I do not own Grey's Anatomy… crap!
This is my first AU. Well, 2nd as I'm part of the Binge – Collective Challenge, but this is my 1st attempt at a multichapter AU. Be gentle.
Once In A Lifetime
Chapter 1: Work It Out
One, two, three, four. Left. Left. Left, right, left.
I count off the cadence in my head as I make my way down 14th street on my way back home from my morning run. Beyoncé's Get Me Bodied, blaring in my Beats by Dre earbuds, I can feel my ponytail swish back and forth on the exposed skin of my back. It seems as if I hadn't been able to get out into clean, fresh air in months and running on my treadmill in a stuffy apartment with the window thrown open just wasn't cutting it.
It's April, and the weather has finally broken after what seemed like the longest winter on record. Countless days of snow up to my knees and freezing temperatures accounted for a gloomy season and I for one was over it. So, when the weatherwoman on channel 4 said it was going to be a balmy sixty-four degrees today, I didn't hesitate to throw on my sneakers, grab my windbreaker and rush out the door.
I missed these little treks through my neighborhood. I live in the Gramercy Park section of Manhattan, a historic district named so in the 1960's. It's a quiet corner of the city, bordered by Union Square on the south, the Flat Iron District to the west, 23rd street to the north, and close by where the East Village and Soho. There are tree-lined streets with quaint brownstones, town houses and my residence happens to face the infamous Gramercy Park itself. The park is a privately-owned enclave and is off-limits to anyone who isn't a resident of the thirty-nine buildings facing it, and I happen to be one of the lucky ones who has a key.
I found this little slice of heaven my first week in New York, fresh out of college. At the time, I could hardly dream of ever living in such a posh area, but I put it on my wish list of places I eventually hoped to reside. I'd graduated from the University of Virginia in Charlottesville with enough money for a bus ride to New York and six months' rent for a barely habitable Brooklyn studio apartment in Williamsburg. Those five years that took me from humble beginnings to where I am now have been a whirlwind, but I am thankful for every experience I've had, both good and bad that has led me here.
Making my way onto my street, I slow my myself into a light jog and then make a full stop in front of Pushcart Coffee. Hands on my waist, I let out several slow, deep lungsful of air in order to control my breathing and calm my pounding heartbeat. I frequent this establishment practically every morning and typically on my way to work, order a large European roast, two Sweet'N Low's, with a splash of cream. Today, I get a large black coffee, no sugar, no cream, and wait patiently as they grind the beans to order, a big smile on my face. The café itself is neighborhood friendly, with a eupeptic ambiance, a space for kids and genial staff. I think what I appreciate most is their business motto. They are committed to using local vendors such as small bakers and regional farms for their products and are extremely supportive of the community surrounding them.
Hands clasped together behind my back, I bend forward at the waist to ogle their signature chocolate chunk cookies and various pastries through the glass display. I can feel the drool pool in my mouth and my stomach grumble, but I steady my resolve, straighten my body, and focus on the passing foot traffic out the window. It's just after seven and the city is alive and bustling, ready for the start of a busy week. I see people rushing to the subway station most likely praying that the trains are on time. Kids dressed in uniforms, holding their parent's hands as they are walked to school. As I daydream about one day taking the same journey with my own children, I hear my name called and pay for my purchase along with a copy of the Daily News before leaving.
Approaching my brownstone, I wave to Arizona, the occupant of the dwelling next to mine who is walking her dog Milo. She and her wife Callie are corporate lawyers at one of the top firms in the city and own the entire building next to mine. They're parents to eight-year-old Sophia and three-year-old Maximillian and are some of the sweetest people I've ever known. They were the second people to welcome me to the block, outside of my property owners the Webber's, and invited me into their home for brunch the Sunday after I'd settled in. Every so often, I babysit for them when they're in a bind, even though Sophia and Maximillian have a nanny, but sometimes emergencies come up and if I'm available, I'm only to happy to help them out. They've been nothing but kind to me over the years, keeping an eye on me from time to time as I have no family in the city. I guess they feel responsible for the wide-eyed girl from the small Ohio town, regardless of the fact I've lived in Virginia for four years during my formal education and five years in New York.
