Chapter 5
Scarlett
The Anastasios Press offices are located just outside of Chicago, about forty-five minutes away from JMP, which is right in the heart of downtown. The way Trina explained it, the suburbs have a bit of a slower-paced, family vibe that fits what Anastasios was going for when it was initially founded, and they negotiated with JMP to keep the building. Plus, more space with a cheaper overhead, which is probably the real reason.
Despite Trina’s begging, I drive myself. She probably doesn’t trust me not to bail. To her credit, I consider not going at least six times in the span of the hour it takes me to get ready. Thankfully, that trip to the salon actually did wonders for my self-confidence, so I’m able to wrangle myself into something I feel pretty good about. Before I can talk myself out of it again, I send Trina my location to keep me accountable, fold myself into my tiny car, and hit the road.
I arrive over an hour early, which is super great for the anxiety building in the pit of my stomach. But there’s no way I’m going in there without Trina, so I try to read on my phone— try being the operative word. Once I’ve read the same page three times without processing any of the information, I switch to Solitaire.
Trina knocks on my passenger-side window about twenty minutes before the meeting is set to start, a small smile playing at her red lips. I vaguely wonder—not for the first time—how she keeps them so perfectly red all the time as she pulls open the door and sits next to me.
She wastes no time getting right to the point, which is one of the things I truly love about her. “Okay, game plan,” she says breathlessly as she folds the edges of her green floral skirt into the car and slams the passenger door. Then, she deflates. “Actually, I don’t have a game plan. I got the sense on the phone that Casey thinks this whole thing is super weird, even though I tried to play it cool. He’s already suspicious. So we’re just going to go in there, shake a few hands, and I’m going to launch into my pitch before they have a chance to say anything about you.”
“That…does not make me feel better.” I frown.
As she shrugs, her shoulders hit her giant earrings, making them jingle like little fairies. “It’s the best I’ve got.”
“You could have lied to me. Pretended like you have some kind of control over this.”
She shakes her head, and her earrings twinkle again. “Honesty is the best policy. Plus, I didn’t want to spook you in there. Now, get out of the car. Throw your shoulders back. Fake it till you make it. You’re Scarlett Frye, goddammit. You’ve already published two best-selling novels, and you’re about to publish a third. Act like it.” She nods curtly, punctuating her sentence.
I blink at her a few times, my brows furrowed. “That was quite the pep talk.”
“Thank you.” She smiles widely. “I was rehearsing it on the way over. Let’s go. Before you can second-guess yourself.”
“More like tenth-guess myself at this point,” I mumble as I get out of my car. Trina laughs, and I have to fight the urge to tell her I wasn’t trying to be funny.
Anastasios Press is a two-story building with windows everywhere, encasing almost every nook and cranny in bright, afternoon light. As Trina gives our names to the receptionist, I look out at the scenery. It’s idyllic. Peaceful. Two people are walking on a path amongst prairie grasses out back behind the building, and three more sit in light jackets at a table enjoying the spring sunshine. It’s a nice escape from the cold steel of the Loop, where I’m used to having meetings like this. I choose to take this as a good omen and use it to force my heart rate into something the receptionist can’t hear. Trina was right; this is a different vibe. Different book. Different team. Different outcome, as my therapist would remind me.
Different Scarlett, I like to remind myself. I’ve come a long way since then.
Fortified against the nerves still threatening to take over my legs and make them run right out of here, Trina and I follow the receptionist up to the second floor and into a conference room. I don’t see a soul in the office. Maybe they’re all at lunch, which would be another one-eighty from the way JMP ran their editors into the ground. No one took breaks there. Even Ryan—
“They should be right with you,” the receptionist says, thankfully stopping that train of thought in its tracks. “Have a seat. Help yourself to the waters on the table. Can I get you a coffee or something?”
Trina glances at me. I stiffly shake my head. The last thing my nerves need is caffeine.
“No, thank you. Water is great,” she tells the receptionist, who closes the door softly behind us.
The sterile conference room, the paintings on the wall meant to be calming, the receptionist leading us in and telling us to wait. It feels so much like a doctor’s office that I’m thrown for a second. Waiting for someone to come in and deliver bad news…
“Sit,” Trina commands. When my gaze snaps to hers, her expression is neutral, but there’s a concern flickering behind her hazel eyes.
