Happy Sunday, people!
I know, I'm one day late, but hopefully not a dollar short. The tech gods had it out for the Momo household this weekend, and our router died a slow, painful, digital death. It's been impeding my consumption of How To Get Away With Murder and my timely updates to this story. Mobile data to the rescue.
Thank you also for all your reviews and alerts. Ivories passed 1k reviews last week and I am still a bit flabbergasted. THANK YOU.
Also thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner.
Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.
Two small things from last week.
One-the expression "unavoidable for comment" comes from journalistic lingo. It means exactly what it says, that someone is so ubiquitous and eager to give their opinion on anything and everything that you can't escape them. This is how the Caulfields have come across lately: sending invitations out of the blue, spreading rumors about Edward to his employer ... and who knows what else that we don't know about.
Two-Carlisle's "will someone rid us of this meddlesome family" echoes King Henry II's screed against the "meddlesome priest" Archbishop Thomas Becket. Spoiler alert: it didn't end well, for Becket especially.
Ross isn't very popular at the moment, for very good reason. On the other hand, everyone seems to be liking Bella and Edward's baby steps and Jake's jovial personality.
So, here we go, without further ado ...
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 18
"Em, I get it; you're pissed, wasted, or both. But call me back. I'm worried."
That's the fifth voicemail I've left him this morning. Granted, getting Mac out of bed before noon on a weekend requires the type of inducement I don't possess. I contemplate calling his landline, but that would be a last resort. The only person allowed to call him on his landline on the weekend without repercussion—in the morning, no less—is Momma McCarty, who has a deep-seated aversion to cell phones.
Phone thrown back on the coffee table, I lace up my sneakers, all the while grumbling and thinking what the hell Mac got up to last night. I didn't lay it on thick in my voicemail. I am worried. After his recent epiphany and Ross's rejection, I'm afraid of what it would do to him if he backslid into his man-whore ways. But I can't be his damn babysitter; I can only be his friend. So, with a deep, cleansing breath, recalling my physical therapist's instructions, I collect all my frustration into a ball and exhale, flinging it out into the void.
It does help ease my anxiety, and my thoughts veer from Mac's antics to Bella last night.
Bella dragging me into her dressing room.
Bella smiling and burying her button nose into the bunch of flowers I brought her.
Bella holding me. Bella staring at me from the stage.
Bella smiling in my direction at the end of the show.
Bella leaning into my shoulder as we talked.
Before I muster the wisdom to question all of it, two things happen.
My phone rings. When its vibrations careen it farther and farther toward the edge of the coffee table, I grab it. A quick glance at the screen confirms my pain in the ass photo editor is finally returning my calls.
Someone knocks on the door. Someone who didn't have to ring the intercom downstairs. A second quick glance at the clock and it's safe to assume it's Jacob.
"Hey, Mac. Hang on a sec, please."
He grumbles, "Okay," while I check the security camera. It's indeed Jake—armed with two coffees.
"Come in, Jake."
"Hey, Edward." He steps inside and, without prompting from me, makes his way to the breakfast bar. The way he moves around leads me to think that his loft must be laid out in a similar way. When he's halfway there, he turns, pointing a finger at my phone. "Mac?" He must have overheard.
I nod. "Let me take this, then we'll go."
While Jake gets comfortable on a stool, it occurs to me that having this conversation with Mac in my open space living room might not be the best idea. After I retreat to the guest room—the first door down the hallway—I get back to him.
"Sorry about that, Mac."
"No biggie. What's up?" He's alternating yawns and syllables, so maybe last night wasn't as huge of a clusterfuck as I feared. Maybe.
"Are you all right? I had a bad feeling about last night."
He huffs, and it sounds like something in between a groan and garbled words. "Jeez, Ed. I'm not about to go all emo teenager because the blonde bombshell treats me like shit on her shoe. I mean, it hurt. It was fucking humiliating. But I've made my peace with it."
"Uhm. If you say so."
"Look, from what I heard, it seems Mr. Black is there at this ungodly hour on a weekend morning, so I'll leave the two of you to go primping, painting your nails, or whatever you're up to without me." The words are classic smartass Mac, but there's some bite behind them. He wouldn't feel like I'm replacing him with Jake, would he?
"He's forcing me to go running. Outside. In mid-February. On a Saturday."
The grumbling turns into cackling laughter. "I take it back. By all means, do that without me. Look, Ed. I know what you're doing, and I love ya for it. But I don't need hand-holding."
