* * *
IT’S LATE AFTERNOON a couple of days later when I hit Save, then lean back in the office chair and exhale a deep breath. Finished. Well, sort of. There’s still one thing I need to do.
I make sure Gran’s settled, then tug on my peacoat and pop in my AirPods before heading out the door for a walk. I need the fortification of fresh air, for my feet to be moving while I make this next call. One I never thought I’d make. I steel myself while I wait for his receptionist to patch me through.
“Cassidy Sutton? Now there’s a name I didn’t expect to hear,” Tom booms in that signature Boston accent I’d recognize anywhere—and his voice actually sounds kind. “How the hell are ya?”
I’m a little thrown. I’m not sure what I was expecting from Jack’s best friend—contempt, tension, animosity maybe?—but it wasn’t concern.
“Hey, Tom.” I’m rather tragic and emotionally unstable, thanks for asking. “You know, I’m uh . . . I’m okay, I guess,” I stammer. “Yeah.”
“Well, that was convincing,” he deadpans.
Stellar start, Cass. I decide to skip right past the pleasantries. “I’m calling because I’ve got a business proposition for you.”
“Oh?” Now he’s the one who sounds off balance. “I’m listening.”
“I have an exclusive interview with Olivia Sherwood about her relationship with Eric Jessup that I thought Brawler might be interested in.” I wait for his reaction, but when he stays quiet, I press on. “I know it might be a little fluffy for your audience, but I figured—”
“No no,” he interrupts. “We definitely want it. And just so you know, the relationship stories are actually my favorite.”
“Oh please,” I groan, not buying it for a second. “Tom Bartlett, a closet softy?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he says flippantly, then pauses. “But more importantly, stories about the sex lives of celebrities always drive our traffic through the roof.”
Of course.
“I can pay you our standard contractor rate, plus a bonus based on click-through,” he says briskly, all-business now. “Or is there a specific number you’re looking for? Whatever it is, we’ll make it work.”
“Tom, you know this isn’t about the money.”
There’s a beat of silence. “No, I didn’t imagine it was.”
“Jack’s the only reason I have any connection to Olivia to begin with, so offering it to Brawler first just felt like the right thing to do.”
He grunts a disbelieving noise, like hmph.
“I realize that may sound ironic coming from me, but I do still know what the right thing is,” I say dryly.
“No, I just meant . . . you sure there’s no other reason?”
The wind kicks up and I burrow deeper into my coat, bracing against the cold as the implication in his question becomes clear. “If you’re worried this is just another trick, I can assure you—”
“You misunderstand me,” he interrupts. “I’m not accusing you of anything. Just the opposite. I’m asking if you’d object to me running your byline in thirty-point font so that moron can’t miss it.”
My heart and stride stutter simultaneously, nearly sending me tumbling off the curb. I hardly know how to respond, the sentiment behind his words leaving me tongue-tied.
He exhales. “Look Cassidy, you and I don’t know each other that well and my loyalty is to my friend, but the guy’s acting like a total jackass.”
I finally recover my voice. “You don’t have to—”
“You were good for him,” Tom cuts me off. “He was happy with you. Happier than he’s been in a long time, and he deserves that more than anyone I know. You may have fucked up first, but Jack’s the one fucking up now.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at his blunt assessment. “I was happy too,” I say thickly, and swallowing’s never been so difficult. Just when I think I’ve banished that lump for good, it rises from the ashes like a damn phoenix. “He was . . .” . . . the love of my life. I clear my throat and try again. “He was good for me, too. Minus his temper,” I amend. “I could do without that.”
He snorts. “You and me both.”
“I want you to know, I regret the role I played in all this. I know it affected you, too.” I take a deep breath. “And even if I am mad at him, I still wish I could fix things . . . but I think Jack’s made up his mind about me.”
“The man’s stubborn as hell, always has been. It’s both his best and worst quality.”
I hate that he doesn’t even try to contradict my statement—and the worst part is, as his best friend, Tom would know exactly how Jack feels. Any residual hope I may have felt bubbling up vanishes as if pricked by a pin.
“Well, it certainly seems to have paid off. What with the deal, I mean,” I say, trying to steer us back into neutral territory. “I’m glad everything worked out. I know how important it was to him.”
He hums his agreement. “He’s been ready to move on for years, though I sure did everything I could to get him to stay. I can’t be too upset with him, though. We had a good run.”
I pass a house with several giant leaf piles dotting the front lawn; some kids would have a field day jumping in those. “What about you? Going to cash out and live the high life?”
“Me? Hell no. I’m going down with the ship.”
I chuckle at that. “Hope it’s not too lonely up there at the top.”
“One thing I rarely am is lonely,” he says wickedly. A cad ’til the end.
I make a gagging noise. “Set myself up for that one, didn’t I? Forgot who I was talking to.”
He laughs, and there’s a brief lull in the conversation as I fight a losing battle against the question I swore I wouldn’t ask. “How is he, Tom?”
There’s a pause. “He’s doing okay. He won’t really say much about what happened, but that’s sort of par for the course with him. When he’s upset about something, he throws himself into work. Although now . . .” He trails off. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry. I’m keeping him busy.”
Something about the way he says it—or maybe it’s his reference to never being lonely—just makes me feel worse. What does “keeping him busy” even mean? Knowing Tom, he’s probably taking him on an exhaustive tour of New York’s finest strip clubs.
I feel sick. All this time, I’ve been imagining Jack alone in his ivory tower, shut away in his apartment full of extravagant, untouchable objects, mourning the loss of our relationship like a younger, hotter Miss Havisham. But who am I kidding? Jack’s not sitting home alone, licking his wounds. I’m sure there’s a long line of women who’ve been waiting in the wings for their chance to win over one of New York’s most eligible bachelors . . . who are only too willing to help him forget the duplicitous ex who once tried to screw him over.
“You know what, Tom, I’ve gotta run.” Literally run, away from the disturbing visuals now invading my brain. My hands start shaking in my pockets and I ball them into fists. “I’ll email over the story as soon as we hang up.”