Before I make my way inside to my living space, I pull in the garbage can from the street for my landlords. I always try to do nice things for them; they're a wonderful couple. Two years ago, they went against their stringent requirements held for candidates who wanted to rent from them and gave me a chance. When I'd applied, I did have a stable income, excellent credit, and no criminal history. The worse offense I had on record being a ticket I got when I was twenty-five for going fifteen miles over the speed limit on the Long Island Expressway. The one thing I didn't have was a reference from three well known and established members of the community. They wanted ones who could attest to my character, my financial responsibility and current job performance. The last one was simple as my boss adored me and didn't hesitate to offer her praise. At the time, I just didn't know anybody besides her with enough social influence to aid me in my quest. At the end of my meeting with the Webber's, I tried to explain the reason I only had the one reference, but they kindly waived the prerequisite for the other two because they liked my face. They said it was warm, open, and trusting and they couldn't imagine a better tenant if they'd created one themselves.
I climb the front steps and unlock the outer door, ringing the bell for apartment 3A before I go in. Taking the stairs three at a time; gotta work those calve muscles when I can, I open the door to my unit and leave it slightly ajar, tossing my newspaper onto the pine dining room table ten feet inside the entrance. I place the cup of coffee next to it and continue into the kitchen to prep my breakfast. After seeing those delicious looking baked goods, I'm craving something sweet and forgo my usual bran muffin and opt for a Quakers Medleys Blueberry Hazelnut Oatmeal cup. It's portable and I can eat it on my way to work as I have no time to sit and make a decent meal. Putting the kettle on the stove so I can brew myself a cup of oolong tea before I leave, not three minutes after I'd arrived, the door crashes open and my upstairs neighbor, best friend and mooch, Cristina comes marching in.
"What up, bitch?" she says as she snatches up the coffee I brought for her.
I normally bought two every morning; one for her and one for me, but I'm trying to cure myself of my caffeine addiction and for the last two weeks have been sticking to tea.
"Good morning, Cristina. Isn't it a lovely day?" I ask in my typical bubbly manner only because I know it gets on her nerves.
"Ugh, why do you always have to be so damn chipper in the morning. It's disgusting. You're a New Yorker now. Bust out those curse words," she orders and as usual, I ignore her.
"I'm not a prude, you of all people should know that. I just choose to say them when necessary and using them as part of a greeting is not what I'd consider proper vocabulary.
"Whatever," she mutters with a mouth full of toast of which where she obtained, I do not know.
Cristina had a habit of eating all my groceries because she refused to cook and barely bought enough food to sustain herself. I looked in her refrigerator once and all it held was a bottle of wine, a jar of spicy mustard and a plastic container that held what appeared to be a salad, but the lettuce was so brown and wilted that I couldn't be sure what it was I saw.
I watch as she throws her socked feet up on the table and open the newspaper to the sports page. Cristina is a huge Yankees fan and it's the first section she always reads. I don't bother to tell her to take her feet down because she won't listen. I love her dearly, but her personality has taken some effort for me to get used to, but I couldn't ask for a better friend in the world.
Cristina and I met the week I moved in. I was carrying a box of kitchenware upstairs while she was heading down with her Diamondback Wildwood Classic bike under one arm. We bumped shoulders as we passed, and I was about to apologize when she called me an asshole and kept going. Her behavior didn't surprise me as I'd been living in New York for years and over time had become immune to the sometimes rude and hostile temperament of its population.