"Fair enough. What did you do with yourself last night then? If a friend may ask." I'm all out of patience with Mac's diversionary techniques. He's hiding something; at the very least, he's skirting the truth.
"Ugh, man. You know I can't lie for shit. Not to you anyway. Okay, I'll tell you, but don't freak out."
Sure, Mac. You telling me not to freak out will work perfectly. "What did you do?"
He groans again. The disjointed sounds of rustling at the other end of the line may or may not contribute to my rising blood pressure. Rustling, bed sheets, Mac. What could go wrong?
"I went down to my usual bar in Southie. I figured I'd drink away my sorrows. I tried to exorcise her from my mind. I tried, Ed. I even started flirting with a redhead who was giving me bedroom eyes from the other end of the bar. When she got close to me and touched me—"
"Fuck, Mac," I interject. I'm both dreading and anticipating the rest of his confession.
"Well, what do you know? Mac didn't fuck last night."
Big sigh of relief. Sounds like Mac's epiphany is having lasting effects. "I'm proud of you." He tries to protest, but I talk over him. He needs to know it's not all for nothing. "No, don't discount what you did. I'm sorry I assumed the worst. It was shitty of me, but I was fucking worried there for a minute."
He snickers. "My track record speaks for itself, Ed. Don't sweat it. Anything else on your mind, other than checking my dick's whereabouts?"
"Nah. Look, I've kept Jake waiting—I'm going over to my parents' for dinner tomorrow. Tag along?"
"I'm always around for Momma C's cooking and hugs. See you there? Usual time?"
He's so enmeshed with my family that he doesn't need to ask. He knows what time Sunday dinner is. At 7:00 p.m. without fail. Esme Platt-Cullen despises tardiness.
"Why don't we meet earlier? Gives us time to catch up."
Another groan filters through the phone. "Fuck. Piano girl. Now I gotta call her back."
"Are you seriously afraid of a five-foot-nothing brunette?"
"You didn't hear her voicemails, I did. Don't ever get on her bad side, Ed."
"You forget—I was on Bella's bad side from the start."
After a loud belly laugh, he mumbles a goodbye. All's well in Mac-land. Or as well as it could be.
&&&IVORIES&&&
Ten minutes later, Jake and I are hitting the pavement. Slowly. Steadily. Fine, we're walking. In our defense, we're still sipping our coffees.
"Mac okay?" he asks.
I nod. "Nothing that can't be fixed, with time."
"I still can't believe Ross—"
At those words, I snort into my coffee and give him the stink eye.
"Okay, I'll give you that." He nods. "She is abrasive, but her word-sparring with Mac was beyond the pale."
"Yeah, well. She might feel repentant now, but … I don't know how things might play out with Mac, to be honest." I shrug.
"You know, Bella went to bat for him with Ross. Huge shouting match. I heard them from behind the bar, and they were tucked away backstage."
This warms my heart—that Bella would feel so protective of Mac already. But I don't want to intrude or interfere in her relationship with Ross. "I thought we were supposed to go running today, Jake."
He levels me a long, discerning look. Then he sits on a bench nearby. "You are a cagey fellow, Cullen. Every time I try to draw you out of your shell, you retreat a little farther into it."
"I barely know you, Jake. Give me a fucking break." And I'm out of practice sharing personal shit with someone who's not been in my inner circle for years. So maybe, just maybe, I'm being unfair to him.
"Yeah, so do I. But if you don't give a little, you never go past the 'barely know you' stage."
When my reply boils down to a jerky nod, he continues.
"Look, I don't want to pry or come across as one of those presumptuous assholes who pretend to know how you feel just because I read a headline about you. I don't. But I'd like to know you because we have something in common, Cullen. That something is a sarcastic girl, five-foot-two, wears Chucks all the time. Sounds familiar?"
The mere mention of Bella elicits a chuckle that breaks me out of my momentary funk. My heart—my dormant, battered heart—lurches in my chest. "Yeah, it does. I'm not—I'm not used to this, Jake. You're right. I am a cagey bastard. Six months ago, I would have shot you down in a nanosecond. Today, I'm sitting here with you. But hey, you brought good coffee, so that's a start."
"Of a beautiful friendship?"
"I'll fuck up, Jake. I fuck up with Mac all the time. And he was under that rubble with me."
His face turns somber, darker. "You're not the only one who's been through some kind of trauma. No matter how hard you work at it, no matter how you try to live around it, or through it, the demons lurk. But it's harder to chase the monsters under the bed if you're alone."
