“Lily…”
I don’t know if he’s even aware he’s said my name out loud. I want to make this right. He’s pulling onto my street now, and I need to make this right.
My caress is delicate, a stroke along the neck. The pad of my thumb slides along his jaw. My pinky twines itself in the hair along his nape. His skin is warm beneath mine.
We’re going to be okay, I tell myself.
He pulls into the parking lot of my building, and I drop my hand, reaching for my purse again. But Calder won’t have any of that. He slams the car into park, grabs me, twists me toward him. I don’t have time to gasp before he kisses me. His fingers dig into my scalp, drawing me nearer, while his tongue explores my mouth as if he can’t get enough of the taste of me. I can’t get enough of him, either. Idecided we’d wait to have sex.it10t’s like this is the only way we can express our pain, our fears, our everything.
I grab a fistful of his shirt, but I’m not going to take off any of his clothes. I’m not going to push it. This is enough, right now. This brief, passionate meeting of mouths and minds.
I pull away first. I feel like I’m going to float away.
“Goodbye,” I tell him. “I had a wonderful time today.”
He gives a small smile, runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, for—well, for the way things ended today. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“I’m counting on it.”
He pulls me close again, kissing me softly, sweetly this time.
And for the moment, that kiss tells me everything I need to know.
* * *
“Have you seen this?” Morgan says. “Is it true? Did you have any idea it was going on?” It’s Monday morning, and I haven’t even had the time to settle in yet, but Morgan’s here, waving a magazine as she approaches my desk.
My stomach sinks. I’m afraid to look, but I suck it up and take the glossy weekly from her hand.
It’s even worse than I expected. There it is, in huge block letters across the cover: “RUINED! THE CUNNINGHAMS LOSE EVERYTHING!” And below, in only slightly smaller letters: “The Downfall of a Family!” I don’t want to see the actual article. It’s probably full of lies and rumors. But I find my fingers fumbling through the pages, flipping to an image of Calder and his late father. They don’t look happy, but it’s a random candid shot. The magazine probably chose the moodiest photo of the Cunninghams that they could find. It’s disgusting.
“So?” Morgan says, leaning toward me over the desk. “What’s going on? Did they really lose all of their money?”
She doesn’t mean badly, truly she doesn’t. Morgan’s sweet, and I know she’s asking out of mere curiosity rather than pure schadenfreude, so I resist the urge to throw the magazine back in her face.decided we’d wait to have sex.it10
“These tabloids always exaggerate everything,” I say. “His father made some poor financial decisions, but it’s not like Calder is living on the streets or anything.”
“The article says he sold the family estate.”
I shrug. “It seems silly for him to live there by himself. It’s just him and his sister now, and she’s on the other side of the world.”
“Ah, yes! Louisa!” Morgan flips the page in front of me to reveal the following spread. This one features a photo of a bright-eyed, smiling Louisa, her dark hair spilling out of a bandanna and her arms around a child. The headline on this page reads, “A Sister with Heart: Louisa Cunningham’s Life of Philanthropy.” This one makes me almost as angry as the previous article. Look: I admire anyone who dedicates their life to the service of others, anyone who recognizes their own privilege and decides to use it to make the world a better place. But Louisa left her brother to handle all of their family troubles alone. Calder had to deal with the estate, the finances, the damage control—everything. On top of his grief. Aren’t families supposed to get through this stuff together?
And he has this tabloid shit-fest to deal with, too, now that the news has broken. He shouldn’t have to face it by himself.
He’s not alone, I remind myself. You’re here with him. Not that he’s letting me help him.
“What’s that look?” Morgan says. “You know something, don’t you?”
I’m saved from having to respond by the sudden appearance of my dad.
“And what are you two ladies gossiping about?”
I freeze, unsure of what to say, and Morgan’s eyes widen as if we’ve just been caught conspiring. I think about pushing the tabloid aside, playing it off, but Dad’s already at the desk. He looks curiously down at the magazine.
“You don’t read this junk, do you?” he says, plucking it up from the scattering of registration forms I’d hoped to file this morn toward the place where 6Npaing. His gaze scans over the page, and I watch the recognition flicker in his expression at the sight of the Cunningham family.
“Hm,” he says, his eyes skimming over the article. After a minute, he tosses the magazine back on my desk. “Have you heard anything from the Crasters? We’re still waiting on their final payment.”
“I’ll give them a call.” Of course, what I really want to do is ask him what he thought of the article he just saw. How he feels about Calder Cunningham now that’s he’s seen the truth.
But my dad’s already halfway out the door again.
“That reporter fellow called early this morning,” he says over his shoulder. “He said he had a couple of follow-up questions and wanted you to call him when you got in.”
“Okay, Dad!” I call after him. I don’t remember where I stuck Asher Julian’s card, but I add it to my already-overflowing mental to-do list for the day.
Morgan seems to sense my shift in mood.
“I’ll be back later,” she tells me. “With coffee. And cookies.”
It’s not until after she’s gone that I realize she’s forgotten her magazine. I know I should push it aside—that it’s only going to piss me off—but I can’t help myself. I flip back to the first page of the article.
The photo of Calder and his father makes me feel no less stabby the second time around. This time, though, my eyes skim past the photo and on to the piece itself.
You don’t want to read this… a little voice in my head warns me.
But since when have I listened to those reasonable little voices?