The answer to Wynn’s question eludes me . . . but I know by the next morning that there are some things we are capable of, and some we aren’t. There are speeds at which we cannot run. And situations we cannot ever solve. We have limits within ourselves, and I have finally recognized mine. I grew up loving stories, sometimes loving stories more than people. Loving people in the stories, or because of the stories.
But today I love a man more than I love the story—his story.
So I walk into Helen’s office certain that she’s going to fire me. Fire me for real this time. Not only that, but I can’t bear to look anyone in the eye today. Valentine at his desk, looking for the perfect stock images. Victoria isn’t at her desk today, and I’m almost relieved I don’t have her looking at me when I need to come to terms with the fact that I’ve failed. I want to fail.
Helen looks up from her desk, and her eyes are tired behind her glasses. Her hair is a bit messier than normal. I can see the stress all over her and I can feel it around us as I take a seat.
She doesn’t even greet me. I think she knows.
“This article on Malcolm,” I begin.
“Malcolm?” she repeats, her expression one of complete and utter bafflement. She pulls off her reading glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, then exhales. “Rachel, I’ve been very patient with you. You asked me for a chance. . . .”
“He’s different than what we thought he’d be.”
“Is he? I don’t think so.” She levels me with a hard glare. “See, I think he’s exactly how we thought he was. And I think just like hundreds of women before you, you’ve fallen. You think that underneath all that rich bad boy there’s a good man and that he’ll change when given the chance to.”
“He doesn’t need to change. The media has used his image to their advantage but he’s not who we think he is, who anyone thinks he is.”
“Oh, and you know this because you’ve . . . what? Slept with him? Had a few cocktails with him? You’ve known him, what? A few weeks, Rachel? How is that enough to know a man?”
“You can know a man with one deed. Just one. It isn’t about time.”
“Ah, you’re so deep,” she says sarcastically, then sighs. “The answer is no. You owe me an exposé. Your work has suffered for weeks, I need the material, and I need it on my desk by tomorrow.”
“I can’t write it,” I admit. “I can’t even start. I physically get sick sitting at my computer now.”
“Just write it, Rachel. He’s not a one-woman man. He’s got too many opportunities to cheat and be bad, and he can get away with it. He can have a blonde bimbo on the side who doesn’t care if he cheats. Who encourages him to have other women.”
“He’s too smart. He may play with the bimbo but he won’t be happy with one. He needs someone real,” I whisper.
“What he needs is none of our concern—what you need is to do your job. That’s the end of it.”
I’m sitting here trembling. Quit. Quit. Just quit.
“Helen, I thought this exposé would give me a voice to talk about a subject people wanted to hear about, so that later I’d be heard when I talked about other things. This was also about my dad and telling myself we all have the same troubles and ups and downs in our lives, that no one has it better in all respects. I’ve felt underestimated and I wanted to prove I could do something more. I can, I’m sure of it but no, I won’t.
“I met a powerful man and I’ve learned that just because you can do something doesn’t mean it’s right. Saint could do a million things with his power. He doesn’t. He uses it to prod others to action, I’ve watched him do it. He’s not the villain here. He gives as good as he gets. He’s used in the same way he uses. That’s what I call a trade. He’s not all saint, but he’s not all sinner.”
“Good, very good, write all of that. I need it on my desk.”
“I quit,” I breathe.
Helen looks at me, sighing. “You can’t quit, Rachel.”
“I just did. Helen, I’m sorry.”
“I’m telling you, you can’t quit.”
“Why?”
“Because Victoria just did.”
“Helen, I’m sorry that—”
“You’ll be sorrier if you don’t go through with it now. Victoria quit. She’s gone to our competition. They’re printing a story about Saint’s girlfriend secretly working to expose him. They’re jumping in before us.”
“WHAT?” I’m frozen.
“So you see, if you quit now, every one of your colleagues will soon be out of a job. Edge will get the last blow needed to finish it once and for all. Do you want to live with this, Rachel? At twenty-three, do you want to live with this on your shoulders? I’ve asked one special thing of you. One. To do your job.”
“Helen,” I plead.
“If you ever thought you could back out and it would all be forgotten . . . it won’t. Your boyfriend will know what you’ve been up to by next week. If you thought you could salvage your own image in his eyes by sacrificing Edge . . .” She sighs and turns away. “You thought wrong. Victoria will run with whatever it is she accessed through our systems—surveillance caught her photocopying things from your desk, Rachel. You wanted a voice? You have one. I need it in my inbox by Monday to try to match their print schedule. If we want to try to salvage the magazine, we need this piece—and we need it now.”
All I hear, as I leave Edge, as I gather my notes that Victoria may have photocopied and my bag, shut down my computer, and as I take the elevator downstairs, all I hear is my own voice, telling Malcolm that it wasn’t Interface that I was researching.
It was him.
I find myself in the streets. Walking without direction. How long have I been staring at the word Sin in my contacts? I don’t know. The wind bites into my cheeks. My fingertips are cold around my phone. I’m walking . . . but I’m heading nowhere.
I stare at Sin’s name and realize it’s the last contact I dialed.
It’s barely afternoon—he has a thousand things to do at M4 and even has to fly to New York City, but I press “dial” and lift the receiver to my ear. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Only that I need to hear his voice right now.
He picks up with his lips sounding close to the receiver, as if he’s with people. “Hey.”
God help me, his voice will never stop doing things to me.
My eyes drift shut as a series of sensations flow through me to the tips of my feet. He is such an experience. Funny that he’s known to be straightforward, a man of few words.
This seems to fascinate the world, and in contrast, the world speaks about him almost too much.
And now, Victoria is going to speak about us.