What he says hits me. For a long time, I thought I had it worse than anyone else. There were contributing factors to my "woe is me" routine. The trauma I lived was real, and it had a very real impact on my life. Survivor's guilt is a finicky, scary, merciless bitch. It ate away at every single milestone I hit, every shred of progress I clawed back into my life. Every step without a crutch or a brace. Every day without a panic attack. Every night without night terrors. Every time I managed to work through a trigger. That niggling doubt ate away at my fledgling confidence and told me I wasn't worthy; I should have been dead under that rubble too. While all of that was valid, it made me oblivious to the plight of others around me.
"When did you get so wise?"
"I had to recalibrate my entire world view at fifteen. That will give a man a swift kick in the nuts. You either wise up, or you live as a miserable fuck your entire life. I wanted to live. I wised up."
"You came out at fifteen?" I'm assuming that's the reason for the recalibration.
He shakes his head, but winks at me. "Not out per se. Chicks were asking me out, and I kept turning them down. My sister asked me why. I had a sudden epiphany—I wasn't attracted to any of them. But the quarterback of our high school football team—tall, broad-shouldered, abs you could bounce a quarter off of, and a tighter end than the team's actual tight end—well, he was a different story."
Jake comes across as a self-assured, assertive man—cocky, even. And yet it has never occurred to me to question if his cockiness came naturally, or if it was the result of any kind of strife. As self-assured as you may be, coming to terms with your identity in your teens would be daunting for anyone. Fuck, I was a hot mess at fifteen. Lanky, nerdy, with my nose in a book more often than not. When girls started noticing me, I fled in the other direction fast. They intimidated the crap out of me.
"How did you end up in New York, of all places? Aren't you from … Washington, is it?"
He snickers. "From Forks, Washington. And, no, it's not close to Spoons. Or Knives."
I raise my hands in defeat, then throw my empty coffee cup in the trashcan by the bench.
"But, yeah, Forks is a full continent away. And that's a good thing."
"Unsupportive people back home?"
His face scrunches up in a grimace. Slight laugh lines crinkle around his eyes—deep, black eyes with lashes that would make a model cry with envy. He's a handsome fucker; I'll give him that. And when he's not dressed in sweats, he's also a stylish one. I've noticed the cut of his suits. This man is no slob.
"Nah. I mean, it took some convincing, some yelling, some crying. A whole lot of talking. But at the end of the day, my dad understood why I left after college. He had to mourn the future he'd dreamed for me. I didn't know what kind of future I wanted yet, but I knew I wouldn't be marrying a girl from our tribe and live on the reservation. I wanted—no, I needed—to spread my wings. Maybe at some point, I'll go back. But for now, my place is here."
"How to phrase this without sounding like an ignorant prick …"
He shrugs. "Blurt it out, man. If you speak out of turn, I'll tell you."
"Is there a prevalent attitude at all, positive or negative, around LGBTQ issues among Native Americans? I am woefully uninformed on the subject."
"Tradition is one thing—gender and sexuality are regarded differently in Native culture. But we've been colonized for too long," he explains, tapping his temple with one, long, elegant finger. "Some homophobic attitudes seep into our spaces. We're not immune. Prejudice, I'm afraid, is a highly democratic, undiscerning calamity." He rises from his spot. "Let's try to take a walk, at least. Just so we're not lying our asses off. You up for it, Cullen?"
"Yeah, what the hell. It ain't gonna hurt me."
For a while, we power walk, sometimes run, along the streets of Cambridge. It's a chilly February day, but sunny enough that it's bearable to be outside for so long without bundling up. The streets are getting livelier by the minute, with people strolling back and forth, their rhythm a little less punishing than during the weekday commute. The view is almost foreign to me—the disparate humanity of Boston, with babies in carriers, shopping bags dangling from hands, names shouted here and there, people shifting on the pavement to avoid a kid zipping by on a skateboard. I haven't taken a walk in my neighborhood for the sake of it for ages. It reminds me again how seldom I stop to smell the flowers along the way. It reminds me of things Bella said in her interview. This vibrant, haphazard array of life—it reminds me of Bella, period.
After about an hour, we stop to grab another coffee and take a break.
"So, I got an intriguing phone call at the club earlier this week," Jake says in between sips of his soy latte. The notion of "health nut" somehow doesn't gel with the impression I have of him, but then again, impressions can be deceiving.
"Anyone I know?"
Jake stops for a moment, and his expression turns mischievous. There's the same glint in his eyes Mac displays when he's about to wreak havoc.