That had been the bulk of our interaction for weeks. Bypassing each other on the stairs, converging at our mailboxes and occasionally seeing one another on the street. Each time I would try to engage her only to be met with an eyeroll. By that point, I figured we would never be civil and I had no idea why. Cristiana didn't know me and vice versa, and I'd never done anything to make her hate me. Besides, I didn't have the energy to try and figure out what her deal was. I was to busy settling into my new job to worry about what she even thought of me.
That was until about four weeks after our initial encounter when I heard a loud commotion coming from the hallway. Our building was always quiet, it's tenants respectful of each other's privacy, so the noise threw me for a loop. There were six apartments in the three-story walkup, not including the ground floor space occupied by the Webber's and Cristina lived directly above mine. I'm not a nosy person by nature, but something about the disturbance bothered me. I grabbed my trusty MultiGuard stun gun, put on my fuzzy slippers; I know, scary right, and peeked out the doorway. I couldn't see anything from my vantage, so I craned my head out further. All I could hear was yelling of a man's voice I didn't recognize and one I did identify as Cristina's. I couldn't get the gist of their heated conversation, but I did catch the words liar and cheater and it didn't take a genius to figure out what the argument was about. By then, I heard Cristina shout, "get out, get out", and my big sister instincts took over.
I'm the second oldest child of four sisters and very protective of my younger siblings. We were very a tightknit group growing up and had our share of confrontations with the male species. The Kepner sisters were the fiery haired sirens in town an individually we were four of the most diverse women you'd ever meet.
Libby the oldest, was the mama bear. Watching over her cubs, protecting them from all who wanted to do them harm. She was energetic, assertive, clever and the most social of us all. Third in line was Kimmie. She was adventurous, curious, emotional, and prone to unusual ideas. The baby, Alice, was compassionate, cooperative, and rather aggregable. As for me, I'm the studious one, organized, dependable and though not shy, the most reserved of us all. We had our share of squabbles amongst ourselves, what siblings didn't? But, we were of the motto that 'blood is thicker than water' and did not tolerate anyone talking about, messing with, or harming our sisters in any way, shape, or form. So, even though Cristina had been a total bitch to me for weeks, I couldn't disregard that protective urge that rose up within me.
Taking the steps two at a time, I froze at the scene in front of me. There was Cristina trying desperately to close her door as the man in question had his foot wedged in between, pushing at it with all his might. I was horrified. I was sure she knew who he was due to the previous accusations she'd thrown at him, but that didn't excuse the fact that he was forcibly trying to enter her place.
I don't know what came over me, but I shouted for him to stop what he was doing, or I'd shock him until his balls shriveled up to a crisp permanently ending his chances of becoming a father, even though I had no idea if he had children already or not. My presence startled him as he quickly looked from me to Cristina. A forlorn expression overtook his features and I was sure it was shame as he backed away, lowered his head, and swiftly left.
Cristina and I had stared at each other until we heard the front door close behind him and I wasn't sure what to do at that moment. Lend her a comforting ear or offer to call the police. I didn't know the extent of their relationship and frankly, it wasn't any of my business. All I knew was that someone was in need and I would have come to the aid of any female in trouble if I could. I was about to go back downstairs when Cristina turned, leaving her door wide open which I took as an invitation to enter.
Her apartment was the total opposite of mine though our layouts were the same. A one-bedroom spacious apartment, with a main area that combined the dining room, living room and office space, with a moderate sized kitchen and bathroom, but that was where the similarities ended. Where my apartment was more English Cottage with pine wood and painted furniture, weathered finishes, florals, and stripes mixed with solid fabrics, and walls painted in ivories, pale shades of green, dusty pinks and sunflower yellows, her was the total opposite. She had a contemporary décor, sleek and streamlined, teak wood and glass, the main color theme white, with bold accents of red, silvers and blacks. We couldn't be more different if we tried. So, when I followed her inside, I didn't know what to expect. What I got was insight into a person who like me was not what people perceived on the outside.
