Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
I’m woken up by thunder. Rain lashes against my bedroom window like it’s trying to break through. I squint at the small digital clock on my nightstand, the red letters bright in the darkness. It reads six a.m.
I stretch and sit up in bed. For the first time since I arrived, I feel rested. The combination of my body finally adjusting to the time change and falling asleep right after dinner has worked like a charm.
I reach for my phone, half-expecting missed calls from Emma—and maybe a little too hopeful for something from Harrison. To my surprise, I have more texts from him than I do from her.
I’ll never admit it out loud, but excitement flutters in my chest, thrill rushing through to my fingertips.
Harrison
Thomas, are you alright?
I called, but it went to voicemail.
The next text came through thirty minutes later.
Harrison
I was hoping to chip away at that wall of yours for a while tonight.
But I’m guessing you’re probably in bed.
Sleep well.
Sweet. Thoughtful. Just the right amount of persistent. I type up a message as I throw back the covers, already craving coffee.
You guessed right. I’m sorry I went MIA—I passed out right after dinner. I don’t think I would have woken up even if the fire alarm had gone off.
I haven’t even made it to the bathroom when my phone goes off. It catches me by surprise, like he always does. My photo gallery is now half daily snapshots of the city and half screenshots of our messages for Emma.
Harrison
That doesn’t sound very safe, love. Maybe I’ll have to keep you company at night. Just in case…
I chuckle, teeth sinking into my bottom lip.
How are you always this cheeky?
And why are you up this early if you’re jobless?
I continue with my short but efficient morning routine, brushing my teeth and taming my hair into something presentable. As I’m pulling on my comfiest sweater, his reply comes in.
Harrison
It’s genetics. My dad’s the same way, and it worked for him.
Life’s more fun this way.
Also, I run in the mornings, remember?
I’m a bore then.
You’re running in this rain? I can see lighting through my curtains.
Harrison
I have a small gym at home. I was about to hit the treadmill.
Unless…
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Unless… I’d be so easy to keep this game going, let the buzz in my stomach take the wheel for once. But I can already feel the slippery slope beneath my feet and I can’t trust myself not to fall.
Sorry, Harrison. Going to make myself some breakfast and see if I can make it to the office early today.
Harrison
Oh! I didn’t realize I was texting the star worker of Mavericks! They’re not going to want you to leave when you’re done.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee starts filling up my kitchen space as the golden-brown liquid drips into my cup. The sound, mixed with the clicking of my phone as I type, already makes this a good morning.
I’m trying to get back up there. We’ll see if my efforts pay off or if I’m back on a plane after next week’s monthly meeting.
Harrison
A month next week? Seems like time went awfully fast and slow at the same time.
Will you stay?
It’s been almost three weeks since that rainy Monday night that had me going into The Anchor for the first time.
Everything that’s happened since still feels picked out of a movie.
Joshua Harrison has flooded my day-to-day life, leaving little space to think about why I took this assignment in the first place.
Inspiration is back on full blast, but is my work good enough to continue here?
It’s not just my decision. I only get to stay if my campaign is chosen, which is hard. The rest of the team are really talented too.
Harrison
Assuming it gets picked, will you stay?
I don’t know yet.
I answer honestly. My head’s trying to be rational—reminding me that grown-ups can go three months away from home without unraveling.
If I do go back, even with a winning pitch, I’m probably better off looking for another job—the last thing I need is for my professional life to reset back to square one.
My heart, on the other hand, still aches.
And the loneliness, paired with the lack of sunny days, isn’t helping.
Harrison
I don’t believe London has seen enough of Julia Thomas yet.
A smile twitches at the corners of my lips. I take a page out of his book.
London or you?
Did I really send that? I must admit, there’s something liberating about saying what you think without obsessively calculating the fallout. What’s there to lose that hasn’t already been lost?
Harrison
London, of course.
And there it is—like a bucket of ice-cold water to the face. His answer pulls me right back to reality, where strangers you’ve met once tend to stay strangers.
I slip my phone into my pocket, wrap both hands around my mug, and shuffle over to the little settee by the window. I cover myself with a blanket and look outside, where early risers brave the morning mist. Raindrops drum against the glass and then roll down slowly, hypnotically.