"Not exactly, but … adjacent to someone you used to know," he hedges.
"I'm not sure I'm caffeinated enough for a quiz. C'mon, man. Just tell me."
"The illustrious Miss Lauren Mallory of telegenic, gastronomical fame."
I can't suppress a snort at his description as my mind conjures up the image of Kate and her girlfriend—fiancée—at the club that night. "I had no idea you knew her that well."
He scoffs. "I really don't, but we run in the same circles in New York. She volunteers with the HRC, and I let them have the club one night for one of their events."
"Let me guess, she called to make sure she's not burned any bridges."
Jake laughs, throwing back his head, slapping his hand on his thigh. "You might be a cagey loner, but you sure as fuck are not stupid. Nailed. It."
"I'm a journalist. Reading people is my job. So, what did Miss Mallory have to say?"
He scoffs again. "Oh, the usual. She bent over backward to apologize for her date's behavior. Mentioned how contrite Kate was. Wanted me to apologize to you on her behalf. Kate's, that is."
I find myself growling in frustration at the mere idea. "You gotta be kidding me."
"My sentiments exactly. I told her the apology was well noted and left it at that."
I shake my head. I shouldn't be surprised. Then the thought hits me—maybe I should try this human interaction on for size a bit more. "You know what's irritatingly funny about this?"
"Shoot."
"In all of this clusterfuck, it's Kate who dumped me. She. Dumped. Me. So what I don't get, six years later, is why she still tries to meddle and insert herself into my life. She has a fiancée, for fuck's sake. Shouldn't they be picking wedding invitations or something?"
He narrows his eyes at me, but there's no judgment in his gaze. Those keen, dark eyes are inquisitive but not unkind. "Do you still have feelings for her?"
"Fuck, no! I'll give you the short version. She fucked me over royally. Professionally and personally. I'm not that much of a masochist."
With a nod, he continues. "I had to make sure. I said I wouldn't pry, but …"
"I get it, Jake. Making conversation implies questions and answers. Don't feel like you can't ask. If you're treading on thin ice, I'll tell you. But, no. I have zero feelings for her. Some things though …"
"Meaning?" He's raising an eyebrow at me.
"Her father is a local fixture with a national political profile. He's been a vehement homophobe his entire life. She's climbed the corporate ladder almost to the C-suite at this point. Some of the climbing has been over my hospitalized body. I fail to see what she gets out of screwing with my life. Still."
"Well, throwing taunts at a club is one thing …"
"It's not the only thing."
He turns to me with the funniest expression on his face—wide-eyed, incredulous, and eager. "Tell me more."
Methinks I've found the man's weakness. Gossip. I must remember not to throw him together with Jess and Mac for too long. My sanity wouldn't survive.
"She sent me an invitation to a campaign fundraiser for her father."
He shakes his head. "She didn't!"
"Did too. They—she and her father—also spread rumors to my employer. But please, this is—"
This time he's the one to raise a hand to stop me. "It's sensitive shit. You can trust me, Edward." He mimics zipping his lips. "My luscious lips are sealed. She's got some nerve."
"Tell me about it."
"How long has it been?" he asks after a beat of silence. "Six years, you said?"
I nod. "See why it stumps me? Fast-forward six years, she's getting married. To a woman. After a very public announcement, with her father by her side. The whole thing doubled as a public coming out and campaign event for his Senate re-election. Now, having a big fanfare like that is trademark Kate. But it churned up some questions I'd rather not answer for myself. Shit I thought I'd put to bed years ago." My grimace at the thought is an almost Pavlovian reaction.
Jake doesn't miss it. "How long were you two together? How close were you?"
"Five years, and close enough that I contemplated a future with her. At least, I was. With a ring on it."
His eyes go wide again, but this time, it's a look of pure disbelief, and—I daresay—a touch of concern. "Shit, Edward. And you had to see her preen around with her new fiancée, right in your face. In front of your parents. Ugh."
"It was a messy breakup." Understatement of the year. But rehashing it now is painful. It shouldn't be—maybe. But I can't help what I feel. The hurt lingers no matter how much I've tried to exorcise it.
"Go on."
"It's like this fucking announcement, the fiancée, the wedding, the fundraiser invitation, spreading rumors to Alice's father, all that other bullshit … it's still her throwing my perceived inadequacy back in my face. Still preempting my life in a way she deems acceptable. Still Kate telling me I'm not good enough from the soaring height of her five-inch heels."
"Now that's gotta stink. I'm sorry, man. There are more sensitive ways of going about things, that's for sure."
