Beauty and the Running Back (25 page)

Chapter Eleven

* * *

It’s noon before I’m torn out of my shocked reverie by the
sound of a car door slamming. My pulse picks up as I pull myself to my feet.
Has Emerson come back home again after all? Is he here to help me make sense of
all this chaos? The front door clatters open, and a familiar face appears—but it
isn’t his.

“Abby,” Riley breathes, rushing to me. “Abby, what the hell
is going on?”

“Riley?” I breathe, unable to focus, “Riley, what—?”

“Are you OK?” she whispers, her voice tearful. She takes me
in her arms, brushing the hair out of my eyes. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m...Riley, what are you doing here?” I ask. “How did
you know to come?”

Her already dark eyes cloud over as she wraps her arms
around me. She’s bracing me for something. Bad news. But what?

“You didn’t show up at school,” she says softly, “But
Emerson did. He stormed in just as people were switching classes. Abby...He...”

“What?” I whisper, looking at her with mounting dread. “What
did he do?”

She rests her hands on my shoulders, take a deep breath, and
goes on.

“He started screaming for Tucker,” she tells me, “And when
he finally found him, he...Abby, he just beat the shit out of him. It was
brutal. Some teachers eventually pulled him off and threatened to call the
cops. Emerson’s been expelled, Abby. He ran back out of the school and drove off.
I couldn’t find you anywhere, so I thought...I was so scared...”

I stare at my best friend, uncomprehending. My heart can
take on no more anguish. There isn’t any room left. I sink into a state of
catatonic silence as Riley gathers a change of clothes for me and leads me out
of my house.

It’s the last time I ever step foot in that place I once
called home.

* * *

Over the course of the tumultuous next few months, the
entire sordid saga comes out into the open. On the morning after their wedding,
Dad and Deb were about to head off to Europe for a couple weeks for the second
leg of their honeymoon. Dad visited the bank to get some travelers’ checks, but
found that his accounts had been frozen because of some suspicious activity. He
and Deb had already consolidated accounts when they moved in together, but Dad
has never been good about keeping track of his money. Only when it was pointed
out to him by the bank did he notice the dozen or so transactions in Deb’s
name. She’d been withdrawing money, keeping some in a separate account,
presumably for her and Emerson.

The rest she’d been wiring to her ex-husband, Emerson’s
father, still serving time in Connecticut state prison.

Devastated by Deb’s betrayal, Dad struck out to hurt her in
the worst way he could think of. He stocked up on booze, headed back to the
hotel, and baited her into going on a bender with him. She allowed it to
happen, of course, but Dad was the instigator. Only when they were both wasted
in their hotel room in the wee hours of the morning did he turn on her. He
demanded an explanation, but the only one she had to give was that she’d been
using him. She noticed him at AA—saw his nice clothes, fancy car, and sad
eyes—and knew he’d go for her. Deb insisted that she developed real feelings for
him later, and that she couldn’t just leave her ex-husband to rot in prison,
but it was obviously too late.

Emerson’s expulsion from our high school was immediate and
ironclad, after what he did to Tucker. I have no idea what possessed him, in
that moment, to target my assailant from years ago. Maybe he wanted to hurt
someone who had hurt me, and given that he couldn’t throttle my dad the way he
wanted to, went after Tucker instead. I’ll never know what his motivation was.
All I know is that Tucker ended up with two broken ribs and had to wear a neck
brace to prom. Or so I’m told. It’s not like I had any reason to go.

The bender Dad started as payback for Deb didn’t end the day
after his wedding. Or the week after. Or the month after. He descended into an
alcoholic depression that far exceeded the one he’d fallen into after Mom’s
death. I couldn’t go back to his house—I didn’t feel safe there. I stayed with
Riley for a few days before my grandparents arrived on the scene. They came up
from Florida and took me in to one of their nearby summer homes for the
duration of the school year. Dad didn’t even put up a fight when they took me
away. But he did tell them all about finding me in bed with Emerson the morning
after the wedding. And even though nothing had happened between us that night,
my grandparents looked at me a little differently from then on.

In no time at all, the marriage was annulled. No one will
tell me where Emerson and Deb have gone, and I don’t even know where to start
looking. But to be honest, I’m too brokenhearted to search very hard. If
Emerson wanted me to know where he was, I’d know. As painful as it is, I have
to accept the fact that he doesn’t want to be a part of my life. Even once our
parents’ marriage is dissolved, there’s no trace of him.

