Chapter 30
THIRTY
ABBEY
I meet with the attorney, Tamsa’s brother Zahid. He’s serious, brusque, and thorough, not like Tam at all. She comes with me and holds my hand the entire meeting.
“You have the check?” Zahid asks.
I reach into my purse and find the tiny square of paper that I retrieved from the ashtray this morning. He watches, his features steady and unreadable, as I unfold and unfold and unfold. Finally, I set the check on his gleaming mahogany desk and smooth out the creases. “Here it is.”
“This is very good for our case,” Zahid says. “Very good. Another smoking gun, you might say.”
“I’m so proud of you for not cashing that check,” Tamsa says. “Hell, I’m proud of me for not cashing mine. That would have taken care of a nice chunk of my student loans.”
I don’t feel like I deserve her praise after keeping my secret for so many months when, if I’d come forward right away, I might have been able to prevent what happened to Tam and the others. When I say this, though, Tam and her brother both look personally affronted.
“Don’t beat yourself up like that,” Tamsa says. “You did the best you could under the circumstances. We’re all just doing the best we can.”
I’m going to make this my new life motto. Sure, I’d love for everything to always work out for me, but I know now that even if it doesn’t, I can do the hard things to get through it. And with this new motto, I’m reminded that everyone’s going through something.
I write an op-ed for psycho logic about sexual harassment—no names or other identifying information—with that motto as a headline. For the first time ever, Hal schedules a second print run and pays me double.
One afternoon, Sam pages me back to the warehouse.
“What’s up?” I sit down in Eric’s chair.
I’m exhausted and exhilarated at the same time.
So tired from everything that’s happened over the last few weeks; hopeful because the lawsuit’s moving forward.
Zahid is optimistic that it’ll be favorable for all of us.
What I want more than anything is for no other woman to have to experience what we did—at least from Ryan Bradford.
“How have your meetings gone?” Sam asks. I finally came clean a couple of days ago when he found me crying in the media warehouse. I know he won’t tell anyone, not even Wil.
I give Sam a brief overview of the last meeting and then share some other news. “Tamsa accepted the offer from Sky Blue Waters, and she told me today that they’re hiring a junior entertainment reporter, too.”
“Ah,” Sam says. “You’re going to apply, then?”
“I love it here. I really do. Working at Hometown was exactly what I needed.”
“You’re good at this gig,” he says.
I smile. I never would have made it here without him. “Yes, I’m good at this. But that doesn’t mean I have to do it forever. I think it’s time to go back to what I’m really meant to do, and maybe not getting those promotions helped me realize it.”
“I’m going to miss you,” he says.
“Don’t put the cart in front of the horse.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about this. Let me know if you need a reference or something.”
“You’re the best, Sam.”
Kevin pages me to the media desk, and I turn to leave the warehouse.
“Oh, hey, wait a sec,” Sam calls. “Adriana and I have an extra ticket to see Dig Me Under at The Golden tonight. You want to go?”
I wrinkle up my nose in confusion. “You bought three tickets to Dig Me Under? Wait, why is DMU playing such a small venue?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. Her little brother was supposed to go with us, but he’s got a midterm. We can leave the ticket at will call for you.”
“Hell, yeah,” I say. “I’ll meet you there.”
I’m late for the show because of a last-minute email request from Kelsey for ad set feedback (when is that woman ever going to have her baby and go on maternity leave?
!) and then traffic is backed up getting into downtown.
Once I find a place to park, I remove my hair tie, fluff out my waves, and reapply Comfortably Plum.
I sniff under my pits—passable—and throw a jean jacket over the mint-green T-shirt I wore to work. It’s late March and still chilly.
I hustle toward the front entrance and am thrilled to see there’s no line to get in. For some reason, though, the ticket window isn’t staffed, and the whole place is oddly quiet and almost deserted.
“Hi,” I say to the bouncer, a muscled, tattooed guy wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt. “I’ve got a ticket at will call for Dig Me Under.”
He frowns. “Dig Me Under is tomorrow night.”
“What?” Are you kidding me? How could Sam mix up the date? And I close tomorrow night. I’ll have to get Kevin to switch with me—
The bouncer interrupts my thoughts. “Are you Abbey?”
My eyes grow wide. “Yes?”
“Follow me.”
Well, that sends my hackles up. “No way. You think I’m just going to follow some massive rando into an empty club? No fucking way.”