"Shout it from the top of the Hancock Tower, please. That way we'll make sure she hears it. I'm fucking done with her. I've been done for years, and now she just …"
"You're angry."
And just to prove Jake's point, my fist lands on the bench with a muted thud. "You can bet your ass I am. I can't figure out what she wants, and it drives me nuts. Kate is a master manipulator—she can't be doing this for shits and giggles. She must have an agenda."
"You're worrying a lot about a woman who screwed you over and left you." Again, his words harbor no judgment. He's inquisitive but not derisive.
"I'm rambling. And I'm more concerned than angry at this point. I don't want Kate to throw me another curve ball when I least expect it. Then Mac, the jovial bastard, dropped a hint I meant to disregard, but like all hints …"
"It came back to bite you in the ass," he says. His perfectly groomed, lifted eyebrow says it all.
"Sort of?"
Jake snickers, then shakes his head for good measure. "Oh, Mac. What did he say this time?"
That's when reluctance dawns on me. There is an absurd, hysterical, inappropriate side to this—with Mac involved, of course there would be one. "Okay, don't shoot the messenger. Remember, it's Mac we're talking about."
He motions for me to continue. "Yeah, yeah … blame the absent party," he adds with another snicker.
"It's none of my fucking business. That's my premise to the entire thing. But Mac threw it out there, and I can't deny that the thought crossed my mind."
Jake raises an eyebrow. Again. "I'm growing old, Cullen."
"Mac just blurted it out. He just went there. He asked me if I ever had the sense that Kate played for the other team. His words, not mine."
Silence jolts through the conversation with an electric undercurrent of unease I can't dispel. Only, the unease is all mine.
"That was insensitive, Jake. Forgive me. Forget I ever said anything."
After another beat of silence—where that undercurrent of unease abates—Jake's hand lands on my shoulder. "Don't. You didn't offend me. But I'll tell you a few things."
I nod, still unsure that I didn't speak out of turn, as Jake put it earlier.
"You're right. It's none of your fucking business. It's Kate's. That's her identity we're talking about here, and it's definitely, unequivocally her own business. Identity is as beautiful as it is messy to navigate. Whether she identifies as straight or lesbian or bi, or pansexual or whatever, it's none of your damn business. When she finds that identity, how, and whether she decides to live that identity publicly is also none of your damn business. But the two of you have a shared, complicated past. You were together for years. It's human that you're questioning things. Especially if one of her greatest hits with you was 'let's make Edward feel inadequate.' Don't let that torture you, but don't get too hung up about it either. Her life, Cullen. Not yours. And I'm sure any therapist worth their salt would also tell you the inadequacy she projected onto you was exactly that. Projection."
It's one of the longest speeches Jake's ever shared with me. I let every single word wash over me while a shadow of understanding dawns in between the shreds of self-flagellation that litter my mind. "You're right. I shouldn't even be asking the question. I just hope one thing …"
"What?"
"That whatever she's doing, she's sincere. I told you she's a manipulator. I'd hate to think she's bringing other people into her schemes."
"That will be a concern for Lauren Mallory. You can't watch out for other people. It's their relationship."
"Fair enough. One thing keeps stumping me, though."
"Yeeees?" he asks. That vowel elongated out of recognition signals the serious part of the conversation might just be over. There's mirth dancing in his eyes, now he's reassured I won't have a meltdown over Kate.
"I still don't understand why the fuck she keeps meddling and hounding me."
"Well, I never said straight people had a monopoly on being assholes," he deadpans.
And that's when we devolve into synchronous snickers. Quite ungentlemanly but quite cathartic too.
"Let's save some breath for running, Cullen. Race you back to Kendall Square."
A good twenty minutes later, we're standing in the lobby of our building. We're tired, winded, and sweaty.
"I don't know who was the idiot who came up with 'forty is the new twenty,' but I sure as fuck don't agree."
"You're just out of shape, Cullen. Come on, look at me!" Jake exclaims, just in time for another resident—of the female persuasion—to ogle him from the other end of the lobby. Without shame, the lady's gaze roams over Jake's tall, built frame.
"Yeah, that lady over there is looking, Black."
"Too bad I don't swing that way," he quips.
After catching our breath, we walk toward the bank of elevators leading up to my loft. "Do you want to come upstairs for a drink before you go?"
"Nah," Jake answers. "I need a shower pronto. I gotta be at the club in a couple of hours tops. Paperwork waits for no man. Ugh."
