Page 85 of Lovetown, USA
I don’t wanna go back there. Just the thought of it makes me want to burst into tears. But I tell him, sparing no detail, trying not to break down. In my mind’s eye, I can still see it happening like it was ten minutes ago.
The newsroom hums with the usual chaos as keyboards clatter, phones ring, and someone curses at the Keurig. Nobody notices me, and that’s exactly what I want.
On my screen sits the safe version of my article. It’s polished to a shine, so much so, my editor signed off immediately with a thumbs-up and a smile. It’s the article that tells the story of a “rising entrepreneur with a bright future.” A man as admired in his community as he is in the tech world. Reginald Savoy.
But there’s another article.
It’s minimized in the corner of my desktop. It’s the real one. The one with the truth, or the truth as I choose to tell it. Every words is an arrow aimed straight for Reginald’s heart. It’s exactly what he deserves for leaving me standing at the altar in a white dress, surrounded by flowers and pitying eyes while he vanished into thin air.
Okay, that’s dramatic. We never got to the altar. In reality, he called it off the night before, which is almost just as bad.
“Five minutes until upload,” the copy chief calls. He doesn’t look at me. Nobody ever looks at anybody when the deadline clock is ticking.
I click.
The approved draft disappears. My version slides into place. The cursor hovers over the “replace file” button, and my pulse booms so hard in my ears, it almost drowns out the newsroom chatter.
Replace file?
Don’t mind if I do.
The upload bar inches forward like it knows the weight of what I’m doing. Ten percent. Thirty. Fifty. I’m halfway there. I wipe my slick palms on my thighs, my leg jittering under the desk.
“Two minutes!” someone yells.
I lean back in my chair and force my face into a neutral expression. Inside, I’m shaking. My dress was returned, the vows never spoken, but Reginald is gonna hear me loud and clear with this.
There. Upload complete.
The big screens refresh, and there it is: his smiling photo under a glowing headline. On the surface, it looks like the puff piece I pitched. It’s what everyone expects. But tucked inside, past the opening paragraph, are my words. They’re merciless, exposing every skeleton he thought he buried.
Across the room, the copy chief frowns at his phone. “Wait…is this…what the fuck?”
Then all hell breaks loose.
28
Lane
When I finish talking,Trey is silent, his face etched with something I don’t recognize.
But I recognize the sting I feel inside. All the words that just came out of my mouth scraped me raw.
I pull out my flask and take a long sip, then sink back into the seat. Trey doesn’t scold me this time. He doesn’t sigh or shake his head. He doesn’t even look disappointed. He just reaches over and strokes my hair.
“Is he the reason you’re so…jaded about relationships?” he asks softly.
“He’s a big part of it,” I say. “There’s also my parents.”
“What’s up with them?”
“How much time you got?”
He chuckles. “For you, I have all the time in the world.”
“I thought you had an early day tomorrow.”
“I do.” He cups my cheek. “Like I said…for you, I have time.”