“She said you’d say that.” He crosses his arms. “You can trust me.”
“Who said I’d say that?” I mirror his stance and cross my arms, too.
“I did.” The voice comes from inside the open door, and then Tamsa steps out onto the sidewalk. She looks like a wood sprite next to the big, grumpy bouncer.
“Tamsa? What going on?”
“You’re late. That’s what’s going on. Come on.” She takes my hand and tugs me into the club. “Thanks for your help, Zero. I owe you one.”
The bouncer grunts.
“Zero? His name is Zero? How do you know this guy?”
Tamsa grins, but since she told me about what happened at TC Weekly, the usual glimmer in her eyes has dimmed slightly. We’re all doing the best we can. “None of that matters,” she says, “although I am meeting up with him later. Did you see his biceps?”
“What are you doing here? Why would Sam tell me to meet him tonight for a concert that’s actually tomorrow night?”
“Don’t worry, the tickets are real, and you can still see DMU. Tonight, we’ve got something else planned for you.”
“We? Who’s we?”
“You’ll find out.”
She leads me up a side staircase that comes around in the opposite direction of the main stairs, the ones where I was standing when I first saw Wil all those months ago. So much has changed since then.
Lisa from La Cuchara stands behind the bar. Her hair is a gradient of pink and orange, like a summer sunset over a serene lake. She smiles and slides me a drink. “One vodka cranberry, on the house.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I’m so confused.”
Tamsa grabs the cocktail and puts it in my hand. “Drink some of this. Take the edge off.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Tamsa grins. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
She turns toward the main staircase, and I follow, but I stop when I see the stage below.
Beautiful, brilliant bouquets on amps and speakers and small tables fill the space.
There must be at least two dozen. Red roses.
Bright pink tulips. There’s an arrangement of all orange in a black spiderweb vase, and a “cake” made entirely of pink and purple carnations.
The exact bouquet that appeared at the media desk at Christmas and another, the one that Wil brought me when I was sick.
A year’s worth of flowers, it seems, all four seasons, every holiday.
“What in the world?” I murmur as Brianna—Brianna’s here, too!—brings out another bouquet from backstage, an enormous vase of sunflowers. Sunflowers! In March!
“This is where I leave you,” Tamsa says. “I’ll see you down by the stage later. In the meantime, go meet your destiny at the bottom of the stairs.”
“My… destiny?” I turn to her but she’s hurrying in the other direction.
When a song starts to play over the speakers, “Oh! Darling” by The Beatles, I know.
I know what’s at the bottom of the stairs, as if the exact bouquets he sent me weren’t enough of a giveaway.
I grasp the handrail, afraid I might tip and tumble if I don’t get a handle on my racing heart. I start down the steps.
And there he is. A man—my man—in a Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt, dark hair, one half of his face bathed in blue light. Like that very first night.
It feels like starting over.
He looks up and catches my eye.
“Wait there,” I say.
He nods.
My stomach dips as I approach him. I feel that delicious swizzle, even though we’re still at least a foot apart.
“Hey,” he says, low and growly.
“Wil.” I shake my head in disbelief. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is that I’m about to grovel and beg for your forgiveness, Abbey Rhodes.”
That sounds perfect. “Wait,” I say, “first tell me how all of this happened.”
He takes a step forward and lifts my hand, turning it so that he can plant a kiss on my palm. I nearly lose myself in the sensation, the swizzle that courses through me.
“I called in a few favors.” He drops my hand from his mouth but doesn’t release it. “I rented out the venue, ordered the flowers, and enlisted the help of a few friends.” He smiles, and my heart flutters at the sight of it. It’s been so long, too long.
He rented out the venue. Rented out! And all those bouquets must have cost a fortune.
“I’m an idiot, Abbey. I’m an idiot for listening to my dad, for pushing you away.
I’m an idiot for so many reasons. Even so, there are a few things I know for sure.
First, I love you. I want to bring you a bouquet of flowers every week.
I want to take you to La Cuchara for queso, even when it’s not a celebration or payday.
I want to listen to Pink Floyd records with you, and The Beatles.
I want to spend as much time with you as I can, Abbey Rhodes, and I’m begging you, please. Believe me.”
He holds out his left arm and rotates it to reveal a new tattoo on the inside of his forearm. The four Beatles in black and gray, walking across a street and the crosswalk panels. The famous Abbey Road cover.