Cristina Yang was the only child of Helen and Saul Rubenstein. Her mother had remarried after her father, Lael died in a car crash they were involved in when she was five. Saul was a real estate developer and kept her mother in a very comfortable lifestyle. She grew up on Park Avenue, went to the best private schools and attended Princeton University. She had a master's degree in chemical engineering and worked in pharmaceuticals, designing new drugs and their production facilities.
Unspeaking, she had handed me a beer from the fridge and I sat across from her on the sofa. As we sat sipping in silence, I wondered if she was going to talk to me when suddenly it all came pouring out. The guy that I had scared off was her now ex-boyfriend Owen Hunt. She had met him at a pharmaceutical conference in San Diego last year and they had hit it off immediately. She was pleased to learn that he'd lived in the city as well and began a torrid romance with him. For a year, he had spent evenings with her, but his mornings with someone else apparently. It was all by chance that she found out he was married and had four kids. She'd bumped into him and the misses in Brooklyn when she was visiting a friend in Park Slope. As soon as she saw them together, she knew. It explained why he claimed he couldn't sleep over at night because he liked to get to work early in the mornings. Why they never took trips together because he always claimed to have a big project coming up and couldn't get away. Why he didn't introduce her to his coworkers, claiming they were a bunch of pompous jerks and didn't want to expose the woman he loved to a bunch of arrogant assholes. She kept her cool while he introduced his wife and was unfazed when he came by to assure her that it was a marriage of convenience and he was only staying for the kids. That's when the yelling began, and I came to her rescue.
From that day on, we'd become extremely close. Going for runs on the weekends or grabbing a bite after work at Pete's Tavern, a famous neighborhood establishment and New York's oldest continuously operating bar having opened in 1864. We'd often share a cab to work and gab along the way about everything under the sun. To me, Cristina was like a prickly pear. Hard and thorny on the outside, but soft and sweet on the inside. To the rest of the world, she was a brilliant yet stern taskmaster, who excelled in her field from sheer force alone.
Walking into my bedroom, I untied my windbreaker which had ended up wrapped around my waist halfway through my run and peeled off my sweaty workout clothes. I had about an hour and a half before I had to leave for the office and I still needed to shower, wash, then dry my hair before getting my tea and oatmeal to go. I had no clue what Cristina was doing to entertain herself, but I needed to get a move on before I was late. There was a staff meeting scheduled at ten and before that, I had to get the latest copy of my article to my editor for review.
I work as a writer for Sasse magazine, an international women's publication which featured articles pertaining to relationships, sex, health, careers, self-improvement, celebrities, fashion, travel, design, fitness, and beauty. Available in a multitude of countries and languages, we are headquartered in Manhattan. The magazine had been in print for over fifty years, going from literary journal to a family quarterly to its current form, a women's magazine. I started out as a junior copywriter taking the time to learn all that I could about the business and was taken under the wing of the former style editor, now editor-in-chief, Addison Montgomery.
I had been toiling in the copy room for over a year and was close to putting in my resignation when Addison came across some of my writing by accident. My goal was not to write advertising promotional materials for the rest of my life. I was responsible for creating text for advertisements not only for our magazine, but our website, emails, and billboards. I did make a good salary, but this wasn't my dream. I was working late one night, creating copy for next months edition and all the words were becoming a jumble and was turning my brain to mush. I took a break and opened a fantasy column that I had been working on and left it open on my desk when I went to the breakroom for a cup of much needed coffee. When I'd gotten back, Addison was sitting in my chair, reading my story and I panicked. I scrambled to explain to her what it was about when she told be to be quiet. She wanted to know more about me, my education and my background and told me a great deal about herself. We spent hours talking and before I knew it, she was grooming me and two years later, I had my own monthly column and weekly blog on our website.
I was in the middle of rinsing the conditioner from my hair when I heard the bathroom door slam open.
"You know, nobody reads the newspaper anymore. Why do you even buy this thing?" Cristina called out to me from her position in the doorframe.
