The Muse Page 18

  “Looking over an editor’s notes on my draft.”

  “Oh good. I was hoping for some entertainment this afternoon. Last night was dreadfully dull.”

  I don’t want to laugh. I really don’t.

  But I can’t help it.

  James watches my losing battle with a smile. “You know, life is so much easier when we obey instinct. It doesn’t make you popular, of course, but it does make you free.”

  “The signature argument of a man who wants to fuck multiple women at the same time.”

  His brows skyrocket. “Don’t hold back, love.”

  The word makes me flinch internally; I know it’s a colloquialism and doesn’t mean what it implies. But damnit if it doesn’t sting.

  I give him a pointed look. “Just so we’re clear, we’re not going down that road again. But for the purpose of educating you, if we were going there, there’s not a chance in hell I’d be okay with you having multiple partners.”

  He sucks his lower lip between his teeth, gaze darting between my eyes. Sunlight from the window behind us highlights the varying shades in his dark hair. A little grey is coming through at his temples, which naturally only adds to his appeal.

  “Okay.”

  I frown. “Okay? Okay, what?”

  “For the purpose of educating you, when we do go down that road again, there’s not a chance in hell I’ll want anyone but you.”

  My body goes taut and electric.

  James smiles knowingly. “Guess I haven’t lost my touch.”

  I glare, ignoring my warm face. “Don’t say things like that just to prove a point. It’s petty.”

  His smile vanishes and he nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Who are you?” I blurt.

  He winks and snatches the laptop off my lap. “Right now, I’m your highly respected peer who’s about to tell you whether or not your editor is full of shit.”

  Slipping a pair of reading glasses from his shirt-pocket onto his nose, he opens the computer. The email is already up and he wastes no time reading it.

  Three hours later, we head to a café for dinner so we can continue our conversation. After, by some unspoken agreement we wind up in a nearby tearoom. We’re the last customers, staying until we’re booted out at eleven. Still talking, we take a long, meandering route to my house.

  It’s nearing midnight when he escorts me to my front porch and says goodnight. I wait for a kiss that doesn’t come. He doesn’t even hug me—hasn’t touched me once in the last six-plus hours.

  I know he feels it. The same chemistry we’ve always had. The excruciating sexual tension. The singular language our mind’s share.

  I also know he’s doing it on purpose. Toying with me, seeing how far he can push until I break.

  He’s playing me like chess.

  I’m going to lose.

  31. paradox

  “I have something I need to confess to you.”

  I laugh at Claire’s grave, worried tone. “Claire-bear, whatever it is, just tell me. Did you steal my favorite scarf when you left? I can’t seem to find it—”

  “I sent your letters to Beckett.”

  My hand abruptly stops chopping lettuce, and the knife releases from my nerveless fingers. It clanks onto the counter, spins toward the edge, teeters, then cartwheels toward my feet. Even facing potential amputation, I can’t move—at this moment, if I lost a toe I doubt I’d even feel it.

  Luckily, the knife embeds itself in the wood an inch from my ankle. I take a breath and release it slowly.

  “I’m sorry, I just stepped into a parallel universe where my best friend told me she sent those letters.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “It was a mistake. A moment’s insanity. I just started thinking about you and Beckett, and how you guys never really had a chance three years ago—”

  “Holy hell, Claire McHenry!” I holler. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea what those letters say?”

  “I read a few,” she says meekly.

  Feeling dizzy, I stumble to my kitchen table and sink into a chair. There isn’t a word for what’s going on inside me right now. It’s a toxic combination of terror, shock, foreboding, humiliation, violation…

  “I sent them four days ago to his office on campus,” she says miserably. “Maybe you can intercept them?”

  My mind races. “In a box?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a tracking number?”

  “Um, I think so? Hold on, let me look.”

  I listen to her rummaging through papers, my anxiety spiking higher with every second. “I’m really mad at you, Claire. I don’t—I can’t even imagine what possessed you.”

  “I know,” she moans. “If you never want to talk to me again, I’ll understand. I’m so sorry!”

  I sigh. “I know you are. Just find that fucking receipt.”

  “I got it! Yes!”

  I grab a nearby pad of paper and pen. She recites the ridiculously long code, then I say it back to confirm.

  “Iris, I—”

  “I know you meant well,” I interject, “but let me try to avert this disaster before we talk through it, okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispers.

  I hang up. Every nerve in my body but one wants to throw the phone across the room, but my last nerve is the sane one. It reminds me that my laptop is in the bedroom, and I can use my phone to quickly look up the tracking info on the Box of Doom.

  Fingers shaking, I manage to find the appropriate website and plug in the code. As the page loads, my feet pound a staccato rhythm on the floor.

  Then I see them.

  Two little words.

  Delivered today.

  I’m halfway to my car before I realize I’m not wearing shoes. Hissing in frustration, I rush back inside and grab the closet pair that will do—my slippers—then I’m out the door again and jumping into my car.

  I hit every red light between my house and the university, because apparently the powers that be still have it in for me. The sick bastards.

