40. Morgan
Morgan
“Okay. I can explain,” I say with a sigh, reaching for my bag. “Why don’t we just get out of everyone’s way?”
“You stole my notebook,” she says incredulously.
“I didn’t steal it,” I try to explain, and for some reason I’m holding my hands up. But as I slowly make my way towards her, she backs up more. So, airport congestion aside, I stop. “You left it behind.”
The answer I give her is meant to be in my defense. But as her head rises and falls in a slow nod, I realize I just buried myself.
“You left it behind,” she parrots. “Left it behind where?” she asks.
“At the hotel,” I answer flatly, lowering my hands and running one through my hair.
“Which hotel–”
“The Sapphire,” I blurt out. “You left it behind in the suite at the Sapphire…”
“Excuse me,” one of the security guards who earlier smiled at me before scowling at him approaches us. “If you two have all your things, I’m going to ask that you clear the area.”
“Oh, I have my things,” Scarlett says, turning on her heel and standing off to the side. “Now, anyways.”
“Like I said,” I go on. “I can explain.”
“Which part? That you had my book. That you read it?! Or that you knew who I was the entire time and pretended not to!?”
“You did the same thing!” I let out.
“But you interviewed me and hired me knowing who I was,” she says. “Why?”
“Why what? Why did I hire you?” I ask.
“Was it because of the Sapphire? Because you knew that I would perform well?” she sneers.
“No!” I snap back. “I hired you because you were perfect for the job, pre-interview aside.”
With that, Scarlett’s mouth pops open with a scoff. “You’re a pig.”
“You pretended too,” I reiterate. “Not only that, but you wrote the article,”
“Which article?” she asks, and this time, I’m the one scoffing.
“The one that sent me on this entire escapade to begin with!”
“So what if I did,” she says stubbornly. “You broke into my room,”
“I broke into your room.” I nod while shoving my hands in my pockets.
“It was a bad review for a reason.”
My eyes land on her hard. Because maybe I did pretend not to know who she was, and maybe I kept the notebook although I didn’t actually intend to. I tried to throw it away! But at the end of the day, I’m not the only one in the wrong here.
“Not everything that happened at the Sapphire was bad, and you know that,” I tell her, mostly because I want her to agree.
Sure, it was never intended to be more than a one-night thing, but the fact that it was and it turned into what it did has to mean something.
Surely some things can be explained and overlooked.
“It’s arguable,” she says, crossing her arms and looking away with her nose in the air. Meanwhile, I can tell she is trying not to cry. And while I hate that those two words sliced deep.
“I hate to interrupt,” Donovan cuts in. “But we need to get to the gate if we want to make the flight to NYC,”
“He’s right.” I nod. “We can talk about this at the gate. Or in New York,”
“I’m not going to New York with you!” Scarlett blurts out as she picks up her things.
“Why not?” I ask, and Scarlett waves the notebook in my face.
“Are you for real right now?” I snap. “I’m not the only one at fault! I’m not the only one who kept secrets.”
“No, you just used my bucket list for your agenda,” she says.
“Excuse me?! I didn’t use anything!”
“Oh, so you wanted to save baby turtles? And you wanted to eat fried pickles at the House of Blues? Be real,” she laughs.
“I am being real,” I tell her as she starts to walk away.
“The gate is this way,” Donovan says, but I just follow Scarlett, who clearly doesn’t care.
“I have been nothing but real with you. Surely last night told you that,” I say, and she whips around so fast that I almost run into her.
“And surely you know that I have broadcasted my entire personal life for us,” she says. “All while you made me and my bucket list fit your itinerary so you can keep your inheritance.”
“That’s not fair,” I nearly shout.
“No. What’s not fair is that you couldn’t just come clean about any of it. Because you’re afraid of your feelings and of taking chances and–”
I stop her again, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her closer to me.
“I have done nothing but take chances since I met you. I took a chance by hiring you, by trusting you, by following your lead when my legacy was on the line. You can’t just walk away all because we both chose to omit a few things,”
“Actually, I can,” she says, yanking her arm away from me. “And that’s exactly what I am going to do.” Scarlett starts to walk away again, and I call out to her.
“You signed a contract!”
“I don’t care about the contract!” she cries out. “You used the bucket list for your contract. You used me for your contract! You faked a relationship and chemistry, and feelings for your contract. So, you know what? You and your contract can go to hell. Because I am going home.”
“Home?” I ask.
“Yes. Home. Miami. Or maybe I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Where? Where would you go? You walk away and you don’t have a job,” I say, and I know it’s an asshole thing to say, but I don’t care. I’ve lost control over the entire situation and I’m grasping at straws right now.
“I don’t know. Seattle. Milwaukee. Heck, maybe I’ll just close my eyes and throw a dart at the board and go wherever the flight takes me. Basically, anywhere but NYC with you,” she says.
I look back at Donovan, who just shrugs and decides to sit down. It’s not like we can’t catch another flight. And the last thing I am going to do is let things end like this in the middle of the airport. So I run in front of her, forcing her to stop.
“It wasn’t fake,” I say, pulling out my phone and going to her account. “Look at this,”
Scarlett rolls her eyes. “I took those photos, Morgan. It’s what I do.”
“No,” I say, “Not those. The ones we didn’t post. The ones we are tagged in.
They’re organic and candid and perfectly show just how real it all was.
Your joy? Real. Your smile? Real. The kisses?
Very fucking real. People loving every minute of it is real.
There are literally hundreds of photos of us and they’re all–wait. What’s this one?”
“What one?” she asks impatiently.
I zoom in on a photo of her that seems to really be making waves.
It’s one I haven’t seen before, and I wasn’t with her when it was taken.
She’s standing on the beach, surrounded by people, including a couple of little kids.
She’s talking to them, a smile on her face and her hand on her stomach.
But the photo itself isn’t what has me wondering what the hell is going on. It’s the caption and the comments.
My eyes flash up to hers in disbelief and confusion. “Are you pregnant?” I ask, and Scarlett’s face goes pale.