Cristina had no sense of boundaries and often would walk in on me when I was in bed, in the shower and one time on the toilet.
"Says the woman who devours the sports section before I even get a chance to look at it. Besides, its one of the last vestiges of a bygone era not dominated by computers and technology. The journalist is becoming obsolete as increasingly more people take to the internet on Twitter, Facebook, and all these other social network pages to create their own content. Their information is usually free to the customer and any Tom, Dick or Harry can consider themselves professional writers and people like me feel ourselves getting squeezed out, and it's even worse for women as we are underrepresented" I say, ending with a huff.
"Geez, Steinem, take a chill pill. You make an exorbitant amount of money, live in an exclusive neighborhood, and have one of the most popular features in the world. You are the last person who is about to be squeezed out," she yelled to me over the running water.
I didn't get a chance to reply to her as the door shut behind her just as loudly as when she had entered.
I speed up my actions as I still needed to blow-dry my hair, get dressed, call a taxi and be ready to go by the time it arrived.
Forty minutes later, my hair is curled, and makeup done. I search through my closet and pull out a light and loose shift dress in teal, along with my four-inch, black suede sandals. I give my hair one last toss in the mirror before grabbing my Prada Esplanade tote, placing my laptop inside. When I reach the living room, I see Cristina sitting on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette, one leg folded underneath her, the other with her foot planted flat on the floor.
"Put that out. Those things will kill you," I reprimand her as I make my way to the kitchen.
I turn on the burner and take my travel mug from the cupboard and throw a teabag inside. I ready my oatmeal and open the mytaxi app on my phone and schedule a pickup.
"We're going to be late, Cristina. You're not even dressed," I call out to her.
"I'm giving myself the day off," she says, smugly.
"Oh, you get to do that?" I say, amused.
"They're afraid of me. I do what I want, Red," she bellows.
Cristina has been calling me Red since the day we became friends. I had gone through variety of hues from reddish brown to dark burgundy and was now sporting a shade called red velvet.
I step out where she can see me and roll my eyes at her, "Whatever. You know, they're gonna fire you one day."
"No, they won't. I have dirt on everybody. If I go down, I'm taking everyone of those eggheads with me," she says with pride.
My kettle whistles and I pour the boiling water in my mug and to the lip of the oatmeal cup according to the instructions. I add two sugars to each and am just in time as a horn honks outside alerting me that my ride is here.
"Alright, boo, I gotta go. Lock up for me, will ya?" I ask as I stuff the newspaper in my bag and exit the apartment knowing she'll do it for me regardless.
I hop in the cab and fiddle with my phone on the jaunt over to the offices on Madison Avenue. I check my Twitter feed, Facebook, and Instagram. The same applications I was complaining about earlier. I also see I have a few text messages. One from my mom who always texts me hello in the morning, one from my sister Alice asking for advice about yet another new boyfriend and one from a guy named George who I went out on two dates with.
George and I had been set up by our mutual friend Lexi, who works with me. Lexi and George are members of the same gym and bonded during cycling class. She said he'd asked her out but was dismayed when she told him she was already dating someone, but they did remain cordial and grew closer as the weeks went on. Lexi had told me about him, saying he was cute and nice and thought we'd make an attractive couple. The first date we went to a French bistro and it went well, George was fun and a complete gentleman but something about him just didn't excite me. I figured I'd give him another shot and agreed to a second date. This time I chose, and we went to a sushi restaurant. George for whatever reason, failed to mention that he was allergic to shrimp, and the evening ended in the emergency room. After that, I had to admit that there was no spark and declined an offer from him to try again. But George was persistent, and every so often, he would try his luck to see if I'd changed my mind. As usual, I deleted his message and would send word through Lexi to ask him to please stop texting me. George happened to be just one in a succession of men I've dated. I don't have a boyfriend currently, haven't had a serious one for years and frankly I don't need one.