  Once on campus, I swerve into the lot closest to the English Department. It’s the middle of the afternoon and naturally there are no spots. So I do what any well-adjusted grown woman in this situation would do—park illegally in the slanted white lines at the end of a row. If campus security tows my car, Claire will be paying to get it out of impound.

  My brother’s oversized sweatshirt billows around me as I sprint toward the building. Panic supersedes any pain in my knee. I would run a fucking marathon right now if it meant I got those letters back before James opens them.

  Bursting through the doors of the Department, I rush toward the back and into the corridor lined with faculty offices. For the first time today, luck is on my side—there’s no one around to notice my frantic flight.

  Skidding to a stop outside James’ office, I yank open the top of his rectangular mail slot.

  It’s empty.

  I wiggle the door’s handle.

  Locked.

  My fist pounds the door before I slump against it and slide to the ground. Dropping my head to my knees, I gulp air in effort to calm my thundering heart.

  Between breaths, I chant, “No, no, no.”

  A deadbolt clicks above me, the only warning before the door swings inward. At the sudden loss of support, I roll backward and sprawl across the threshold.

  An upside-down James grins at me.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  For the past forty-five minutes, I’ve been sitting on the couch in James’ office as he continues reading my letters. He’s mostly silent, though every once in a while he’ll snort or sigh.

  I must be on an angelic hit-list.

  When he’s about halfway through the stack, he stops, folding the current letter carefully and placing it back in its envelope. His chair creaks as he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest.

  The only scenario I can think of that might be as mortifying as this one i
s a high school nemesis reading your diary aloud to the entire class.

  “Have you done any dancing since the accident?” he asks softly.

  Nope, I decide. This is worse. Like having a thousand paper cuts in front of the one person in the world with salt and a vendetta.

  “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You do know that most of what I’ve read, I already knew?”

  “It’s different,” I grumble. “Totally different.”

  “What’s so terrible about me reading them, Iris? Obviously you didn’t write them yesterday.” He pauses. “Has it occurred to you that this might be extremely meaningful for me? That reading how you felt about me then would provide some much-needed closure?”

  I don’t want closure, my heart whispers.

  “No, I hadn’t. But it still feels violating.”

  “Why? Because you think I’m going to use your private thoughts against you?”

  I drag hands through my hair, knotting my fingers on top of my head. My gaze pings everywhere in the room but his face.

  “No. Yes. Maybe. Not really.”

  He chuckles. “Rest easy, pet. I’ll never use your love of 80s action flicks against you.”

  My lips twitch, my shoulders relaxing a fraction. He’s right—much of what I wrote to him I later confessed in person. The other words, those about my feelings for him, are only scary because they’re still true.

  And I have no idea what to do about it.

  James pushes back his chair and stands. “Come on, we’re going on a field trip.”

  My eyes snap to his mischievous smile. “What? Where?”

  He walks to the couch and extends his hand. “Up. I have a hankering for a chili-cheese dog with extra sauerkraut.”

  Laughter bubbles out of me. I take his hand and he draws me to my feet. “Derrick loved sauerkraut, not me. And I thought you said you wouldn’t use any of this stuff against me.”

  “I’m not using it against you so much as I’m using it for me.”

  I frown. “What does that mean?”

  He merely shakes his head, a private smile on his lips. Giving my fingers a final squeeze, he releases me and opens the office door.

  “After you.”

  Frowning at the floor, I walk into the hall and wait as he locks up. When he gives the sleeve of my sweatshirt a playful tug, I look up into his clear eyes. What I see in them finally allows me to step outside my fear long enough to hope.

  “James?” I whisper.

  His gaze flickers to my mouth. “Not yet, little muse, but soon.”

  My heart thumps. Praying I’m not misunderstanding him, I echo, “Soon?”

  His smile curls wickedly. “Very soon.”

  And just like that, the past and future collide. No explosions. No smoke or ash. No paper cuts or salt or pain at all.

  We walk down the hall side by side, his stride slower to accommodate my shorter one. And although it maybe doesn’t look perfect, to me it is.

  “Iris Eliot, are you wearing slippers?”

  32. parody

  After our impromptu meal of chili-cheese hotdogs—which we discovered are surprisingly hard to find—I don’t hear from James for two weeks. He’d told me he was going out of town, first to England to visit with his sister’s family, then to New York to meet with his publisher.

  I didn’t really expect him to call every day or anything, but I’d hoped for something. An email, an occasional text… anything to keep at bay my rising uncertainty.

  Some days, I want him so badly that I spend an embarrassing amount of time daydreaming about a life with him. Waking up every day to his face. Reading in a living room with Rufus on the couch between us. Cooking and eating together. Brushing our teeth side by side.

  Other days, dark questions cloud my mind. Why hasn’t he called? Is he still seeing Jessica? Does he sleep with women besides her? Does he actually want a relationship, or is he stringing me along for the purpose of breaking my heart like I broke his?

  For the most part I keep busy, filling my time with a second round of edits on my novel, taking a two-day trip to visit my mom, and seeing Allison a few times a week. Since Rose’s marriage to Julian, the lead singer of Breaking Giants, and her subsequent pregnancy, we’re kind of in the same boat of absentee best friends.