So be it.

I dive into the last semester of my schoolwork, and end up
graduating in the top ten percent of my class. Riley and I both decide to
continue our studies in the fall at The New School in New York City. My
grandparents agree to pay for the portion of my tuition that isn’t covered by
scholarships, and even let Riley and me stay in the apartment they own in New
York as an investment property. I spend the summer by my best friend’s side,
slowly but surely coming to terms with everything that’s happened. I tell myself
every day that come fall, I’ll be able to leave the whole ugly mess of my
childhood behind me.

And hopefully, my memories of Emerson Sawyer along with it.

Chapter Twelve

* * *

New York City

Eight Years Later

“Which do you like better?” I ask anxiously, holding two
dresses up before me, “The black, or the navy?”

Riley rolls her eyes at my outfit choices. “I’d like it if
you ever bought anything that you couldn’t also wear to a funeral,” she
replies.

“Would you be serious?” I plead, “My interview is in two
hours, and god knows it’s probably going to take me an hour to get there, and I
might have to stop and find a Starbucks to pee in first because I can’t ask to
pee during an
interview
—”

“Abby,” Riley says, taking my just-scrubbed face in her hands.
“Relax. You’re going to nail this. You are perfect for this job.”

I stare back at her, trying to have as much confidence in me
as she does. In the past six years, Riley has transformed from a dissatisfied
party girl to a successful PR powerhouse. She’s traded in the cheap vodka for
top-shelf martinis and the house parties for bottle service and chef’s tables
at all the best places in the city. We’ve been living together since we were
eighteen, and are closer than ever because of it. But being close means being
blunt, and she doesn’t hold back with me now.

“If you don’t take a breath and cool it, you’re going to be
kicking yourself all the way home,” she says, marching me over to her closet.
She rummages through her colorful wardrobe and hands me an emerald green blouse
and yellow pencil skirt. “Here. Put these on.”

“They’re very...bright,” I say.

“Just like you!” she grins. “You’re interviewing at a
creative agency, not a morgue, for Christ’s sake. A little color will be good,
trust me.”

“Well. Thanks,” I sigh, taking the pieces and heading back
into my room to change. “I won’t fill them out as well as you, but...”

“If you think I’m going to cry you a river for having stayed
the same size since you were seventeen years old, you’ve got another thing coming
to you,” Riley tells me. “Speaking of getting older, though, what do you want
to do for your birthday this weekend?”

“Nothing,” I tell her through the crack in my bedroom door.

“That’s not an option,” she replies, as I slip into the
clothes she’s leant me.

“You know I hate my birthday,” I call back, piling my hair
into a quick, wispy up do. It’s still blonde, if a bit of a darker shade than
when I was a kid. “All I ever want is to have a quiet night at home.”

“And you know that I’ve never taken that for an answer,”
Riley reminds me, rustling around the kitchen.

“My grandparents are already taking me out to some swanky
restaurant,” I tell her, “I owe it to them for letting us stay in this place.”

“They’re not using it,” Riley reminds me.

“Still,” I insist, “Living rent free is not exactly
something to be taken for granted.”

“Not with what I spend on booze it isn’t,” Riley agrees. “At
least let me take you out for a drink after your fancy dinner, OK? You can give
me all the juicy family gossip.”

I cringe to think of what that gossip might be as I swipe
some light makeup onto my face. Every time I see my grandparents, they spend at
least an hour moaning about how badly my dad is doing. He’s been in and out of
rehab since breaking up with “that woman,” as my grandparents like to refer
Deb. After the brawl that ensued the morning after his wedding, I no longer
make an effort to include him in my life. Some things can’t be forgiven, and
the way he treated me that day is one of them.

“I’ll give you one birthday drink,” I tell Riley, grabbing
my purse, “But no surprise karaoke this year, OK? Or surprise strippers.
Or...You know what? Just no surprises period.”

“Cross my heart,” Riley smiles.

“Sure,” I say, stepping back out into the living room. “So?
How do I look?”

“Fabulous, as ever,” she says, giving me a quick once-over.
“They’re going to love you.”

“I hope so,” I sigh, “Bastian does such amazing work.
They’re one of the best new creative agencies out there. It would be a dream to
work for them.”