Twenty minutes later, I pay the cabbie, leaving a healthy tip. He somehow managed to navigate through the thickest part of midtown traffic, getting me to my destination with time to spare. I enter the marble decorated lobby and greet Walt, the security guard and flash him my ID badge. On my way up in the elevator to the fifty-fifth floor, I finish my message to Alice, letting her know I'd call her later this evening. I find myself talking her off the ledge a lot these days. She's in her third year at the University of Pennsylvania and I'm afraid she's losing focus. I remember that period in my life and it being extremely confusing. So close to starting my adultlife, leaving the lack of responsibility and freedom of youth behind and I believe her nerves are getting the best of her.
The bell dings indicating I've reached my floor and I strut out, pull on the large glass double doors and enter my domain. I always try to exude an air of confidence when I walk in. I love my job and feel blessed to have a position which basically fell in my lap. If it wasn't for Addison and her belief in my abilities, I wouldn't be here right now.
I say good morning to Tia, our receptionist. She's bubbly and bright, fresh out of college and looking to make her way in the world. I head toward my office and address the usual faces as I pass by the cubicles where our new temps are already hard at work on their assigned tasks, then walk by a bank of offices where the life style, marketing and sales departments are located and wave to my co-workers.
We take up the entirety of the fifty-fifth floor and my office is on the other side of this enormous space. As soon as I put my purse down, I buzz Sarah, my assistant, to get me an outline for todays staff meeting and ask her to set up an appointment for me with my hairdresser. It's taken me some time to get used to having an assistant but with the increased workload that came with my position, I found it a necessity. I settle in and work on editing my latest article, so I can forward it to Addison for review and approval. I manage to finish with enough time to answer some emails, then gather my materials for our meeting.
In the main conference room, seated at the head of the table is Addison and surrounding her are Reed, Amelia, Teddy, Lexi, Stephanie, and Carina who oversee beauty and fashion, health and fitness, careers and self-improvement, travel, entertainment to include music, movies, and television, then celebrities and the society departments respectively. The room is buzzing with activity as we catch up on all our plans from the weekend. Platters of croissants, fruit and orange juice sit in the middle of the table and I see hands greedily grabbing for the fare. Thankfully, I'm still full of my oatmeal and skip on partaking of the buttery, flaky, tempting treats.
Addison calls the meeting to order and we settle down as she goes through her outline of notes, desires, and expectations for August's edition. We typically strategist and pitch ideas for editions three to six months in advance, so we go around the table and detail our projects.
Reed will be covering the Free Fashion on the Hudson Independent Designers Fashion Week Runway Show in July. Amelia will be attending the Total Health and Fitness Expo in June. Teddy has an interview arranged with Suze Orman, a certified financial planner who has a popular television and radio show. She has several books on the bestseller lists and is one of the ten most famous business women today and it was quite the get. Lexi will be traveling to Bora Bora for her monthly compendium for The Broke Girl's Guide to Traveling on a Budget. She would no doubt be taking her boyfriend Mark along with her as he was practically glued to her hip and outside of work, you rarely saw the two apart. Stephanie will be reporting on the High Sierra Music Festival in Quincy California and Carina had been invited to and would be covering the wedding of the year. In July, Prince Emmanuel of the Kingdom of Norway would be marrying commoner and famous American actress Lillian Banks. As for me, I covered anything related to sex and relationships and chose to devote this issue to a piece titled, The Way We Fall in Love Isn't the Way We Stay in Love.
Addison approves all of proposals and then we talk about finalization of copy for next month's edition. Addison would be having another meeting later to speak with the editors of our international divisions to discuss any changes needed for publication in their regions. Of course, we include current topics, hot trends of the day, and gossip. Carina is a beast when it comes to digging up the latest news on who's doing what, with whom and where.
