Chapter 19
Ryan
The minute I see Anastasios Martis’s name light up my phone before I’ve even left for work, I know this is not going to be good. I’m glad I excused myself from Scarlett’s kitchen, and not only because looking at her standing there—vulnerability written in the curve of her shoulders and the blue of her eyes—was going to break me into a million pieces in about two-point-five seconds. There’s only one reason why the publisher and namesake of the press would be calling me.
Sure enough, the first thing he says when I answer the phone is, “I have been thinking about this, and I’d really like to meet Scarlett Frye.”
I move my glasses out of the way so I can massage the bridge of my nose. It doesn’t ease any of the tension, but it was worth a shot.
“Well, sir, I’m sure she’d love to meet you, too,” I start as diplomatically as I can, “but she’s under some pressure with her next deadline. I think it might be best to let her work uninterrupted—”
“That’s actually why I want to meet with her,” he interrupts. “I trust you can be discreet about what I’m going to tell you?”
“Of course, sir,” I say because I know what’s good for me.
“I’ll be honest; I was hesitant to sign her on given her history with JMP. But with you vouching for her current manuscript, I felt like it was less of a risk. Your word goes a long way, Whitlock. I hope you know that.”
“Thank you, sir.” I rub my hand over the itchy stubble on my jaw that has grown since last night.
“It’s still a risk, though. JMP sank a lot of money into that third book of hers, only to end up having to pull every resource they had slated when she backed out.”
“All due respect, sir, but they did that before their offer was even on the table. There was always a chance she would walk.” I keep my voice as measured as I possibly can. Anastasios Press was acquired two years after Scarlett left, and though I’m sure Anastasios heard rumors about it all, she had become both a pariah and a thing of the past by that time. Her status was almost mythological among the ranks at the press, and the speculation about her breakdown ranged from courteous sympathy to downright anger. Her disappearance only fueled the flames of conjecture for a while, though I’m not sure how much of that speculation made it up the ranks to the top.
It was always their intent to have Anastasios remain at the head the acquired imprint—even allowing him to keep the name under the guise of his name meaning resurrection and it being a symbol of rebirth for the company. They desperately needed a new image after Scarlett’s disappearance gave a number of authors courage to come forward about the stresses they themselves were under. But by the time the imprint was up and running, Scarlett’s situation was so far in the rearview mirror that I doubt he learned about any of the finer details. Like our relationship, for example.
“Trust me, there were conversations about their strategy behind closed doors. JMP’s relationship with risk has permanently changed because of that very debacle. But it got me thinking. She could walk again, you know.”
I’m immediately defensive. “She won’t,” I say. It comes out harsher than I meant, so I take a deep breath and try again. “She signed the contract this time, and she’s been in direct contact with me as we work on revisions. Everyone involved agreed that it’s been long enough for her to have changed and that her manuscript was good enough for a second chance.”
“For now, yes. But if this goes where I hope it’s going, she’ll be important again down the line with more books and bigger deals. I need to protect my investments at this imprint.” His voice trails off as if he’s musing on something else, and I hear the clicking of his keyboard over the phone. I wait for him to finish whatever it is he’s doing.
“Listen,” he says when he comes back to the conversation. “I promise this isn’t sinister. I know editors can get protective over their authors, especially the more delicate ones.” The editor in me wants to ask if it’s the authors or the editors who are delicate in this situation, but I bite my tongue. “We’ve all been there. I just want to meet her. This isn’t anything against you or your work. Call it idle curiosity, if you will.”
I bristle at the suggestion that Scarlett is something to be gawked at, like a caged animal. Or worse, that she’s a commodity. But I don’t see any way out of this. Anastasios Martis is my boss, and it’s in everyone’s best interests to keep him happy.
“I can see if she has any availability.” I grimace to myself at how easily I give in, though I’m not sure what the point of resisting him would be other than to write my own professional epitaph. I’m just a company man, I guess.
“Excellent.” His chair squeaks in the background as if he’s standing to mark the end of a meeting. “Call my secretary when you have a date so she can get it on my calendar. I look forward to it.” He hangs up before I can say anything else.
Groaning, I toss my phone on top of Scarlett’s bed. It’s when the phone lands with a dull thud and not a soft flop that I notice the comforter piled next to the bed, on the floor. I guess that explains the noise I heard just before she exited her room this morning.
I pick up the comforter and lay it out on top of the bed for her, smoothing it as I go. The memory of me nodding off on top of it last night—like a perfect gentleman—comes back as I run my hands over the damask pattern. I should have left. I know I should have left. But being with her again—watching as her body relaxed into sleep, her hand reaching out to me like a moth to a flame—I couldn’t leave.
I like to consider myself a strong man. And where Scarlett is concerned, I’ve thought I was at least over her enough to move on with my life. I used to think that if she ever appeared in my life again, we’d exchange pleasantries, maybe catch up a little, and go our separate ways. But this whole situation has blown that out of the water.
Dragging my hand down my face, I groan again. I am well and truly fucked.
When I finally exit Scarlett’s bedroom, I find her opening and closing cabinets in the kitchen with what seems like growing panic. She’s muttering to herself, but when she hears the door open, she whips around. The cabinet door slams behind her, and she starts a bit.
“Everything okay?” I ask, stepping toward the counter and the coffee I left there.
“Well, yeah. Sort of.” She shrugs, then winces at me. “You didn’t put a little orange pill bottle somewhere when you were cleaning up, did you?”
My eyes tip upward as I search my memories. “You mean like a prescription bottle?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nods as she lifts her eyebrows.