“So, tell them that!” Riley insists, giving me a quick hug
and a pat on the ass. “Go get ‘em tiger.”

I take a deep breath and march out of our Upper West Side
apartment.

It’s been a few months since I finished my masters program
in graphic design. I’ve been able to freelance for a few different companies,
and have built up my portfolio by doing so. I never pictured myself having such
a tech-based job, always sort of assumed I’d stick with visual art exclusively.
But graphic design lets me be just as creative as drawing does, and employ my
mind in other ways, too. If I get this job at Bastian, I’ll be designing and
helping come up with marketing strategies for different companies and brands.
It would be something new every day, the perfect, totally consuming job. Just
what I’m looking for.

Don’t get me wrong, I have other interests and hobbies,
outside of work. I’m an avid runner, adore going out to restaurants, read like
a maniac, and try and volunteer around the city. I just loathe downtime more
than anything in the world. Downtime means thinking time, reminiscing time, and
I want as little of that in my life as possible. Without fail, my thoughts
always turn to the past if they’re not rooted in the present. And that’s never
a pleasant experience for me.

I take the subway down to the Lower East Side, a
neighborhood chock full of galleries, cool shops, and excellent cafes—not to
mention some kickass bars. The Bastian offices are housed in a building that
used to be a factory, once upon a time. These days, it has the industrial feel
that’s so popular in the city while simultaneously being super high tech. The
best of both worlds. I stop before the front door of the office, taking a
moment to check my reflection in the glass. Riley was right to suggest this
top—it brings out the green in my hazel eyes nicely.

As I ring the buzzer, a strange feeling passes through me.
It’s almost like deja vu, the feeling that this moment is significant, somehow.
Clandestine. Maybe I’m just anticipating the interview going well? Whatever the
case, there’s no more time to ponder. The door opens before me, and I step
quickly into an old fashioned elevator.

The elevator doors part before me, and I step out into the
high-ceilinged office space. A large communal desk stands at the center of the
room, surrounded by a dozen hip twenty-somethings. The walls are covered in
white board, so that people can jot down ideas whenever and wherever they
occur. My jaw falls open a little as I see a fully stocked bar standing in one
corner of the main room. The people running this place weren’t kidding when
they described it as “off beat”.

I like it.

I’m supposed to be meeting with the founding partner and CEO
of the agency, Owen Cooper. But glancing around the spacious room, I don’t see
a reception desk anywhere. Silly me. As if a place this cool would ever have
something as square as a front desk.

“Are you Abby?” asks one of the people at the communal desk,
plucking out an earbud as the rest of the group types on.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I smile, hoping my nervousness doesn’t
show.

“Cooper is waiting for you in his office,” she says, nodding
toward a glass door off the main room. Calling the boss by his last name, huh?
How unconventional. Another check in the plus column for this place.

I thank her and make my way toward the door. Before I can
raise my hand to rap against the frosted glass pane, it swings open before me.
Standing there is a man I recognize from the Bastian website as Owen Cooper
himself. He’s super young for a CEO, in his late 30’s or so. He’s dressed in
jeans, a sweater, and a friendly smile.

“Abby!” he says, as if we were old friends. I guess being
able to check out interviewees’ social media profiles makes everyone fast
friends these days. “Come on in. Coffee?”

“Sure,” I reply, “It’s nice to meet you Mr.—”

“Just ‘Cooper’ is fine,” he cuts me off, pulling a shot from
a fancy espresso machine sitting on a table against the wall. “So, thanks for
coming in. Even if this is a bit of a formality.”

“What’s that?” I ask, happily accepting the rich cup of
espresso.

“Your portfolio is excellent,” he tells me, sitting down at
his desk. “Top notch. I knew I wanted to hire you from the second I saw your
work. Sorry...did I forget to mention that in my last email to you?”

“That you did,” I say, sinking into a chair opposite him in
mild disbelief. “Are you saying...I already have the job?”

“You do if you want it!” he smiles, “You’ll have to forgive
my absent-mindedness. My brain is always hurrying onto the next task, so I
sometimes skip over what’s right in front of me. Anyhow, yes! The job is yours
for the taking.”

“Well, I absolutely want to take it,” I grin, “Thanks
Mr...Er, Cooper.”

