The New Rule: (The Casual Rule 2) (28 page)

Fighting the urge to cry, I swallow the lump in my throat and resume editing the zombie manuscript.

~o0o~

It’s two o’clock. I’m deep into a book about a golf widow when I’m startled by Vivian clearing her throat. I look up and see her standing in her doorway. Her expression is tense and serious.

“Julia, can I see you in my office?”

“Um, sure,” I say uneasily.

She nods, walking back into her office and takes a seat at her desk. I follow behind and sit on one of the two leather chairs in front of her desk.

Did I do something wrong? She looks troubled. Oh, maybe something happened to her husband Jim or her son, Justin. I hope not.

She leans back in her chair, steepling her fingers in front of her mouth. She only does the finger steeple thing when there’s bad news or she’s amused. Judging from her expression, there’s some bad shit about to hit the fan.

I grab onto the arms of the chairs, bouncing my knee up and down, bracing myself for whatever she has to say.

Clearing her throat, she fidgets in her chair.

“Have you spoken with Ben today?” she asks.

“No. I got a few texts earlier this morning,” I answer, confused by her question.

“I’m not trying to pry into your personal life, but were these texts regarding his book?”

Leaning back in my chair, I frown. “His book? No. It was about lawyers. He mentioned probate. I guess for his grandmother’s estate.”

“I see.” She leans forward; pushing her glasses over her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I received an email from Ben about fifteen minutes ago. He stated his intention to dissolve his contract with Wisteria Hill. He plans to return his advance along with any expenses Wisteria Hill has incurred plus interest. He supplied the name of a lawyer and a contact number. I didn’t see your email address cc’d, and judging by your expression, I’m guessing this is news to you?”

Staring at her incredulously, my mouth gapes. I must look like a carp in shock. I blink a few times, trying to compose myself.

I look down at my lap then back up at Vivian, my eyes already watery and shake my head. “No, I had no idea,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out.

My God, what has he done?

She nods thoughtfully. “I didn’t think so. You don’t have to answer this, it’s none of my business, but is he going through a difficult time right now?”

I nod without saying a word.

“I’m obligated to forward this email to our legal department,” she begins, gazing at me sympathetically. “But, as his editor, if you believe this was all an innocent misunderstanding… maybe a joke email.” She winks. “It just may land in my spam folder for a few days. Do you think this was a joke?”

I know it wasn’t. Vivian knows it wasn’t.

“Yes,” I answer quietly. “I do.”

She steeples her fingers again in front of her lips and nods, lost in thought.

“I can give you until Monday afternoon. I can only hold it until then. If things stand, I have to forward it.”

“I understand.”

“Okay. Well, look at the time. The work day certainly does fly by, doesn’t it?” She puts her glasses back on, peeking over the top.

“It’s only a little after two,” I say, frowning.

“I’ll see you Monday. Have a good weekend, Julia.”

Oh, I see what she’s doing.

I stand, fighting the urge to lunge across her desk and hug her for giving Ben a chance to undo this.

“Thank you, Vivian. Thank you.”

She frowns with a hint of a smile curling from the corner of her mouth. “Thank me for what? We’re talking about editing. It’s what we do.”

“See you on Monday.” I turn to leave her office.

“Julia?”

I stop in my tracks and turn back to her.

“Good luck,” she says sincerely.

“Thanks,” I mouth, then head out the door.

Chapter 17

I’m not giving him any advanced notice. I haven’t called or texted Ben as I storm over to his apartment, grumbling to myself like a lunatic. He didn’t give me the courtesy of a heads-up when this bomb dropped on me, so I’m returning the favor.

There are so many emotions swirling around in my head. I don’t know if I’m devastated, sad, upset or angry. I just don’t know anymore. The person who did this behind my back without even a hint of warning is a stranger—not the man I fell in love with.

I paste on my fake smile and wave politely to the doorman at Ben’s building. He holds the door open for me and I walk in. On the way here, I was afraid Ben may have called down and had those rights taken away from me as well. Luckily, I was wrong.