"Why on earth are you doing paperwork on the weekend?"
"Because I'm a masochist? And I still don't have an accountant in Boston."
"I might be able to help you out there. The guy who does my taxes has reasonable rates. He's also trustworthy. I'll email you his digits."
He nods. Then his brow furrows before he speaks again. "Thank you. Look, Edward. Before I leave, I meant to ask you …"
"Yeeeeees?" Maybe mimicking his tone from earlier will convey he doesn't need to beat about the bush. "Just spit it out, Jake."
"Well, I'm a polite guy. As a rule, I don't spit. But point taken. Are you positive about the dinner invitation? You blurted it out …"
"And because you're a polite but quick-witted dude, you figured out I'd thrown myself in the pool at the deep end, right?"
"Sort of. Did I guess that right?"
My turn to nod at him. "I did blurt that out. For the record, I also spent ten minutes or so freaking out about it on the ride back home. But I'm not freaking out now."
"You sure? You're trying to branch out, I can see that, but …" He's that considerate. He's afraid pushing too far out of my comfort zone might set me back or backfire.
"Thank you. For caring. I think—I think it'll be fun. And I cook a mean lasagna, after all. You game?
"Fuck, yeah, Cullen!"
And those are the last words he throws in my direction before walking toward his wing of the building.
&&&IVORIES&&&
On Sunday night, Mac's wolf whistle startles me just when I turn the corner at my parents' house. He's standing by the front steps, holding a bunch of flowers and a box of cannoli from Mike's Pastry—which leads me to believe he made a stop in the North End for it. Leave the gun, take the cannoli indeed.
"Whose forgiveness are you seeking, Mac?"
"Uh?" he asks. His puzzled expression is hilarious.
"Cannoli. North End. Did you stop at Mike's just for that?"
He shrugs as we walk up to the front door. "Eh, it doesn't hurt to butter up Momma C every now and then. You know how she is—a straight up interrogator. I don't want her to get all weird and nosy on me. So, cannoli it is."
"I hate to tell you, man. That's a dead giveaway."
"Of what?" my father asks when I open the door. I swear, the man has bionic hearing. Or he's a professional eavesdropper.
"Mac brought cannoli. And invited himself to dinner, as you can see," I reply, gesturing to my partner in crime.
"There's always room for my boys," Mom replies, stepping into the foyer. "And you don't need an invitation either. Come in from the cold."
Mac complies and hands over the flowers first.
"Aww, sweetie. You didn't have to." She takes a deep whiff of the colorful assortment of calla lilies.
"Nonsense, Momma C. I brought dessert, too."
"Now you're just trying to show up Edward," Carlisle teases.
"No, he's got something to hide," Mom answers. She has his number any day of the week and, evidently, twice on Sunday.
I hide my answering snicker while I grab our coats and put them away in the hall closet.
"Can't I just decide to do something nice for my surrogate parents?" Mac defends himself.
"No," Mom and Dad reply in unison.
"They know you, Mac."
"Ain't that the truth, Ed. Ain't that the truth."
Dinner goes off without a hitch in a torrent of laughter and easy conversation. Dad throws me meaningful looks every now and then. Mom is too busy trying to figure out whatever Mac is hiding. When it's time for dessert and Mom steps back into the kitchen to make coffee, she corrals Mac to follow her.
"Now you'll come help me and tell me what's eating at you, Emmett. Come along."
Mom's tone brooks no refusal. Mac has no choice but to follow her. At this point, Dad turns to me. "We might as well retreat to the study and get down to business. They might be at it for a while."
Once we're ensconced in Dad's home office, he grabs a non-descript file folder and opens it. A page of neat, dense notes—torn from a legal notepad as per the counselor's M.O.—sits on top of the draft contract Curtis Brandon messengered a few days ago.
Dad puts on his stylish, tortoise-rimmed eyeglasses and starts scanning his notes. "A twenty percent base salary increase, your bonus almost doubled, more editorial freedom. Did I miss anything? He's all but giving away the farm to ensure you don't leave that job, good ole Curtis."
"And that's where I should ask you if there's a catch, right?"
"Correct," he replies, almost reflexively. "Except, I read the bloody thing three times. I didn't find any traps. Curtis must really want you to stay, and he's willing to put his money where his mouth is. Now, the question is … do you want to stay? Do you want or need to play hardball?"
I steeple my fingers in front of me, then assume my thinking stance. After a deep, pensive breath, I'm ready to answer this out loud. "I want to stay. I think I need to stay at this point, Dad."