“Yeah!” he says, clinking his coffee cup to mine. “And
you’re in luck, too. One of our managing editors from the European office is
going to be lending me a hand here in New York for a while. He’s much less of a
scatterbrain than I am, so he’s going to be the one showing you the ropes. I
can’t remember if I told him that...”

“That sounds great,” I reply, sipping the fine espresso as I
try to play it cool. I can’t believe I stressed out all week for an interview
that was actually a job offer! I guess with the fast-paced aspect of the tech
world, hiring practices are a little quicker at places like this.

“So, what else can I tell you...” Mr. Cooper continues,
propping his sneakered feet up on his desk. “Salary is 60K. Full benefits.
Three weeks vacation...”

I stare at him, practically salivating. I try to never think
that something is too good to be true, as a rule. But this whole situation is
testing me.

“Well, what do you say?” He presses jovially, “Are you
interested in the job, Abby?”

“I’m...very interested. Absolutely,” I grin, “This is my
dream job, Mr...Cooper. I can’t tell you how I excited I am—”

“Yes, yes. Very good,” Cooper says, standing abruptly.
“Well, like I said, our brilliant managing editor is back from Europe this
afternoon, and he’s going to be helping you get settled here at Bastian. You’ll
trail him to meetings, sit in on brainstorming sessions, all that good stuff. But
for today, just go home and relax. Take the Friday to yourself. This is a
fast-paced company, Abby. You’re going to need all your stores of youthful
energy come Monday.”

“Sounds great to me,” I say, standing as Cooper opens the
door for me.

We walk back out onto the main floor together, but I might
as well be walking on a cloud. This whole week, I’ve been stressing out about
an interview that was actually an offer! What a screwy industry this is.

I think I’m going to love it.

The other employees look up with interest as Cooper leads me
to the elevators. It’ll be so nice to work with people my age at a company on
the cutting edge of creative innovation. And I didn’t even have to get grilled
to score my place here! This day could not get any better.

Though of course, that just means it could get much, much
worse.

“See you next week!” Cooper says, as the elevator dings to a
stop at our floor.

“Thanks again for giving me this job,” I tell him, giving
his hand a quick shake. “I promise you, you won’t be sorry.”

Beaming, I turn to the elevator as the doors swish open. So
blinded am I by my luminous good fortune that I stride into the elevator car
without noticing the person trying to step out of it. I reel backward, having
collided with the human equivalent of a solid brick wall. Jeez, I thought this
was a tech company, not a holding room for the Iron Man competition. I think I
actually bruised something on this guy’s sharply cut muscles.

“Sorry about that,” a voice says from about a foot over my
head, “I hope I didn’t hurt you, or...”

The voice is oddly familiar, though I can’t place where I
may have heard it before. A commercial, maybe? Or the radio? It trails off into
distracted silence, and I look up for some more clues as to whose it might be.
The face looking down at me is utterly gorgeous—sculpted, symmetrical, and
engaged. A short crop of dark hair and a hint of stubble on the mans’s
razor-like jawline perfects his look. There’s a pair of dark rimmed glasses
perched on his straight nose, and for a moment the overhead light glares
against the lenses, obscuring his eyes from me.

But then he shifts, ever so slightly, and I can see his blue
eyes clear as day. I recognize them at once, from the very core of me. How
could I not? I’ve only thought about them every day, at
least
once a day, for the past eight years.

Emerson Sawyer is standing right in front of me. And from
the look in those all too familiar eyes, I know full well that he recognizes
me, too.

“Ah! Here he is!” I hear Cooper say, as if from very far away.
“Emerson, I thought you weren’t due in for another couple of hours?”

“I was able to catch an earlier flight,” Emerson replies,
his eyes still locked on me.

Now that I’ve placed that voice, every syllable he utters
twists my heartstrings. His voice is lower, now. Richer. He’s even taller than
he was when we last met, at least by a couple of inches. His body was muscular
even when we were kids, but now every ounce of boyish baby fat has melted from
his frame, leaving nothing but a perfectly cut form in its wake. He’s wearing
perfectly-fitted dark wash jeans, a white cotton button down, and those
designer black-rimmed glasses. No wonder I didn’t recognize him at
first—Emerson’s transformed from a grungy, angry teenage boy to a successful,
intellectual tech genius...

A tech genius who works for the same company I just landed a
job at, who’s supposed to show me the ropes of my new position, and who clearly
wasn’t briefed on the fact that I, Abby Rowan, was going to be his new protégé.