Page 5 of All Too Well
I wasn’t planning to go back to NYU for another three days. My parents asked me to stay and attend a ceremony for the Admiral, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m staying in this town another minute. My father will have to forgive me.
“That never should’ve . . .”
I lift my hand. “Please give Rose a hug and tell her I said goodbye.”
I turn to leave, knowing those tears aren’t going to stay away for another second.
As soon as I open the door, he calls my name.
I don’t turn. I can’t. Already my vision is blurry, and I won’t let him see me that way.
He speaks to my back this time. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When I’m sober.”
There won’t be a chance to do that, because I won’t be here. I kissed him, he rejected me, and now I can never go back to the way things were.
“Goodbye, Lachlan.”
Then I close the door and leave my heart in the garden with the boy who it has always belonged to.
two
Ainsley
~Present~
“Does anyone else have any stories they’d like to pitch?” my boss, Mr. Krispen, asks.
I’ve learned if I’m the first one, I’m always shot down, so I bide my time, waiting for the sacrificial lamb to go forth.
I wait.
I wait some more.
I glance around, waiting to see if any of my coworkers are going to say anything, but they don’t.
It’s like a game of chicken. They’re waiting for me, and I’m going to wait them out.
“No one here has a single idea?” he asks again, his eyes finding mine. “I find that hard to believe.”
Of course he does, because Mr. Krispen knows me. I mean, he knows I’m a little eager beaver who just wants to do well. However, for the last six months I’ve been relegated to writing absolutely horrible pieces.
Well, horrible to a girl who is ready to tackle the world.
First, I was assigned a story about whether white really is afaux pas after Labor Day. Spoiler alert, it’s not. Then I got to write a piece about the proper steps for skin care in your early thirties. Which might sound great, but I’m twenty-six. Last month I wrote about hats. Yes, hats.
Therefore, this time, I’m going to keep my big mouth shut and wait for the perfect opening.
I give him a tight-lipped smile, hoping he’ll move on to Tori, his golden child reporter who does not have to write the crap I do.
The difference between Tori and me is that I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut and she does.
It might also be that Tori has been here for five years and has contacts at the Pentagon, but ... we’ll go with option one.
He continues to surf the room and then lands back on me. Shit.
Stay quiet. Stay quiet. Stay . . . quiet . . .
“I have two ideas,” I say before I’m able to stop myself.
