12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter twelve
Inés
It's been a week since the board meeting and things are changing fast at Locke quietly, no scene, no tears.
She left a single note on the desk she'd been using, which had been mine before she took it: You win.
Two words, in that neat European handwriting.
I crumpled it and dropped it in the recycling bin.
I heard later, through Ruth-Ann's network, that she'd already surfaced at a tech media startup in SoHo, working her charm on the founder there. Same pattern, new host. Some people don't change. But that's someone else's problem now.
With her gone and the truth out in the open, it feels like a weight has been lifted off our department. There's a sense of camaraderie again. I feel like we're all working together towards the same goal.
Harrison, too, seems more engaged than he has been in months.
He's actually sitting in on editorial meetings and reading manuscripts again instead of just signing off on whatever summary I give him.
I think back to that trademark I filed for the series, how it was meant to protect what we built together, but ended up being something I'd need to protect myself.
I haven't brought it up yet, but when the time comes to negotiate my own terms, I know it'll be there.
A small piece of paper with my name on it, waiting.
And then there's the fact that he came over last night. Not with flowers or some grand gesture, just...himself. Showing up to talk things through and be there. It felt like something out of our early days, when we could just be ourselves without all the pressure and expectations.
Despite all that, he knows there is work to do. That I still need to see real change, not just hear about it.
And the truth is...he's doing it. He makes sure all author communication goes to me now, even if it's just a simple question. He's been reading my training manuals and taking notes in the margins, which is both funny and sweet, and asking questions about how he can support his editors better.
I still have moments where I want to pull back, afraid this might be another temporary fix.
But for the most part...it feels real. I am allowing myself to hope again.
This afternoon, as I'm working through some manuscript edits from Ruth-Ann's, I get a text from him. He wants to come by the Brooklyn Heights place, not for a serious talk or anything, but just to spend time together. No agenda.
It feels like another good sign, so I text back that it's fine and then clean up the living room a bit. It's still messy with my violin case open on the couch and papers scattered everywhere, but at least it looks lived-in instead of abandoned.
When he knocks on the door half an hour later, I open it to find him holding takeout from our favorite Thai restaurant, the one we used to go to every Friday night when we were dating. Despite having an ungodly amount of money, he still remembered.
I smile before I can stop myself. "You remembered."
He shrugs like it's nothing, but his grin says otherwise. "How could I forget? You never let anyone else order for us."
I laugh and step aside so he can come in. The scent of lemongrass and chili fills the small apartment. It's not fancy or romantic by any means, but somehow, it feels right. Along with the food, he has a messenger bag, which is odd because I didn't see it when he was at the door.
"What's that for?" I ask, nodding towards it.
He hesitates, looking almost nervous as he sets the food down on the coffee table. "It's, uh...something for you."
I raise an eyebrow at him. He's never been good with surprises; they usually backfire somehow. "What is it?"
"Just...open it." He hands over the bag, watching me closely as I reach inside.
I pull out a leather-bound notebook and immediately recognize it. It's one of mine from the loft, filled with scribbles and half-formed ideas, fragments of sentences I thought were worth saving at some point but never did anything with. It's not exactly private, but it's still personal.
"How did you...?" I trail off, flipping through the pages. My heart skips when I see a new note written at the very back in Harrison's messy scrawl: For your novel.
He shrugs again, but there's something tender about his expression now. "I thought maybe...you might want to use it? Finish what you started."
I look up at him, stunned. He knows I gave up on my writing years ago; we don't talk about it anymore because it was always a sore spot between us. But here he is now, handing me this little piece of encouragement like it could make up for everything else.
"Why?" I ask quietly, not sure what else to say.
He sits down on the couch beside me, closer than he has been in weeks. "Because," he says softly, "I want to see what you can do when you're not spending all your time fixing my messes."
My throat tightens at that. It's one of those rare moments where Harrison manages to say exactly the right thing without even trying.
I set the notebook down on the table and turn towards him fully. "I might need some time before I get back into writing," I tell him honestly.
"And I will give you as much time as you need." He puts a hand into the bag and pulls out one last item. A red pencil. The kind I've used since I first started at L far from it. But for the first time in a long while, it feels like maybe...just maybe...we're on our way back to something good.
***
I visit Judge Vasquez-Holt a few days later, after the weekend spent reconnecting with Harrison.
I'm greeted by her housekeeper, Maria, who shows me to the familiar sitting room where the judge is waiting.
She looks as regal as ever in her armchair, sipping tea and reading some legal brief or another.
She barely glances up when I enter, but there's a small smile on her lips that wasn't there last time.
"Well," she says, setting down her papers. "Look at you."
I sit across from her, trying not to squirm under her scrutiny. "What do you mean?"
She raises an eyebrow. "You're glowing, Inés. Don't tell me things with Harrison are improving?"
I hesitate before nodding slowly. "Yes," I admit. "They are."
She watches me for a moment longer, her eyes sharp and knowing. "And what changed? Did he suddenly remember how to be a husband?"
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "It wasn't sudden. He's...trying. Really trying. For the first time in a long time, he's actually listening to me."
"Hm." She picks up her tea again, considering me over the rim of her cup. "And is that enough?"
I don't answer right away because I'm not sure myself.
Things are better between us, sure. Each day he seems to be trying harder: learning the ins and outs of the editorial process, supporting me in meetings, making sure my voice is heard.
But there's still a part of me that wonders how long this will last. Can I trust that he won't fall back into old habits when things get tough?
But maybe I can. Maybe he really has changed. And maybe it's time I start letting go of the anger and hurt that have been building up for so long.
"I think," I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, "that it's a start. And sometimes...a start is all you need."
The judge studies me for another moment before nodding slightly. "Well, then." She sets down her cup and leans back in her chair. "I suppose you didn't come here just to update me on your love life?"
I smile at that. She always knows when I'm avoiding something. "No, ma'am," I say with mock seriousness. "I came to ask for your advice on something else."
She raises an eyebrow, intrigued now. "Oh? And what might that be?"
"I've been thinking about my novel again," I admit, feeling vulnerable as I say it out loud. "Harrison even gave me my old notebook back. But...I don't know where to start. It's been so long since I've written anything for myself."