"I'll be attending Saturday's launch party of Savoureux, a new brand of gin that's coming out and was the brainchild of Emma Armand the French pop star. You know she's been based in the states for the last year and is building on her popularity. It's supposedly marketed to upscale clientele and all of hottest celebrities will be there including, DiCaprio, Swift, Naomi Campbell, P Diddy and fingers crossed, New York's own, Jackson Avery," she announces in her distinctive Italian accent.
"Great," Addison says excitedly, "If you can get me your notes as soon possible, I can get it ready to rush for print."
"Sicuro, capo," she says as she always calls Addison boss in Italian, "I heard that Avery's planning on making an appearance and I'm going to try and get a few sound bites from him."
I make a face when I hear her mention his name. Jackson Avery is a well-known womanizer and man about town. He is often featured in the society pages and he makes me sick to my stomach. He was from one of New York's wealthiest, correction, the country's wealthiest families, and I found his persona stereotypical and boorish.
As usual, Carina catches my facial expression and proceeds to tease me about it.
"You know April, Jackson has expressed interest in meeting you on the several occasions I've talked with him. He says that it's remarkable that you, writer of a popular sex column and he, a connoisseur of sex and beautiful woman have never crossed paths," she says, a hint of playfulness in her voice.
"Pfft," I scoff, "He's the last person I'd want to meet. He's arrogant, spoiled and thinks way to highly of himself."
"How would you know? You've never spoken to him," she cries. "Trust me, once you get to know him, you'd love him. He's not how he'd portrayed in the media."
"You write the for the media," I point out, "so I can only go by the narrative you create."
She waves me off, "Listen, I have an extra ticket to the party and I think you and I should go together."
Before I get a chance to tell her what a stupid idea I think it is, Addison pipes in.
"I think that's a terrific idea, Carina. April, it's about time you mingled with the in crowd. Maybe you could even do a piece on him. He could give us insight into the male mind. Another angle on how they view sex and relationships, if you will," she says enthusiastically.
Even though I shake my head furiously at the suggestion, I know in fact it wasn't one at all. Addison is bold and takes risks and her concepts have propelled our readership to new heights under her leadership.
I cringe at the thought of spending any time with, let alone near him, but hide the disappointment on my face and remain professional, but I do shoot Carina a look that could kill.
We discuss a few more issues, do some brainstorming and the meeting winds to a close almost two hours later. I shuffle to my office and close the door behind me. I tell Sarah to cancel my plans for lunch as I just lost my appetite. I open my desk draw and fumble through it, pushing aside a granola bar and a 100-calorie pack of almonds, I pick up a pack of Starburst, rip open the package with my teeth, pick out the cherry and strawberry flavors and angrily chew.
There goes my healthier routine.
The truth is, I'm anxious but not for the reason people would think. I'm aware of Jackson Avery and who he is, and I've been avoiding meeting him for months. We've attended some of the same events, and I've managed to evade him at every turn even though we inhabit the same orbit. I'd attend parties, concerts, award, and fashion shows all at my company's expense and each time, he'd be there.
He intimidates me and believe me, that doesn't happen to me and I don't know why. Sure, he's gorgeous, rich, and famous, but that doesn't mean anything to me. I know a lot of gorgeous, rich, famous men.
Our eyes met at a party once and I felt as if I had been electrocuted. Those cerulean blue eyes stared at me straight though my soul and I was shook. It only lasted a few seconds and I can't explain it and it doesn't make sense, but he saw me. Really saw me and I'm afraid if I talk to him he'll learn my truth. The truth that only two other people in this entire world know. A secret guarded by my sister Libby and my best friend Cristina. A secret that I have been hiding my whole career and if my peers, my readers, or my boss found out, it would prove me a fraud.
I, April Kepner, one of the most popular columnists in the world. A so-called expert on sex and relationships, is a virgin.
A/N: Story title song – Once In A Lifetime by Beyoncé
Chapter title song – Work It Out by Beyoncé
Even though I included many of Grey's Anatomy's current and past character names in this chapter, many are alas window dressing and are only receiving honorable mentions.