I shake my head slowly. “No, I don’t remember anything like that. Why?”
She sighs, slumping against the counter. “I’m on some medication. Antidepressants?” Her voice tips up at the end like a question. She eyes me carefully, waiting for a reaction. I keep my expression carefully neutral, unsure of which reaction would be the appropriate one for information I technically already knew. Apparently appeased, she continues, “Anyway, I can’t find them, which makes me think I might be out.”
“How long have you been without them?” I ask carefully.
She lets out a puff of air which buzzes her lips until she closes them and blows out her cheeks. Her eyes slide to me, and she sends a cautions eyebrow skyward. “I don’t remember.”
My feet, with minds of their own, shuffle toward her. “You can’t just not take your meds, Scarlett.” I try to sound stern, but my voice is laced with an unmistakable concern.
She drags her bottom lip through her teeth. “I know. I’m usually really good about remembering, I swear. But I was working on revisions for you, and then I started this next project, and when I get to working, the days all bleed together, and I can’t remember if I took it or not and—”
“Scarlett.” I tuck a wayward hair behind her ear, which effectively stops her guilty rambling. I allow myself to run a thumb over the softness of her cheek, but I drop my hand before I can give into the urge to drag that thumb over the place where she just bit her lip. “It’s okay. We’ll refill your prescription, and then I’m going to set an alarm in your phone as a reminder for when you need to take it each day.”
Her dark eyebrows crumple together in confusion, and she blinks at me a few times. “We… You…” She shakes her head rapidly as if to clear it. “Why did I never think of that?”
A chuckle bubbles up out of me, riding up on the high of being able to help her do this simple thing. As if acting on muscle memory, I cup my hand behind her head, weaving my fingers through her hair, and kiss her forehead. It’s such a natural action—one I made countless times, years ago—that I barely think anything of it until my lips touch her skin.
“Because your big, beautiful brain is full of other things.” Suddenly very aware of our proximity, I take a step back quickly. “Besides, that’s what you have me for.” I try to put on a reassuring expression, but my lips are still practically vibrating from their contact with her.
Scarlett’s gaze drops, and her features contort with concern. “I didn’t have trouble remembering before this,” she mutters, probably to herself.
I respond anyway. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll get you set up and back on track. No problem.”
Her eyes fly to mine, and the concern etched on her face is replaced with skepticism. “Why are you doing all of this? It’s Tuesday. Don’t you have, like, a job to do or something?” Like a cloud passing over the sun, her expression clears. “I guess I am your job now, huh?”
There is no world in which I wouldn’t help Scarlett get what she needs now that I know what that is. But I don’t have to tell her that. “Your book is my job,” I deflect.
“Well, I wrote the book, so it’s definitely in your best interest to make sure I write the next one they signed me on for.”
“I said it once and I’ll say it a million times, Scarlett. You’re more than your writing.”
She shrugs with an air of forced nonchalance, like a maladjusted teenager pretending not to care. “Yeah.” Then, she brightens a bit as her spine straightens. “Speaking of my writing, though, would you maybe want to read what I’ve got so far in this draft? I could use some feedback. It’s hard writing in a vacuum.”
“Shouldn’t you ask your critique partners before you ask your editor?” I tease, but from the way she winces, I know exactly what she’s going to say before she says it.
“I…uh…I don’t have any critique partners.” She shrugs in that jerky, uncomfortable way again. “I haven’t since, well, you know. It’s like they think mental breakdowns are contagious or something. Or they don’t want to be associated with someone on publishing’s blacklist.”
That’s when I realize she’s not just trying to rebuild a career. She’s trying to rebuild an entire life. One that collapsed in the wake of her decisions. She didn’t just walk away from her career and from me that day. She walked away from everything .
“You’re not on the blacklist,” I tell her, because starting there seems easier than trying to dissect the more complicated emotions rising in my chest. “In fact, Anastasios Martis wants to meet with you later this week.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not.” I try to reassure her, even though I’m not entirely certain about this myself. “That was him on the phone just now. He was asking me to set up a meeting with you.”
“Hmm.” She narrows her eyes skeptically. “When?”
“Whenever you’re available.”
Her arms lift from the sides of her body, as if they’re encompassing the entirety of her life. “As you can see, I’m completely booked, but I suppose I can squeeze something in,” she says with a healthy dose of skepticism. Then, she grows serious. “Maybe the end of the week? Or early next week? I’d like to get some shit together first, if you think that’d be okay.”
“I think that’d be fine,” I say gently. “And I’ll be there. I’m not sure if that’s reassuring or not, but—”
“It is,” she cuts me off before flashing me a half smile. “I’m glad you’ll be there for me.”
I’ll always be there for you , I want to say, but I don’t. I’ve crossed enough lines today. Instead, I grab her jacket from the hook next to the door and help her into it. “Let’s get your prescription, and then I want to read this next draft of yours.”
She shrugs into her jacket and pulls her hair loose from the collar. The dark strands fall over the green vinyl of her windbreaker. “You do?”
I jam my hands into my pockets in a feeble attempt to resist running my fingers over the loose ends of her hair. “Of course I do. I already told you I’ll read anything you write. Always.”
It feels like an admission, and the words hang between us. But when Scarlett smiles, it’s like a rainbow after the rain. And as we ride the elevator down from her apartment and step out into the spring sunshine, everything feels better. Lighter.
It doesn’t even matter that we aren’t together anymore. I’ll do anything to make her smile like that again. For as long as she’ll let me.