I clear my throat, trying to keep myself from spiraling even further. “I’m not a dog,” I say, but I drop into the nearest chair anyway.
No sooner does Trina sit in the chair next to me and grab a bottle of water for both of us does the door open.
“Trina McBryde, it is so good to see you,” comes Casey’s booming voice. I haven’t heard it in years, but it’s the kind of voice you don’t forget. Deep and rich, like a warm blanket. It’d be comforting if I weren’t so jittery.
Trina jumps to her feet, and they embrace with him angled just enough so he doesn’t see me. A woman enters the room after him. She has pin-straight black hair framing the bronze skin of her face, and she is wearing a bright yellow pantsuit that complements her features beautifully. I’ve never seen her before, but she smiles warmly at me.
“You must be S.J. Falmouth.” She extends her hand, and it takes me a moment to remember that’s my name here, at least until Casey gets a look at me. “I’m Esmerelda Chavez, one of the publicists here at Anastasios Press. But everyone calls me Meri.”
I stand and shake her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Meri.”
“And this man who has apparently forgotten his manners is—”
“Oh, fuck,” Casey curses. When my gaze snaps to him, he’s staring at me slack-jawed with pinched eyes. He does not look at all happy to see me.
Stupidly, I give him a little wave. “Hi, Casey. How are you?”
“You two know each other?” Meri asks with a forced politeness, clearly trying to salvage the situation.
He drags a hand down his jaw and turns his head toward Trina, though his eyes linger on me. “I knew you were acting weird. I wish you had told me,” he grinds out, ignoring Meri’s question.
“Surprise!” Trina wiggles her hands in a sort of jazzy motion, the bangles at her wrists jingling with a cheeriness no one is feeling. “S.J. Falmouth is actually Scarlett Frye! Which is why we wanted to meet to discuss marketing.”
“This is…” Casey trails off and finally drags his dark eyes away from me. They land on Trina, and not in a kind way. “This is not good.”
She furrows her brow. “Why not? I mean, I know you weren’t expecting this, but everyone loves a comeback, right? And I thought you said JMP doesn’t really check up on you all over here, so…”
Trina goes on and on, talking a mile a minute. The door opens again, but my back is to it, and I’m too engrossed in this exchange to turn and look. Which is why I’m gobsmacked when the newcomer speaks.
“Sorry I’m late. There was some traffic coming back from lunch.”
It’s a familiar voice. One that used to be closer to my heart than my own. One that filled the gaps in my soul and whispered to me in the dark.
But surely he isn’t here right now. I’ve just been stressed out about this whole thing, and I’m mistaking someone else’s voice for his. That has to be it. There’s no other explanation. Unless…
I freeze. Trina glances over my shoulder, and her eyes go wide. Her red lips form an O, and it would appear she’s been rendered speechless. Casey watches me carefully, and poor Meri is just standing there in her bright yellow pantsuit with her hands clasped in front of her and a smile plastered on her face.
“What is going on?” comes that voice again, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to persuade myself that Ryan Whitlock isn’t standing right behind me.
It’s Casey who jumps in first. He clears his throat and puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, encouraging me to turn around.
“We were just getting started with introductions,” he says as I turn as slowly as I possibly can to face my fate.
It is him standing there. The man I loved more than I loved my writing career, who pored over my words with me at such length, I wasn’t sure which were his and which were mine. Bodies and souls and words entwined in a love deeper than any I’ve experienced before or since.
The man I walked away from when I rejected my offer from JMP.
People are saying things in a flurry behind me now, but I don’t catch any of them. I have tunnel vision, laser-focused on Ryan standing in front of me, looking somehow better for the five years since I saw him last. He’s wearing a thin, navy V-neck sweater and fitted gray slacks. His classic dark-rimmed glasses frame his brown eyes which also seem to be zeroing in on me. The brown hair I used to run my fingers through is longer now, and my hand twitches to find out if it’s still as silky as it was then.
“Scarlett.” His voice is several decibels lower than the frenzy behind me. And yet, it’s all I can hear.
I can’t move, can’t speak. I can only nod slightly, and his hand flies to his mouth. He laughs, then—a harsh sound and not at all the joyous one he used to save for me. The room grows quiet at the noise.
“It was you,” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, his words are laced with awe.