Chapter 7 #2
Before she could decide whether to answer or let it go to voicemail, the buzzing stopped, only to start again immediately. Whatever he wanted, he wasn’t going to give up easily, and with a reluctant sigh, Sadie answered the call.
“Hello, Nate.” She aimed for neutral, missing by miles as her voice emerged tight and thin.
His voice spilled out immediately, no greeting, no preamble, just a slurring growl that confirmed he’d been drinking. Based on the time difference, he had likely been out all night at the bar. Some things never change.
“You think you’re better off, huh? Hiding in some nowhere dump?” The words tumbled over each other, thick with spite.
Sadie’s stomach clenched. That particular tone usually preceded thrown objects or a lengthy lecture on her flaws and how everything was her fault. She glanced around at the peaceful hillside, suddenly feeling exposed despite being completely alone.
“Got yourself a cute little country vacation, playing editor to some hack writer?” he continued. “What happens when your little holiday is over?”
Sadie pressed her back against the bench, seeking its solid support as Nate’s poison tried to seep through the phone.
“I’ve been ignoring you for a reason,” she said, glad to be alone where no one could witness her side of the conversation. “What do you want?”
“Want?” He snorted, the sound wet and ugly. “I want to know why my fiancé’s suddenly playing house in England with some hotshot writer when our lease isn’t up for another two months. I paid the rent, by the way. You’re welcome.”
“Always good to try something new, isn’t it?
” Sadie snarked before she could stop herself.
She had been covering the entirety of the rent for years while Nate worked on ‘finding his inspiration.’ She pressed on before he could rage at her for her comment, “I told you I took care of my portion with our landlord. And it’s ex-fiancé, Nate. We’ve been over this.”
“Right, right. Ex. Such a drama queen.” His voice dropped into the wheedling register she knew too well. “Come on, babe. This temper tantrum’s gone on long enough. What, I get mad over your nagging, and you move across the ocean?”
The casual rewriting of history wasn’t lost on her, as if he hadn’t smashed her laptop against the wall when she had the nerve to send him the listing for writing gigs so he might earn some money.
As if the scar on her calf hadn’t come from dodging a thrown coffee mug.
As if years of systematic belittling could be dismissed as a single moment.
“You know that’s not what happened,” she said, surprised by the steadiness in her voice.
“Whatever. So you’re what, finding yourself? Playing in the mud with the sheep?” His tone sharpened, the false concern evaporating. “Or is it this author guy? You fucking him, Sadie? Is that it?”
The crude accusation hung in the air, intended to shock and wound.
Old Sadie would have rushed to explain, placate, and defuse his jealousy with reassurances.
But something about being on the other side of an ocean made her brave.
She was tired of making herself smaller to accommodate his insecurity.
“I’m working, Nate,” she said, each word cool and clipped. “You don’t get to ask those questions anymore. You don’t get to wreck this.”
“Working.” He infused the word with disdain. “Right. Fixing comma splices for some British prick who couldn’t finish his book. That is what you reduced yourself to? I mean, I know Jess always rolls shit downhill to you, but sending you across the ocean?”
“Corbyn Pearce has sold millions of books,” she said, though she owed him no explanation. “And I was sent because I’m good at my job.”
“Corbyn Pearce?” Nate’s laugh returned, uglier than before. “He hasn’t published anything in years. Jesus, Sadie, are you editing airport paperbacks now? What’s next, ghostwriting celebrity cookbooks?”
Sadie felt her spine straighten, a flash of unexpected anger rising in her chest. “You don’t know the first thing about Corbyn Pearce or his work.”
“Whoa, a bit protective are we?” Nate’s voice dripped with mock surprise. “Wasn’t he in some sort of accident a few years back? What, is he tragic and misunderstood? That’s pathetic even for you.”
“What’s pathetic is tearing down someone who’s survived what he has,” Sadie shot back, surprised by her own vehemence. “The man has more talent and determination in one finger than you have in your entire body.”
The silence on the other end told her she’d hit a nerve.
But the dismissal of her career choices had been a cheap shot, one that preyed on the lingering fear that she was wasting her talent fixing other people’s words instead of creating her own.
Looking down at the notebook on her lap filled with her morning’s writing, gave her confidence.
She was more than her job title, more than Nate’s narrow definition of success.
“Eventually, everyone, including Jess, will realize you’re not as sweet and charming as they think you are,” he continued, filling her silence with more venom. “When this gig crashes and burns, don’t come crawling back to…”
Her index finger stabbed the end call button, cutting off the tirade mid-sentence.
For a moment, she sat motionless, waiting for the familiar wave of guilt to crash over her, but it didn’t come.
Taking a breath, she found his number in her contacts and quickly blocked it before he could call back—a long-overdue action.
She shoved the phone into her pocket and tipped her head back, letting the cold air wash over her heated face.
The wind swept back in, clean and crisp, as her pulse slowed from a gallop to a canter.
Closing her eyes, she made an effort to release the tension in her muscles, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape.
When she opened her eyes again, she looked down at her notebook, at the words she’d written.
Lifting the pen once more, she continued to write, forgetting about Nate, her fears, and even Corbyn and his stalled manuscript.
Jess had sent her here to heal, and for the first time in a very long time, she felt like it might just be possible.