“Oh,” I breathe out. I sweep a finger across the image. “It’s beautiful.”
“I needed a piece of you,” he says and I melt.
I have so many unanswered questions. I start with an easy one. “Why are there so many flowers?”
He’s still so serious as he says, “I’m making up for lost time. I should have been buying you flowers every week since that first day I saw you at The Golden. Twenty-eight bouquets, one for every week that I’ve known you.”
“That’s too expensive, Wil!”
“I’m loaded, remember?” he deadpans.
“You could have gotten away with twenty-six. You already got me two.”
“Those doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“The first, because I was too chicken to put my name on the card. The second, because I was a total shit to you when you came back to work.”
I grin. “Well, I can’t argue there.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you can. I’ve never known anyone who can argue quite like you.” He smiles, too.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I take a deep breath and ask the harder question. “What about Hometown?”
“What about it?”
I wave my hand back and forth between us. “Your career, your goals,” I sputter. “You put your career before… before us.”
“I quit.”
“You quit?” I shriek. “When? And why didn’t I hear about it?”
“Last week.” He laughs. “And you haven’t heard about it because Dino and Dad are still figuring out damage control. Dino told everyone I’m on vacation.”
“Wil.” I breathe out his name. “That was your dream, to have your own store.”
He shakes his head. “No, not really. I figured out—probably a little too late—that the real dream has always been the nonprofit. I’m taking some time off and applying for a new position there. It’ll be a step or two backward, but eventually, it will get me where I want to be.”
I smile again, so happy for him. But then something else occurs to me. I swallow down the lump in my throat. I hate to even ask. “Did you block my applications for transfers?”
He frowns. “Sam thought you’d ask about that. And Dino said something about it the day I quit. It does sound like someone’s blocking you, and I’m going to find out who.”
“But it’s not you.” I want so much for it to be a true statement.
One corner of his mouth lifts, but that half-smile seems sad. “It’s not me. I would never stop you from going after your dreams, no matter what you might think.”
“It’s not my dream, either.” It feels right, saying that. “I’ve loved working there, and I’ve met some of the very best people, but it’s not my dream. I’ve got an interview at Sky Blue Waters next week.”
Now he smiles, broad and genuine. “That’s good.”
I take a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell you. The real reason I left TC Weekly.”
His smile falters as I tell him what happened in Ryan’s office that day, about the hush money and Tamsa and the meetings with Zahid and the other women.
His jaw tics. “I’m so sorry. What a fucking dirtbag. If I ever see that guy—”
“Hey, it’s okay.” I reach for his hand, and his grip tightens around mine. “I’m okay.”
“Can I—hold you?” At my nod, he pulls me in tight.
I breathe him in, his woodsy scent, his heated skin, and I’m flooded with sensation and swizzle and the memory of what it’s like to be held by him, to be loved by him, and I never want to let go.
“I love you, Wil,” I whisper, and his grip tightens.
“Do you mean it?” he murmurs. “Do you forgive me? Will you give me another chance?”
Before I can answer, he sneezes, and sneezes again. “Oh, shit.” He sneezes again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Abbey, I love you, but I’m allergic to pretty much every flower in this place.”
I step out of his embrace so I can look at his handsome face, but he grasps my hand, almost in desperation, as though he doesn’t want to break the connection between us.
“Well, that seals the deal for me,” I say. “Not only did you rent an entire nightclub, but you bought out a florist, and you’re allergic to flowers. If that’s not love, I don’t know what love is. But…”
His eyes widen.
“Please tell me that these are all from Fieldstone at The Galleria,” I continue. “I only accept an exquisite floral experience.”
He laughs, drops my hand, and puts his palms on either side of my face. He kisses me with heat and longing, and I know that I will never kiss anyone else.
“I won’t let go of you again,” he says. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. “I love you, Abbey Rhodes.” Okay, that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.
And then I hear the cheering behind us.
I turn to see so many of my favorite people standing in front of the stage: Sam and Adriana, Eric, Jimmy, Cesar, Tamsa and her hunky bouncer, Brianna, even Marina from the Ridge.
I laugh, pure joy bubbling out of me. “What are they all doing here?”
“I needed a little merchandising help from my friends.” He grins.
“I love you,” I say again.
“Oh, darling.” He pulls me close.
Maybe everything is always working out for me.