Page 69 of Leave Before I Love You
January 16th
Henry
The office hums with energy as I step through the glass doors of Adrenaline Junkie four days after getting home, my face still bearded and my stride undeniably different.
The open floor plan is alive with chatter, phones are ringing, and the occasional burst of laughter from one of the creative teams reminds me of what a fun environment I’ve managed to build with my own blood, sweat, and tears. It’s good to be back. Truly.
But I’d be lying if I said my whole point of view isn’t directed through an entirely different lens. Prior to all this shit, I saw Adrenaline Junkie as a freedom-seeking, good-time-having company. We were about the thrill and the chase, but I know now, with renewed energy and a new vision, we could be so much more.
A tool for survival. A center for learning and preparedness. A partner in both good and bad and for every situation in between.
On my way in, I had to bypass a small army of journalists and paparazzi camped outside the building, waiting for my arrival. In reality, they’re a large part of why I’m still sporting the beard. It’s a camouflage or a shield of sorts, and a comfort when I start to think I’m emotionally overreacting to what we went through. That didn’t stop their cameras, though. They flashed like fireworks, questions being shouted at me from every angle.
“Henry, can you tell us about the island?”
“What was it like surviving for thirteen days?”
“Did you think you were going to die?”
I’m hoping all the fanfare will end soon, but I’m not naïve enough to think it’ll be instantaneous. The headline is too good, the sensationalism too powerful.
By the time I make it to my office in the back corner of the building, I’ve been stopped and flagged by every employee, slapped on the shoulder at least twenty times, and pulled into a hug by at least five people I wasn’t expecting. It’s overwhelming, if touching, and when I close the glass door, my skin itches with discomfort.
It’s not the attention in general I don’t like—but the attention and scrutiny on this particular set of life-changing weeks with a woman I’m now dating without anyone knowing that I could do without. The glass walls of my office don’t offer much privacy, but at least I can shut the door and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a little while.
Unfortunately for me, Cara, my assistant, is already hot on my heels, striding into my office behind me with a stack of folders in one hand and her tablet in the other.
“Good morning, boss,” she says, stopping at the edge of my desk. When her eyes meet mine, I note how her mouth is slightly turned down at the corners. “I heard from Mario’s family. They’re going to be doing a memorial for him on Sunday.”
Instantly, my chest tightens with a poignant combination of sadness, grief, and guilt. It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that Avery and I survived but Mario didn’t. “Do you think I can attend? Pay my respects?”
“I know for a fact they would like that.” She nods. “One of his sisters already sent me the information. Address is only about thirty minutes from downtown Miami. Just on the outskirts of Fort Lauderdale.”
I didn’t know Mario well, but from what Cara has been able to find out for me since Avery and I got rescued, he was a single guyin his early sixties with two sisters who loved him dearly and several nieces and nephews who adored him. I know the Coast Guard is still technically trying to find our plane and Mario’s remains, but the odds of their being able to achieve that are slim at best.
Which, I can’t imagine, is an easy thing for his family to face.
“Find out if there’s anything I can do to help his family,” I tell Cara and she’s already making a note on her iPad.
“On it.” And while she’s still tapping her fingers across the screen of her tablet, she drops the stack of folders in her other hand onto my desk. I swear, she must have an extra arm somewhere. Either that or she’s a goddamn wonder of the world how she can multitask a million things at once. “By the way, you have three meetings this afternoon. One with the production team about the new commercial, one with the finance department about quarterly projections, and one with—” she glances at her tablet “—some new investors. Oh, and by the way, several journalists are still requesting interviews about ‘the island survivors.’”
“Defer all the interviews,” I say, already done with these fucking journalists. I’m not telling them jack shit about what happened on that island with Avery. “Tell them I’m busy.”
Cara’s eyes narrow, and she plants a hand on her hip. “You’re always busy.”
“Yes. I am. So, maybe just keep that in mind for future meeting and interview requests,” I reply with a grin.
She huffs. “And here I thought you’d be a changed man after surviving off coconuts for thirteen days.”
“Technically, it was breadfruit.” I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “And sorry to disappoint, Cara, but I’m still me. Though, I’ll be at all my meetings today. Promise.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes but heads for the door. “But I’ve got my eyes on you. If you try to go MIA for any of those meetings, I’ll come in here and drag you out myself.”
“Noted,” I call after her.
Most people might be annoyed with how bossy Cara is, butI know better. She’s been with me for over three years, and I’d be lost without her. As the door clicks shut behind her, I make a mental note to talk to HR about giving her another raise and scribble down a few notes I want to make sure to bring up to the team about expanding our potential to include more than a regular adrenaline fix.
I turn to my computer, but instead of diving into the flagged emails Cara left for me, I open my phone and pull up a popular celebrity gossip site. Sure enough, my face is plastered all over the fucking home page. A photo of me walking into the office this morning, looking pissed off and ignoring the cameras.