I get on the elevator and press the button to the twentieth floor. Leaning against the wall as the elevator ascends, I inhale deep breaths to calm my nerves. It’s not working. My hands and legs are trembling. I can’t stop them from shaking. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard I feel it in my throat; it may burst out of my body.

The elevator reaches the twentieth floor, the doors slide open, and I step out. I march to Ben’s apartment and stare at the door. I don’t know what to expect on the other side. I don’t even know if he’s home. I don’t know a whole lot lately. I dread to find out what else he’s keeping from me.

I ring the doorbell four times in rapid succession while tapping my foot anxiously and wait for the doorknob to turn. After a long minute and no one answering, I curl my hand into a fist and pound on the door.

“Open the damn door, Ben. I’m not leaving,” I yell. I don’t care if the neighbors hear me.

Nothing. I pound on the door harder until my hand stings.

Finally, I hear the top bolt unlocking. The butterflies I usually get when I see that doorknob turn are in full force, but this time it’s not a good thing.

The door swings open. Ben stands there, bloodshot eyes, barefoot, and unshaven in a pair of sweats and no shirt.

“That didn’t take long,” he says sarcastically. He spins around and walks back into his apartment, leaving the door wide open for me to follow.

“What the fuck, Ben?” I ask, trailing close behind him as he strolls into the kitchen.

He leans against the counter, his arms crossed in front of his chest, staring at me with an unreadable expression. On the counter behind him is an open bottle of scotch and a clear glass tumbler. The residue of his drink is still present as a small amber liquid is lining the bottom of the glass.

“A little early for that, don’t you think?” I ask, pointing my chin toward the counter.

He turns his head and looks at the scotch, then looks back at me and shrugs a shoulder.

“I was thirsty. You’re welcome to join me,” he says. He twists around and pours himself another drink.

“No. Someone in this apartment needs to think with a clear mind. You’ve clearly lost yours.”

“More for me,” he says. He downs the scotch in one quick gulp. When he lifts his glass, I notice dried blood dripped down the side of his hand.

“What happened to your hand? There’s blood on it.”

He turns his hand around and looks at the blood, unfazed. “A little mishap.”

“Let me clean it for you.”

“Just leave it.”

This is worse than I thought. He’s in real trouble. He’s lost control.

Spiraling.

Spiraling.

I’m too dizzy to figure out how to stop him from spinning.

“Were you planning on telling me? Or was your intention all along to keep me in the dark with your news?”

“I knew you’d get word,” he says flippantly. “Eventually.”

“You knew I’d get…” I blow out an exasperated breath and shake my head. “Why did you go behind my back?”

“Because I didn’t want to listen to this. I didn’t want to hear you try to talk me out of it. Now you can’t. It’s done.” He’s speaking so calmly. He’s completely disconnected from the enormity of his actions. I don’t think he cares.

“It can be undone. We have time.”

“What does that mean?” He frowns.

“We have some borrowed time to undo this.”

“You had no right interfering.”

My eyes widen. “I had no right? I’m your editor… you should have given me the courtesy of a heads-up instead of embarrassing me in front of my boss when she announced your intentions. You blindsided me. Do you know how foolish I felt being the last to know? Do you know how heartsick I was that you did this without even discussing it with me, like I didn’t matter? You hurt me. You had to know it would hurt me. But you don’t care.”

 I take a deep breath to calm myself then continue. “Besides all that, I’m your fucking girlfriend. I have every right to interfere. I love you, you asshole. I’m not about to watch you throw away your dreams because you’re going through a tough time. We can fix this. Ben, let me help.”

“I don’t want help.” He’s so blasé. It’s like I’m talking to a total stranger.

“No? Are you going to look for a new publisher?”

“No.”

“You’re not writing at all?”

“I’m done with it.”

My stomach sinks. This is breaking my heart. “Why? You’re so talented. Don’t do this. Please.”

“This is my decision to make and I made it. Respect it.” His gaze is dark and cold. I feel an icy chill creeping throughout my body.

He pours another drink, from the looks of it a double and walks out of the kitchen. I screw the cap back on the bottle of scotch and place it in a cabinet below the counter, hopeful that the old phrase out of sight, out of mind is true.