  Not that either of us blame our friends or think they abandoned us. Quite the opposite, in fact. If it weren’t for Rose and Claire making big changes in their lives, Allison and I probably wouldn’t be developing such a deep, solid friendship.

  On the Friday before James is due back in town, Allison sits on my couch flipping through television channels while I paint my toenails blue. We have a raucous evening planned—pizza delivery and a Nicolas Sparks movie marathon.

  When Allison finally gives up on finding a channel with substance, she clicks over to the nightly news. I listen with half an ear to the depressing montage of tragedy and political commentary. Then I hear a name so unexpected that my fingers spasm and I paint a line of blue over the top of my foot.

  “Turn that up,” I tell Allison.

  She does.

  “Well-known New York defense attorney William Cabot has been the subject of a scathing, anonymous article in the New Yorker accusing him of raping sixteen-year-old Iris Eliot, daughter of poet Richard Eliot.

  In her memoir, A Poet’s Daughter, Eliot details the assault, and though Cabot is never mentioned by name, our sources confirm that the two did date briefly just prior to the incident.”

  The other newscaster asks, “If he did assault her, do we know why she never pressed charges, Monica?”

  “Our best guess, Paul, is that allegedly the only witness to the rape was Iris’ older brother, Derrick Eliot, who died tragically that same night. The writer also mentions that due to drugging and trauma, she didn’t have memories of the assault until more than a decade later.”

  Paul gives the camera a solemn look before turning back to Monica. “What does this mean for William Cabot?”

  “Considered by his colleagues to be ruthless and driven, our sources tell us that Cabot was close to making partner at his firm. And while his firm refused to comment and Cabot himself isn’t speaking with the media as yet, a PR nightmare like this one may certainly result in a parting of ways—

  “Turn it off,” I croak.

  A second later, the screen goes black. Allison turns wide, anxious eyes to me. “It was him, wasn’t it? William Cabot?”

  I nod shortly.

  “Who do you think wrote the article?” She pauses. “And do I need to kiss them or kill them?”

  I ignore the question—the answer is too fucking painful—and lurch off the couch, racing to the kitchen for my phone. There are three missed calls: my mom, Claire, and Rachel Tanaka. I ignore two in favor of the person I was going to call anyway.

  Rachel answers on the first ring. For once, her voice is close to a normal octave. “I’ve already talked to the publisher. A statement has been drafted denying your involvement in that fiasco of an article. It will roll on the morning news.”

  The words register, but I don’t feel the relief I’d expected to. Instead, I feel a tornado of conviction take shape inside me. It spins upward, swallowing my feet, legs, torso, and finally my head.

  Something inside me… shifts.

  “No.”

  Rachel hesitates. “What? Did you just say no?”

  “Yes, I said no. I don’t want to deny anything. It was him, Rachel.”

  I hear her swiftly drawn breath. “Oh God, Iris. I’m so sorry. Fuck that piece of shit, then. Let me think about this.” She mutters inaudibly for a few moments. “At worst, your publisher doesn’t want to back you anymore. We should be prepared to fight a breach of contract lawsuit—bullshit about moral clauses and the like. I’ll review it immediately. Are you thinking you want to make a statement in support of the article?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  “That’s okay. We’ll cross that
bridge when we come to it. Right now, your silence is going to speak louder than words, anyway.”

  “I haven’t, um—that is, did you happen to hear on the news, or know, whether Will has a family? Kids?”

  “He’s divorced. No kids.”

  Relief comes in a sweet wave. “Okay, thanks.”

  “Iris? Keep your chin up. And if you happen to know who wrote that article, don’t tell me. But you should also give them a big kiss and a hug from me.”

  Chin up, buttercup.

  I laugh weakly. “Thanks. Touch-base tomorrow?”

  “You got it.”

  The line goes dead. I slump into a chair and stare listlessly at the dying herb garden on my kitchen windowsill. Allison’s footsteps come up behind me.

  “Why did I think I could grow herbs in winter?” I ask aimlessly.

  She sits in the chair next to me. “I found the article online. Do you want to read it?”

  I shake my head.

  Two days later, I’m sitting in my mom’s kitchen in Palo Alto. Her eyes are full of tears as she looks across the table at me.

  “You what?”

  “I asked him, baby. Two months ago, I found his card in a junk drawer from when he’d given it to me three years ago. I figured it was a sign that I needed to call and give him overdue thanks for the lovely book on your father. One thing led to another, and we started talking about you.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Tell me exactly what you said.”

  She drags in a heavy breath. “I told him that my one regret was that that despicable man would never be brought to justice through a trial.”

  “And what did he say?”

  She gives me a watery smile. “He told me that words were weapons, too. So I said that if he ever came across a way to make such a weapon, I’d be grateful if he used it.”

  I close my eyes and sigh wearily, the insanity of the past two days finally catching up. I flew on a whim to California to escape, and inadvertently landed in another, no less mind-boggling cesspit of revelation.

  I still haven’t talked to James. I don’t know if he’s back in Seattle or still traveling. He hasn’t called. I haven’t, either.