It's him.
Swallowing hard, I pull the door open.
His expression is stormy, and he stands there in silence for a moment before he pushes his way inside, crowding me up against the wall with his body and kissing me.
He tastes like alcohol and a thousand bad decisions, and I moan into his mouth as his tongue claims me. The kitchen is the closest room to the front door so that's where we end up, my hands tangling in his hair and my whole body trembling with desire and anticipation.
I want to talk to him about what I saw, about what I've realized. That his books weren't just an ode to how much he wants to fuck me - they're much more than that. They tell the story he wishes we could have had.
But there's no time for talking now.
He hoists me up on the counter and pulls my pajama pants off, kneels down to taste me, his tongue darting in and out. Just a few moments, enough to get me ready for him, but not nearly enough for anything else. When he stands up, though, I don't complain. I just grab his belt and pull him close, kissing him again, and again, tasting myself on his lips and tongue, sharp and tangy, just like that fucking Beaujolais nouveau.
I want to laugh, but then he's slamming into me and I just gasp. It's hot and fast and explosive, and I hear my dishes rattle in the cabinets, all the silverware jostling together, and then I can't hear anything at all for a moment.
When it's all over, and my body sags on the counter, I hold him a little bit tighter for just a few seconds.
"Stay with me tonight?"
He shakes his head. "I can't," he says. A little hoarsely. Those are the first words he's spoken since he walked in.
He withdraws from me quickly and pulls himself back together, and leaves. It all happens within the space of a few moments, and I don't cry, although it's threatening, a lump in my throat that just won't let go.
After a few fitful hours of sleep, I wake up much earlier than usual and pull on my workout clothes. If I can't make any sense of my fucked-up relationship with Adrian, at least maybe I can get something productive done.
I know it's just the adrenaline, the stress, the mania, making me think that jogging is a good idea. I'll end up hurting my knee and limping home just like last time. But I have to try something. I can't keep sitting around and waiting for him to decide what he's going to do with my life.
As I step through the front door, something compels me to check the mailbox. I know it's unlikely that anything's been delivered since the last time I looked at it, but for some reason, I open the lid and peer inside.
There is a little piece of paper folded up on the bottom. No envelope. A wave of nausea slams through me, and I unfold it with shaking fingers. I know this paper. I know the heavy type on the heading, the particular way in which the letterhead is stamped.
It's not pink, but I know what it means without having to read the words.
I let myself see it - TERMINATION OF EMPLOYMENT - just so I can be sure. I let the words sink in, and I sit there in my front hallway with the door hanging open, and the paper hanging between my fingers, my head hanging between my knees.
My first thought is to call Izzy, but I realize I have no story I can tell her. This doesn't make any sense. I could concoct something about Adrian resigning from his job as my editor, but that's going to take more energy than I have now.
All I can do is stare and disbelieve and cry.
Chapter Sixteen
I know I'm fired. I know I don't have a job anymore. But when I wake up, I get in the shower anyway, I get dressed, I even manage to eat a few spoonfuls of yogurt before I gag. I do this before I bother picking up the piece of paper and looking at it again, my hands shaking, and drop it on the floor again as the tears come.
Last night, I tried to call Adrian at least ten times in a row. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's not answering. Clearly, he wants nothing more to do with me.
And obviously, that's for the best.
I can't accept it. I know I have no choice, but it grates against everything I feel about him. Is there some way I can possibly make him understand? Can I find the words to tell him how I feel? Would it even matter?
My phone dings with an incoming email as I sit there, curled up on the sofa in my favorite skirt and blouse. I stare at the screen, with unfocused eyes.
It's from Natalie McBride.
The same address I used to correspond with "her," back when I thought she was real. Those emails that Adrian claims were from Kara, even though everything she wrote seems at odds with what I've seen of her personality.
The email is just a link. I tap it.
It's a blog article.
THE TRUTH ABOUT NATALIE MCBRIDE?
No one likes citing unnamed sources, but I simply can't let this one go. I can't share everything I was told, but suffice it to say I've seen ample evidence to convince me that this person is in the know. Natalie McBride is a man - and not just any man, one of the most prominent businessmen in his field. He's got more in common with Dirk than Amanda. According to my source, he's a bit of an egomaniac who gets off on knowing he's fooled everyone…
Heart pounding in my throat, I open the Natalie McBride Facebook page. There's a post with over four hundred comments.
Fuck.
To my readers -
I hope some of you will take the time to read this. Please understand I never wanted to lie to you, and while I would never place the blame on anyone else for my actions, I was told this was the only way to reach you. That you would not accept me for who I really am. If I can leave you with just one piece of advice: be very, very wary when you're told something like that.
I realize now that it wouldn't have mattered. You connected with my stories no matter what, and I should have been honest from the beginning. But lies are set in quick-dry concrete. You just have to keep building on them once they're there, unless you want to take a wrecking ball to the whole thing. And that was a choice I made, on my own. I was counseled to try honesty, but I was afraid.
What was I afraid of? This. Losing the connections I've made with all of you. And just in case that sounds creepy, I want to make it clear that I never presented myself as a woman with the intention of gaining your trust so that I could take advantage of you as a man. I know anyone here who's corresponded with me will be able to tell you that. I have always tried to be respectful and to maintain boundaries.
Of everything I've gained from these last few years, it's all of you that I value the most.
I want you to know that one hundred percent of the proceeds from these books has been donated to charity. That was always the case. I never needed the money, and I didn't want to profit off of a lie. Many, many people will be better off because you bought my books. If nothing else, I hope that eases your mind.