I follow Ben into the living room and find him sitting on the couch. I walk over to him and sit on the opposite end and watch him twirl the amber liquid around and around in his glass.

“How many of those have you had?” I ask.

“Enough,” he says, knocking back the remainder of his drink.

“Can we talk about your writing?”

“What’s left to say?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’m taking back control.”

“Control of what?”

“My life. Deadlines. Death. My father. Lawyers. Obligations. Expectations. Pressures. It’s all noise. I’m tired, Julia. I’m so fucking tired of it. This isn’t what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I want a day where I don’t wake up hating my life.”

“You’re in pain now. You’re grieving. Give it time. Things will get better.”

“I own the Central Park apartment. Did I tell you that?”

“Your grandmother’s apartment? She owned that?” Holy crap. I knew Ben’s family came from money… but that apartment elevates him to the “fuck you” money stratosphere. It must be worth millions.

“It’s all mine. She left it to me. I went there after I saw the lawyers. Looked around. It’s different now… felt like I’ve never been there before.”

“I wish I was with you.”

“Speaking of you… my grandmother left something for you. Apparently she had it added to her will the last time you spoke to her. I knew nothing about it.”

“For me? Why would she leave anything to me?”

“She’s not here to ask,” he says sardonically. “There. It’s in the bag on the coffee table.” He points to a plain brown paper bag sitting on the table in front of us.

I reach over and grab the bag, uncurling the crumpled top. I look inside, frown then look back up at Ben. I put my hand inside the bag and pull out an old book.

“Oliver Twist?” I ask, confused. “Isn’t this the book she read to you and Elizabeth?”

“The very same.”

“Why did she leave it to me?”

“No idea. Apparently, she had one of her lawyer flunkies go to her apartment and find the book before she died. They told me she had very specific instructions for you to have it.”

“She had a lawyer fetch the book?”

“Money talks. The kind of money she had does more than talk, it barks orders.”

“I don’t understand what this book has to do with me. You or Elizabeth should have it.”

“She disagreed.”

I glide my hand over the worn leather cover; my fingertips running down the small cracks in the leather on the edges of the book.

“Ben, I can’t accept this. It belongs with you.”

“It’s just a book. Keep it. For whatever her reason, she thought you should have it.”

I nod. “Okay.” I don’t know what else to say about this. I’m beyond confused. “Was it delivered here?”

“No. The lawyers gave it to me. They were supposed to messenger it to your place, but since I now have money that barks orders… they gave it to me when I told them I’d personally deliver it.”

“What did you do at her apartment after you saw the lawyers?”

“I sat on a chair and stared out the window, waiting for a stupid pigeon to show up. Must have been sitting there for an hour, maybe more…” He shakes his head. “Waiting for a fucking bird that never came.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well… I made some decisions while I sat there wasting my time.”

“What kind of decisions?”

“Changes.”

“What kind of changes?”

“I’m going back to brokering.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I’m good at it.”

“You’re so good at writing. And you love it.”

“It’s easier to take away the things you love on your own terms than to have them snatched away without warning.”

“But…”

He interrupts my thought. “The business end of writing ruined it. This deadline, that deadline. I like things simple and straightforward. I just wanted to write. But something that simple got complicated. So you know what? Fuck it. I’ve taken it out of the equation.”

“We’ll figure something else out.”

“It’s not your problem.”

“Of course it is. If you hurt, I hurt.”

He shakes his head and glares at me. “Don’t be so naïve to think you feel what I feel.”

“I wasn’t saying that.” I slide off the couch, move to the floor, and sit next to his feet. Looking up at him, I try to grab hold of his hand. He snaps his hand away and stares at me coldly.

“God, Ben. Where have you gone?” I whisper, fighting the tears threatening to fall. He’s never spoken to me so callously before.

“I’m right here.”

I shake my head. “No. You’re not my Ben.”

“Maybe I never was,” he snaps.

I suck in a quick gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. He’s in pain and he’s lashing out. He wants the world to hurt like he does, and he’s starting with me. I look back up at him. His head is tilting back slightly, his eyelids heavy, occasionally closing. The afternoon booze fest is finally catching up with him.