He raises a hand to stop me. "Wait a minute, son. Wanting and needing are two entirely different matters. Why do you need to stay? There are other jobs out there, especially with your resume."
He has me there. "I'm where I need to be. I don't know if I could handle the pace and anxiety of a high-pressure foreign correspondent job again. I know I can't handle being in the field again. This is still the best compromise I can think of, Dad. I'm in Boston full-time. I don't have horrendous hours. I'm not dodging grenades for a living, and I'm still a practicing journalist."
"Well, you've clearly thought this through. As long as you're not staying because it's easy, and you're not considering it a cop-out, then I see no legal problems with you accepting this new contract."
An hour later, after multiple cups of coffee and a round of Dalwhinnie from Dad's stash—which Mac refused because he's driving—the 'rents send us on our merry way. I'd hoped to carve out a ten-minute span to talk things through with Mac, but no dice. Mom guarded him like a true momma bear, and when he didn't leave her side after dinner, it wasn't only because she was gatekeeping the cannoli. But when I grab my phone to order an Uber, Mac stops me.
"I'll drive you, Ed. Put that contraption away."
"You sure? You're in the opposite direction."
Mac shrugs. "We didn't get to talk tonight beyond 'pass the salt,' man. I'll drive you."
When we climb into his black Jeep, he doesn't even waste one second.
"I think I'm screwed, Ed."
"I think you need to be more specific, Mac."
He sighs, then starts the car and maneuvers out of his parallel parking spot with practiced ease. Two wheels, four wheels—it doesn't matter to Mac, all these pieces of machinery obey him. And he enjoys the perks of flashy and fast transportation. Me, not so much. But I'm taking a ride with my best friend, which also saves me from another garrulous rideshare driver.
"I'm in love with her."
"Who? Ross?"
"No, Kate Middleton. Of course, I mean Ross. Blonde, badass, voice of an angel Ross. Who also thinks I'm an idiot. So, yeah. I'm screwed."
Because I'm putting more value into second chances these days, I feel a little hope for Mac is in order. I won't betray Bella's confidence, but I can still drop some hints that will keep Mac from going into a tailspin.
"How did your epiphany come about?"
"The other night when the redhead didn't do it for me. She spoke but all I heard was Ross's voice."
"Speaking of which, she sang at Bella's show on Friday."
"Yeah. Someone put the entire thing on YouTube in less than an hour. Her singing voice was the final nail in my emotional coffin. The one time I'm finally in love with a woman, she won't give me the time of day."
It would probably be bad form to remind him that it might have helped his chances if he'd been less of a womanizing douche. So again, I go for hopeful.
"It never occurred to you that she might be trying to beat you at your own game?"
He groans. Then, a minute later, when we're stopped at a traffic light, he turns to me. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going out on a limb here, but maybe you've finally met your match. She's the female Mac. As a rule, you play hard to get, love 'em and leave 'em, and never call back. Now you're on the receiving end of the same strategy."
"Ugh. Karma truly is a bitch," he mutters. "So, what should I do?"
"Take it as a learning experience?"
"Yeah, well. Her declaration of unadulterated hate drove the point home already. I think I'll make myself scarce."
Suddenly, I remember one thing. "What did Bella have to say in her voicemails?"
"You brainy fucker, you never forget details. I should've known you'd ask me about it."
I motion for him to elaborate. He huffs.
"Piano girl told me to chill. And if I avoided her because of Ross, then we'd have fighting words."
"She has a point. What is it, kindergarten? Her friend was mean to you so you'll avoid the lot of them just to be safe?"
His answering sound is somewhere between a groan and a growl. "No, I won't. But I'm dreading facing her again. It's gonna hurt like a mofo."
"You'll live," I quip.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Jesus, man. Blood from a stone, I swear. How did your run with Jake go?"
"We had a great talk, surprisingly."
"About Bella?" Of course, he'd assume we discussed her.
I snicker. "About Kate, actually."
"No shit? Why are we still talking about the wicked witch?"
"Hey, he started it!" We're stopped at another intersection so I turn toward him. "Get this. Kate's fiancée called Jake to apologize for Kate's behavior."
"Oh boy. Still incapable of cleaning up her own messes, huh?"
My turn to shrug. "That's entirely in character. But, yeah, talking it out with Jake helped me understand a few things. Chiefly, that I shouldn't give a shit about what she does. Which was my original course of action until you and Hale decided to pass on the gossip."
He snorts just as the light turns green. "Well, can you blame us? This time last year, you switched the channel every time her mug appeared on MSNBC."
