Chapter 24 #2
I’d be reacting the same if I were in her shoes, so I’m not offended. It’s hard to explain Delaney. She just is who she is, and I love her for it. As I log onto my computer, I say, “I was surprised I didn’t hear from you more often. Taking time off isn’t something I’ve done often.”
“Or at all since you became CEO. It’s funny you say that, though, because I felt like I was constantly burdening you with emails.”
Scoffing, I turn my attention back on her. “Why would you say that? You sent what? One email. Two max. I figured everything was being handled. Was it not?”
“Taking the time to heal was the best thing for you to do, but . . .” Her brow wrinkles as her lips twist to the side as she contemplates with her eyes staring above my head.
“But?”
Setting her e-pad in her lap, she sits back, her shoulders as stiff as her expression. “Warner, I was emailing you every day, multiple times, even over the weekend.” She lowers her voice and says, “And you were emailing me back. Do you not remember any of that?”
This news sideswipes my mood, dampening it. I’m not sure what she’s talking about. “I didn’t have my phone—”
“I know.” Leaning forward, she glances at my monitor. “Check your emails.”
Dread lodges in the pit of my stomach as I click open my inbox. Mostly filled with emails that will steal my day to get through, only one was sent from Jocelyn. The one I already read. “Odd.”
She’s quiet. I’m sure assuming this concussion is taking me out of the game.
She’d be wrong. I feel good, great even.
Until she holds up the e-pad with her inbox on display and a column of correspondence between the two of us.
“I—” I clamp my mouth shut, wondering if the concussion has caused more damage than I thought.
How could I have been emailing and not remember doing it?
Am I losing my mind? Emailing while passed out?
Is that even a thing? I once read that sleepwalking is more common than people realize.
Is this a different version of it? Sleep-emailing?
Sleep-working? Falling back on something I’m comfortable with, that I excel at, wouldn’t be surprising.
Holding full conversations is a whole other level of concern.
Delaney . . .
Apprehensively, I glide my mouse over to the trash folder and click it open.
The screen populates with the missing messages.
When I open the first one, I catch that I’m fine, don’t worry, I trust you to make the right decision, and I’ll be offline the rest of the weekend.
The latter is something I’ve never said in my life.
But if someone wanted me all to herself, she might.
Or maybe Delaney thought it best for me to rest. She was looking out for my best interest, which most people never do.
Am I kidding myself? I think it’s gaslighting at this stage.
I want to believe we are real so badly that I’m searching for justifications for her actions instead of demanding answers.
I look at Jocelyn. Trying to act like it was all a misunderstanding, “I found them.” Touching my head, I say, “I don’t know why I forgot—”
“You have a concussion.”
“Yes,” I say, laughing to humor her when I’m not the least bit amused. “It’s been a weird time.”
“I understand. Maybe you need more time to recover?”
“No.” I glance at the screen again, scanning the column. “It’s fine. I do have a lot of business to take care of, though, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Standing, she says, “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”
As she makes her way to the door, I say, “Thank you for dealing with everything while I was gone.”
She stops to look back. “Of course, it’s my job, but even if it weren’t, I’m always here to help, sir.”
“I appreciate that. Will you order me a new phone to be delivered today?”
“Done.” When she walks out of the office, she closes the door behind her. The moment I’m alone, I start scrolling through emails. The dread I feel is well-founded and expands into my chest with each one I read.
Every email is another betrayal, another lie piled on a relationship built on them. She didn’t bother admitting she was the one in communication. Instead, she inserted herself. How’d she know my password?
Fire runs through my veins, heating my cheeks as I read about deals that should be handled with care.
Ones she gave my assistant permission to work through.
?????????? ???????? ?? ?????? ?????????? Jocelyn.
She always has my back in business. But some of those decisions she doesn’t have the background or inside knowledge to make.
My hands shake as my blood pressure spikes, and I shove away from the desk. Pacing the length of my office, I grab a handful of my hair and tug, finding her gall beyond maddening. My patience wears thin, making me feel desperate to attack.
I keep thinking I can overlook these crushing setbacks to our relationship, sending us two steps back.
Nothing is safe with her around, including me.
But I also foolishly thought we had more time to work through it, but things are coming to a head.
If it weren’t for the week’s worth of work to catch up on, I would storm back home and demand answers.
I’ll have to deal with it, with her, later.
With access to the world again and information at my fingertips, I type Delaney Bayetti into the search bar.
Not much comes up. Part of the Bayetti family, who owns the restaurant, and she is studying elementary education.
The tidbit is so casually listed that I’m thrown off guard.
She’s a teacher, or she’s a student? How does her being a teacher even make sense?
Why wouldn’t she be working? Or does she have the summer off, and manipulating unsuspecting hit-and-run accident victims is her pastime to earn extra funds?
Why does this story—hers and mine—keep getting more complicated? For every one truth, five lies are revealed. It’s a damn house of cards we’re living in. House of mirrors describes it better.
Nothing of value shows up otherwise. She probably scraped the internet using her covert operative skills. Is she CIA, MI6, or part of the KGB? For all I know, my office might be bugged, and she’s listening from my apartment, cackling her sexy little ass off.
I smile. Not because I’m funny, which I am, nor because I read about the family ties to the restaurant, since I knew about that.
I chuckle because this has gotten so out of hand that I’m not sure it can be reeled back in.
And because that little nutball of mine is a sweet little teacher.
How bad or conniving can she be if she picked such a generous profession?
Her two personalities, seemingly worlds apart, leave my mind boggled enough not to take that on.
It can only be done when I’m face-to-face with her.
How can I use this to my advantage? That’s my next thought, but I don’t want advantages.
I want to know her, all of her. I want her truths, even if they’re not as pretty as she’d like them to be.
I want to understand what’s going on so I can find forgiveness for the havoc she’s caused.
It’s then, standing in front of the view I’ve stared at for years, that I see color for the first time. Green treetops dot the sides of the avenue, blue covers the sky as far as I can see, and bright yellow cabs and brown sidewalks. It’s not just gray anymore. That’s because of Delaney.
This is not about fighting against her tide or giving in to the wave as it crashes down on us.
I’ve been coming at this situation all wrong.
It’s not about acceptance or denial. It’s about compromise and riding the wave into shore.
I can do that. For her. Give and take. No more secrets allowed. And I hope she returns the favor.
Two hours later, Jocelyn delivers a phone to my desk. “I updated it with your information and contacts. Photos are organized as they were, and your privacy is protected. Everything has transferred from the cloud and should work the same as your other one.”
“Thank you. That’s a time-saver.”
“Oh,” she says, pointing at the screen. “And there’s a text from Jimmy that came in as soon as the messages loaded.”
“I appreciate it, Jocelyn.” I look at my shiny new phone. It’s tempting to hug it to my chest, but yeah, that’s not going to happen. The reprieve from society was nice for a bit, but I missed having technology at my beck and call.
I tap on the message from Jimmy and read: Glad we had the bachelor party last month, since you’ve gone MIA on me. Two weeks until the wedding. I expect to hear from you before then, fucker.
I chuckle. If he only knew all that I’ve been through.
I haven’t forgotten about his wedding, but it hasn’t been on my mind.
Two weeks. I reply with a zoomed-out sky-view description of the accident, avoiding the details, and let him know I’m back in action if he needs anything.
But I find myself grinning like a fool when I let him know I’ll also be bringing a plus-one.