Flynn

In front of the Schillers’ bench, I have to float the next question. Despite the risks, despite my own fears, now is the time to ask.

I didn’t plan to ask her here. But here is the right place.

“Sabrina,” I say, my voice gravelly with nerves, “what happens when the story is done?”

The nerves aren’t from how I feel for her. They come from whether she’ll allow an us to happen. Whether she’s willing to take a chance. That’s the great unknown. That’s the uncontrollable factor.

“What do you mean?”

I reach for her hand, sliding my fingers through hers. “Do you think there’s any way we could do this?”

“Do what?” Her voice is barely a breath on the air. “I need you to spell it out.”

I love that she wants utter clarity. It’s so her. “Be together. You and me.” I point from her to me and back. “Have a real go of it.”

“Be together,” she repeats, as if she’s making sense of what I’m saying.

I loop my fingers tighter through hers. “I’ve had a great time with you over these two weeks, and I want to see where we can go. The article is almost done, so does that mean we can have a new beginning?”

She sighs, a melancholy sound. I want to hit the rewind button, go back in time ten seconds, and turn that sigh into one of contentment.

“Flynn,” she says, and my name sounds like an apology. Tension flares through me, and I wonder how I’ve read this wrong. How I’ve completely misunderstood yesterday’s kiss and everything else. “You know I wish it was different. You have to know that, right?”

There’s heartache in her voice.

“Yeah, I know that,” I say heavily.

Her fingers slide tighter through mine, and her touch has become an epilogue, the last reminder that we were always pretend. We were each better off not knowing who the other was, when we slipped on our masks and made believe we could be people we weren’t.

“I want that more than anything. But this is a big chance for me at Up Next. If I can impress Mr. Galloway with this piece, there could be a whole new beat writing deep features on companies—including yours. And you know it’s not only my career,” she adds, her voice a bare plea. “I have to support Kevin. I want to support Kevin. He’s my brother, but he also doesn’t have anyone else who can look out for him the way I do.”

“I understand.” And I do. I understand deeply he’s the world to her, and that’s how it should be. She has to put him first.

She has to put herself second.

That means we won’t turn into anything more. We’ll keep fading into less.

If I believed in fate, I’d say it was meant to be this way.

But I believe in math and on the surface, we don’t add up.

We’re an inequality.

One has more than the other. One needs more than the other. One can’t give what the other must have.

But what if I could balance the equation? A surge of energy shoots through me. I’ve built companies my whole adult life. I create jobs. I can make one for her. I can solve this math problem. “Wait. What if I gave you a job?”

She furrows her brow. “What? Why on earth would you give me a job?”

Be her cushion. “Maybe we can come up with something.”

“I don’t even understand what that would be.”

I hunt for an idea. Anything at all. “Writing a newsletter or marketing copy or something.”

She shoots me a look—one that says she can’t believe I offered that. One that says she’s slightly offended. “You can’t solve this for me by coming up with a job you don’t have and don’t need,” she sputters, flapping her hands.

“What if we needed that?” I posit.

She narrows her eyes. “But you don’t. You don’t really need to hire me. Also, that’s not the kind of job I want or am good at.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck, frustrated as hell to be back to an equation with no answer. “That was kind of ridiculous and insulting.”

“It’s fine,” she says softly. “I know where you’re coming from. I just want you to understand. I’m not a marketing writer. Or a newsletter writer. I’m a reporter.”

“I know. I wish I could help.”

She nods, her expression softening. “I appreciate the sentiment, but right now the job I want is covering your business. I’ve tried to convince myself every night that I can feel how I do about you and still do my job objectively,” she says, and my heart sits up, hoping. “But I can’t. And I think maybe it’s best if we stop . . .” She takes a beat, swallows, and seems to gird herself to say the harder part. “Stop seeing each other like this.”

A kick in the gut. I saw it coming, but it still smarts like a screaming demon. Only, I don’t want her to know how much this hurts. I don’t want to let on for a second that I’m in pain.

“Absolutely. I absolutely agree.” I drop her hand, making it clear I’m 100 percent on board with this.

That’s a lie.

But I’m not interested in letting the truth shine through. Not when there’s a hole in my chest from the punch she delivered.