“Hey,” I hastily whisper, “I know you’re busy. I just wanted to hear your voice.” I stop walking, lean on a lamppost as I feel myself blush beet red, and stare at my feet and the cracks on the sidewalk. “What time do you fly out?”
“Soon as I finish here, two hours at most.”
He waits for a heartbeat, as though waiting for me to explain why I’m calling.
“Something up at work?” he asks.
“Only me, wanting to call you. I’m making it a habit, aren’t I?”
“I’m not complaining,” he husks out in a murmur. “But I’ve got some people waiting.”
“Of course. Go get the world. Better yet, go get the moon!” No time to have this talk now, Rachel. Just say goodbye, say goodbye and ask to see him soon. “Let me know when you get back? I was hoping we could talk.”
“Sure.”
“’Bye, Sin,” I whisper.
“’Bye.”
After a full minute of regrouping, I look around, and though I know perfectly where I am, I’m lost.
I’m lost, and I can’t find my way home.
I’m lying in bed, sleepless, when my cell phone buzzes on my nightstand and an unidentified number appears. I see it’s almost midnight, and I almost don’t answer, but I do—and that’s when I hear it.
Saint’s voice, kind of smoky, thick and low, through the background of jet engines. “What . . .” I grumble and shake myself awake. “I thought you were flying?”
There’s pleasure in the low whisper. “I am.”
“Of course,” I groan. “Your plane has a phone. What else? Naked flight attendants?”
“I assure you they’re perfectly dressed.”
“Oh, but I bet you’re not,” I tease.
Surrounded by only dark in my bedroom, his voice is . . . everything.
His voice, his soft laugh.
It gives me such pleasure I can’t stop smiling. “I’m glad I amuse you,” I say softly.
“I’m glad too.”
My turn to laugh.
But this time, Saint doesn’t join in.
“We said a week, right?” Saint asks me.
“A week for . . .” I’m confused for a moment, but then I remember our conversation onboard The Toy, about him . . . and me. And I know exactly what he means. “Oh, that.” A hot flush creeps along my body, spreading down, down, down, all the way to my toes. “Yes, that’s what we said,” I admit.
“How about now?” he surprises me by saying.
Tingles and lightning bolts race through my bloodstream. The sensation covers my body from corner to corner. I try to suppress it; it’s wrong to feel it. But I can’t stop it, I can’t stop what he does to me. “What happened to your legendary patience?”
“How about now, Rachel?” he insists.
All my guilt, my insecurities, and my fear are suddenly weighing down on me. It’s really hard to speak as I shake my head in the dark. “I’m a mess, Saint,” I choke out.
“Be my mess, then.”
A truly sad laugh leaves me, and for a moment, I’m afraid it’ll turn into a sob. “Oh god.” I drag in a deep breath and blink the moisture from my eyes. “When can we talk about this in person?”
“When I land in Chicago. Saturday. Come stay over.”
I nod. “God, I need to see you.” I wipe the corners of my eyes. “I need to see you,” I say, then laugh to hide the way my voice is trembling and boy, how I really, desperately want to cry and spill my guts to him. “I really need to see you, Malcolm.”
“I’ll send you a picture.”
He’s teasing me?
He’s teasing me and I love it and I always have.
“Saint!” Thank god my voice didn’t break just now, because the rest of me really wants to.
I hear his chuckle, low and savoring.
Worst of all, I can tell he’s enjoying talking to me. And teasing me. I pinch my eyes painfully shut, savoring it too, “Don’t hang up yet, just say something long and important. . . . Say your name! Your ridiculously long name . . .”
“Malcolm.” He indulges me. Then, slowly, “Kyle,” then “Preston,” then “Logan,” then “Saint.” Then, more intensely: “I miss you, Rachel.”
I wipe away a stray tear and strain my throat to say something in reply. “Okay.”
“That’s all I get?” He laughs, incredulous.
“I love you,” I say. The emotion gets the best of me, and I repeat, “I love you, Saint,” and before he can answer, I hang up and cover my face.
Oh god. Oh god oh god, I just said it. And I have no idea what effect it had! OH GOD.
Shaking from the adrenaline, I put my phone on my nightstand and watch it for a few minutes.
What. Did. I. Just. Do?
I fall back in bed feeling a mix of excitement and dread and . . . disbelief. Well, I did say “I love you” to a man for the first time in my life. Just like that—wham!—over the phone. To Malcolm Saint.
How silly it must seem to him.
I must seem so . . . gah! Stupid!
Why could you not wait until you talked to him in person, Rachel? Why?!
I wish I hadn’t missed his face, his expression. I mean, he must have been completely dumbstruck. Dazed. Was he surprised to hear it? Pleasantly so? Or not-so-pleasantly so? Well, did he laugh? Or frown? Puzzle? Fuck my laptop, what did I do?
I lie awake for a while in full-blown stress mode, in his shirt, my body aching for his, haunted by his eyes and by the last time we were together and every moment in between. Haunted by the dread of LOSING HIM before I can really be his girlfriend.
“Dibs . . .” I remember.
“I’m an only son. . . .”
“Are you coming up, or do you want me to carry you?”
I’m flooded with him.
Remembering the way I could almost swear he caught his breath when he saw me at the Ice Box.
The way he kissed the corner of my mouth first, always, leading into his bigger kiss.
The way he saved an elephant.
The way he saved me.
The way he fed me grapes.
The way he opened up to me.
Please come back to Chicago and let me explain, let me tell you why I don’t deserve you . . . and give me your advice. Give me your wise advice on what to do. Because I should’ve come to you before anyone else. I should’ve trusted that you would help me because that’s all I’ve seen from you—I’ve just never trusted a man before.
I hear my text beep and read:
Sin: I’m going to take that as a yes
