. I’d thought all of Addison’s emotions were based on that talk with her mother. What does her book have to do with anything?
“Why? It was wonderful, and I can’t wait for other people to read it, too.”
She shakes her head, and more tears roll down her cheeks. What’s going on?
“No. I don’t think I want to be a writer anymore. It’s too much. Everything is too much.”
I pull Addison closer to me, forcing her body against mine, and she loses any hold on her emotions. Sobs come out as her nails dig into my back. “I thought I could do all of this. I thought I had everything under control. Working with you and living with you. Writing. Being in New York all alone. I don’t think I can, though. Everything’s so crossed and tangled that I barely even know who I am anymore.”
My jaw clenches at our relationship being one of the things that’s making her feel like this. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with us.
She looks up at me. “Trish is leaving Loughton House. Victoria’s thinking about it. They blame you. Not Loughton House. Not their manager. They blame you, and I can’t help but think they’re right. My friends are leaving, and there’s nothing I can do. I can’t even tell them they’re right to leave because that would be saying that I don’t support you.”
My jaw locks up so hard that I’m sure Addison can hear my teeth grinding together. “They’re leaving because they don’t want to work a few extra hours of overtime?”
She shakes her head. “They’re leaving because it’s better for them at other companies. They’ll make more money. There’s no overtime.” Another sob escapes her lips, and she shakes a little. “And I think they should leave, too. Loughton House doesn’t care if they stay or go. You’ve never cared about the employees.”
I don’t know how to take that comment other than with anger. I growl, “I’ve always cared. From the very beginning, I cared more about the employees than anyone else in management. More than anyone at any other company. You can say a lot of things, but you can’t say that I don’t care.”
“Then why are you doing the same thing your father did?” she whispers. For a moment, I can see fear in her eyes. The same fear as everyone in the office. It stops the rage that’s building inside me. But it doesn’t stop the anger. The seething, twisting emotion that I’ve held back my entire life.
From my father. From the employees. From everything in the world that’s done its best to control me.
“I am not my father,” I say as I pull away from Addison. “Everything I’m doing is to fix his mistakes. I am breaking myself to put everyone else first. The employees. The company. Even you. I am not my father, Addison, and don’t you ever say that again.”
The tears stop. I can see the shift in her almost instantly. She felt fragile a moment ago, as though a strong wind would have shattered her, but now she’s no different from the night I met her at the motel. An unbreakable woman who’s fought for every inch of success she’s ever had.
And she’s pissed.
“You will not talk to me like that, Phillip Loughton,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. “I am not some businessman you’re able to intimidate. Maybe at work you’re my superior, but not here. You are acting just like your father would, whether you believe me or not. How could anyone expect anything different since you’re basically a carbon copy of him?”
I try to interrupt, but she doesn’t let me. She just keeps saying words that infuriate me, that make me want to throw things and scream. “Your father took every nicety away from his employees. He didn’t pay them as much as they were worth. Loughton House is the most successful publishing house because of the people doing the work. Not because you’re better at cutting costs.
“And once again, you’re expecting them to sacrifice so that you can keep making money when you don’t need to make a dime for the rest of your life. You could donate ninety percent of your money and still have more money than the rest of us will earn in our entire lifetime. Don’t tell me you deserve anything. You want to expandyourcompany, thenyoushould be the one to make sacrifices. Not your employees.”
It goes against everything in me. Thirty years of training and spending every moment working balk at the idea of doing any of it for free.
“Well Addison, if we’re comparing each other to our parents, maybe I am like my father. And maybe you’re like your mother. You ignore all the experiences you’ve ever had that are staring you in the face. Your mother may ignore her past mistakes when she sees a shiny dollar on the other side of the fence, but at least she’s not afraid. At least she doesn’t let fear of success make her run.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m nothing like my mother.” The way she spits those words lets me know I struck a nerve, and I revel in the fact that she’s experiencing the same pain that she made me feel.
I smirk. “You’ve refused help every step of the way to becoming a published author. Now that your book is finally written and I’ve edited it, you’re saying you don’t want to be an author. Because why? It’s hard? Because I’m trying to help you be more successful? I’ll tell you why. It’s because you’re fucking scared, Addison. You’re scared of doing anything other than being a dedicated worker bee. Just like your mother is terrified of making a dollar less per hour. You both live your lives terrified. At least she’s willing to chase that extra dollar. You… You’d sit in that cubicle forever as a junior editor, making barely enough to eat when you have a multi-million dollar book sitting on your computer. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Addison stares at me for a few seconds as my words roll through her. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am like my mother. As you said, though, I’d rather be my mother than your father.”
She closes her laptop and shoves it into the balled-up laptop bag. The blue and tan crocheted pattern I remember from that very first night together. The one I made fun of.
I’m still furious. Still absolutely pissed that she could think that I’m anything like my father. All I’ve done for as long as I can remember is treat everyone as well as I can without hurting Loughton House.
But I know this is wrong. I know she shouldn’t be packing her things or leaving. We’re right together. We make sense even when the world is pure fucking chaos.
“Stop,” I mutter. It’s hard to make myself think straight, to wade through the emotional shitstorm in my head and make a good decision when I’m still this furious.
For a half-second, she stops. Holding the strap of her laptop bag over her shoulder, she glares at me. Not long enough for me to understand how to fix things or even to calm down. Just long enough that I know she’s not ignoring me.
“Fuck you, Phillip. Fuck you and your company. I don’t need any of it, and you can take this as my official resignation. Maybe I am scared of success. Maybe I’m afraid of a lot of things, but I can cross one of them off my list. I’m not afraid of you. I hope you live a long, long life, Phillip. I hope Loughton House never fails so that you never get to be anything other than the machine your father made you into.”
