If I see any of them again, they’re dead.

A story of desperation and dirty deeds. It makes me sick to think that this is the legacy of my time with Calder. I spent the last few weeks trying to convince myself that what he and I had was something special, something meaningful. Something that comes along once in a lifetime, if that. But maybe I was right when I told myself our entire relationship was like a vivid dream. It was intoxicating, exhilarating, and more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced—but ultimately insubstantial. It’s time to wake up, and before long my time with Calder will fade into memory like every other creation of my desperate subconscious.

I don’t realize I’m crying until the teardrop hits the paper. I sniffle and wipe my cheek.

Look at me. I’m a wreck.

I need to pull myself together. I need to prepare for the media circus that is sure to show up at our doors. But I can’t bring myself to look back at my computer. I can’t tear my eyes from the paper lying on my desk.

I grab it. Rip off the cover. Flip to the article and pull out every page, one by one. And when I’m certain I’ve removed every mention of myself or Calder or the Center from the weekly, I begin to shred them, tearing them into tiny little pieces.

There are bits of paper everywhere. I sweep my hand across my desk, scattering the scraps across the office.

I get up and shut my office door, hoping Dad gets the hint and leaves me to myself for a while. And then I slide down against the wall until I’m sitting on the floor.

The tears come hard and fast.

This wasn’t supposed to end like this. I love him. God, I love him.

Part of me wants to call him, to tell him how I feel, to beg him to stay. But it’s precisely because I love him that I can’t do that. He needs to find his way in this world, and I won’t do anything to hold him back.

I just wish it had ended differently. I wish my last image of him wasn’t the stony-faced farewell he gave me when he dropped me off at my apartment yesterday. What we had deserves more than that.

He understood me—he saw things that even I didn’t know about myself. He brought out a wild, wicked side of me that I normally keep hidden away. He saw the fear and the pain inside of me and drew me up and away from it.

I thought I understood him, too. I still do, I think. He’s a proud man—but a good one. He hates to ask for help, even when he needs it. He’s essentially starting over in his life, and he needs to know that he can take care of himself, solve his own problems. I wanted—want—to be his support system, but he doesn’t realize that it’s not a weakness to allow others to share his burden.

Knowing that doesn’t make this situation any easier. If anything, it makes me feel worse.

There’s a stabbing pain in the side of my stomach, and I curse myself for being so melodramatic. I’m a grown woman with a thousand things to do, and I’m sitting here on the floor sobbing over a man I only officially dated for a few short weeks.

A few short, amazing weeks.

I force that thought from my mind and drag myself to my feet. Wallowing in self-pity won’t accomplish anything. I need to get my shit together before the reporters start showing up on our doorstep. Blubbering is not going to help the Center.

I dab at my eyes with my sleeve. One way or another, I need to get through this, and I have a feeling deep in the pit of my stomach that if I’m not careful, things are going to get a lot worse before they get better.

* * *

They come in droves.

The bolder ones walk right into the Center and ask for Wentworth Cunningham" to make interviews and sound bites. The sneakier ones wait by my car. Or outside my apartment. I thought I was ready for the onslaught of photographers and reporters, but I’m not. Not even close.

They call at all hours. My carefully-prepared answers are flimsy against the men and women who’ve built careers on their ability to wheedle secrets out of people. I thought that giving them basic information about the situation here at the Center would be the best course of action—that it would make us look friendly and cooperative, like we have nothing to hide. But engaging those leeches at all only seems to make them hungrier. It gets to the point where I’m afraid to answer the phones, and I’d happily ignore the constant ringing if it weren’t for our clients and students. Some of the sneakier journalists have even managed to get my cell number, and I have to start blocking every unknown call that shows up on my screen.

We’ve had to push our classes back a week. I hate to do it, but it’s just too much on top of all this insanity.

I get by by reminding myself that we’re getting tons of free publicity. We’ve already had a few people contact us about donating, and Morgan claims she saw a fundraising campaign online. I’ve been avoiding the internet completely. The pictures that were taken in the parking lot the day Calder and I made our escape to his estate have been making the rounds on all the major gossip sites. I never realized how much information I had on the web until people were suddenly eager to find it—now personal details of my life are being reposted everywhere. People are writing comments about my clothes, my weight, my hair. Strangers have started contacting me at all of my social media accounts—some offering sympathy, others calling me a slut.

Oddly enough, the only place I’ve found that seems to treat the entire Cunningham situation with any sort of sense is the site where Garrett contributes. Granted, they were never the sort of publication that posted gossip; they value facts over speculation and scandal. But I’m still a little shocked to see that they’ve posted several pieces on the situation, breaking down the likeliest financial scenarios point by point. They’re the first source I’ve seen to strongly suggest that there was no foul play or illegal activity involved in the family’s downfall.

Garrett is listed as a contributing writer on one of the pieces, which under different circumstances I’d find highly amusing. Instead, it just reminds me of the horrible decisions I’ve made concerning men.

Asher Julian calls on Wednesday. I hang up as soon as I hear his voice. Why do I seem to attract all the asshole journalists?

The entire week feels designed to keep me too preoccupied to think about Calder—while at the same time ensuring that I’m reminded of our brief, passionate affair at every turn. The only thing keeping me from going completely insane is Morgan, who shows up at my office every day as we make our way gsh with coffee and a giant cookie. She’s asked me more than once if I want to talk about how things ended between me and Calder, but I was never the sort of girl who cried about men to her girlfriends, even when I had more than just the one.




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