"You have a point. I'm trying here, Mac. Her reappearance in Boston didn't help. But I truly don't give a shit. And my brooding ass is also trying not to revisit a ton of past shit that won't do me any good."
"Meaning?"
"That her stunts are just that. Her stunts. She's trying to rattle me because it's what she does. And she's probably going ballistic because, last week at the club, I didn't give a toss about what she said."
"Makes sense. She always had a flair for theatrics. Serves her well, job-wise. In her personal life—not so much. How did Bella's last show go?"
"You saw the entire thing on YouTube, and you're asking me?"
He manages to shrug just as he's turning onto Binney Street. "I saw the show; I didn't see you with her. Answer the question, Mr. Editor."
"I may have screwed myself over, too."
When he stops at the side entrance of my building, he gestures for an explanation.
"I may or may not have invited the entire gang—and my parents—for dinner at my place."
"Oh, man. Stick a fork in him. He's done, and he doesn't even know it. I'll see you on Monday, Ed."
"Yeah, yeah. Night. And thanks for the ride, Mac."
What the fuck did he mean, "He's done, and he doesn't even know it"?
&&&IVORIES&&&
Halfway through a lackluster, surprisingly uneventful Monday morning, T buzzes my intercom.
"What's up, T?"
"Ross Whitlock's here."
Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. This should be interesting.
"Send her in, T. And hold my calls, please."
"Sure thing. Go right ahead, Miss Whitlock."
I rise from my seat and walk around my desk, ready to welcome my unexpected visitor.
"Ross. Come in; take a seat."
Her gaze flits around the room, landing anywhere but on me. I'm starting to wonder what prompted this visit. Then she removes her hat and coat—both black—and extends her hand to me. "Thank you for seeing me, Edward. I hope I'm not a huge nuisance today."
Now that is not an ordinary opening line.
"We'll have to make sure it doesn't happen then. Please, take a seat."
When she does, I also return to my chair, toggle the Slack chat to pause notifications, then lean back to listen to whatever Ross came to say.
She sits up straighter, then before speaking, her beautiful features contort into a grimace. Eventually though, she soldiers on. "I want to apologize for my behavior at lunch on Friday. It wasn't the time or place—"
Ah. That's what she's here to do. Oblique apologies. I wonder why she feels she can get away with this, or why she's approaching me instead of Mac. "I'm not the person you should be apologizing to either, Ross. Mac was being helpful, and you hurt him. You're not that immature, so why do you act like it?"
She huffs, but it devolves into a fraught sob. "I know. I know. You think I don't know that?" When she raises her gaze to face me, she's crying.
"Ross, look. I don't know you well. But I know Mac. I'm not about to meddle or interfere between you two in any way. Whatever or whoever persuaded you to do this, it's not me you should be talking to. It's Mac."
"Two peas in a pod. I swear."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Choc said the same thing. That talking to you was the coward's way out. Hi, I'm Ross, and I'm a coward."
I shake my head. The "peas in a pod" adagio could apply just as well to her and Mac. "Talk to the man. He might be hurt, but he ain't gonna shoot you."
She nods, dabs at her eyes, then looks at me again. "There's another matter I need to discuss with you, Edward, if you would."
"Of course. I'm all ears."
"If the label caves on Bella's demand for a break, my schedule will be lighter for the next year. I've been thinking … I'd like to go back to school. And Bella doesn't know yet."
"Why didn't you tell her?" Again, I'm on the brink of being stuck in the middle between two people I know. Not a position I covet.
Ross leans her head to the side with a pensive expression. "Well, why throw it out there when I didn't know if it'd come to pass? But there's a chance, so ... for once, I can make plans that are not based on Bella's tour schedule."
"Look, for what it's worth, talk to Bella. She's not going to begrudge you making plans for your future. But even so, how do I come into this?"
"I'd like to go into entertainment law."
Lightbulb moment.
"Let me guess. You want to mull things over with Carlisle?"
"Yeah, but … if he's going to be our lawyer—well, Bella's lawyer—I don't want this to be awkward."
I bend slightly to retrieve one of Dad's business cards from my desk drawer.
"Let him worry about that. Call him."
She takes the business card with care, reading it over twice. Then she nods, almost to herself, and stands to leave. "Thank you, Edward. Now, where would I find Mac?"\
Looks like Ross showed up ready to eat a helping of crow. Let's hope it all works out.
How did we like the rest? See you all next week, hopefully with functioning interwebs.