I smile wryly. Here I am, effectively recreating the most cliché, over-dramatic scene in movies where the character reflects on her life for thirty seconds before her inner turmoil is resolved by a happily ever after.
Three years ago, I would have sworn that every real love story would be like that.
A fairy tale waiting to bloom within the darkness of day-to-day life. I’m not so sure anymore.
Now it seems like every relationship in this generation is a bunch of tales and none of the fairy.
It reminds me of a candid shot I took of a couple down at the beach.
Barefoot, completely lost in each other.
They felt like the real deal. Like love in its most natural form.
When I approached them to offer the photo, they panicked.
Begged me to delete it. Turned out they were lovers, sneaking away for a weekend of passion behind their partners’ backs.
Another reason for my camera being benched.
The worst part about this is that I can’t be upset.
I’m the one who’s dodged his advances. And I hate it.
I hate that I can’t just snap my fingers and unlearn my baggage.
I hate that I’m not the kind of girl who can sleep around without consequence.
I hate that I’m stuck somewhere between craving connection and fearing it.
I tip back the last sip of coffee left in my ‘I Heart Hollywood’ cup that Emma got me for the white elephant gift exchange last Christmas and pull my phone out of my pocket again. Nothing new from him.
Even though I don’t owe him anything, I don’t want him thinking he did something wrong.
Getting ready for work, talk later.
Harrison
Everything okay?
Everything’s fine :)
I end up getting to work just in time. My morning drags, each minute stretching longer than the last. I have zero motivation to get anything done, and judging by the quiet in the office, I’m not the only one. We’re in a collective slump.
His next text comes right after lunch, as we’re about to head into a meeting. I don’t want to come off as cold, but I only manage to type three words before being called in the room. I hesitate, wondering if I should add a smiley face, but the door is already closing behind me.
In a meeting.
The workday ends, and I am once again faced with the daily battle of finding a taxi in the middle of a downpour.
I make it home exactly one hour later. I’m physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.
I’m tired of the gloomy weather and the weight of my thoughts.
Everything feels just a little out of reach.
I pour a glass of red wine and turn on the water for a hot bath. Steam quickly fogs up the mirror. Lavender bath salts cloud the tub and fill the room with the calming scent of a Southern French field, or at least that’s what I imagine one would smell like.
I try to meditate like I was taught once in a course Emma and I took back home. Breathe in, breathe out. Leave your mind blank. It works for about two minutes before I’m flooded with doubts and questions about the campaign and Harrison.
It’s hard not to notice how far I’ve fallen from who I used to be. There was a time when I’d have said yes to someone like Harrison—famous or not. I want to find that girl again.
There is nothing more irritating than losing yourself to a disgusting, cheating boy. He doesn’t deserve for me to still be feeling like this, to still control my life even after it’s over.
My phone rings loudly, snapping me out of the spiral. I jolt and carefully grab it from the top of the vanity.
Harrison. Video calling.
I let it ring. I shower while the bath drains, towel-dry my hair, and try not to overthink. But the moment I see his follow-up text, I know I’m going to call him back.
Harrison
Call me.
Give me a minute.
Knowing full well he’s going to insist on video, I trade my oversized UCLA shirt for my actual pajama set. You can’t blame a woman for trying to look nice in front of Joshua Harrison.
The black satin V-neck hugs my body in all the right places. A lighter lace trim adds just the right amount of flirt. Some kind of sewing goddess must have made the matching shorts—it’s rare to find a pair that looks this good and is actually comfortable.
I take one more deep breath to get rid of the embarrassment and ring back. I’m on my way to the kitchen when his face fills up my entire screen.
He gives me a lopsided smile that makes my heart misbehave. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, taut against his chest.
“It’s not London, it’s me,” he says. Fast.
I blink. “What?”
“I’m the one that hasn’t seen enough of Julia Thomas yet,” he explains.
I’m not sure how to respond, so I just stare.
“You’ve been a bit off today, and I wanted to make sure you knew that I’d been pulling your leg.”
I look down, but it’s too late—the smile is already spreading across my face. I prop the phone against the coffee machine and start making dinner, fully in view.