Page 72 of Open for Negotiation
“But, honey,”
“I said I’m not doing it, Scarlett. That man took care of me my entire life, even when I was an asshole and didn’t deserve it. I’m not going to abandon him when he needs me the most.”
I don’t want to fight with her over this. I don’t want to argue or upset her because at the end of the day, it’s not my business.
“I just don’t like seeing you so exhausted and emotionally spent. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s just a hard week. I’ll be all right.” She adjusts the way she’s sitting and holds up a finger to tell me to hold on a second. “I think I heard Dad,” she whispers before remaining completely still. It reminds me of new moms when they put their babies down to sleep and think they may be waking up and don’t want to make any sudden movements. “False alarm,” she finally says. “All right, enough about me and my shit over here. Talk to me about tomorrow. Why are you nervous?”
“How can I not be? There are so many variables. I’m going to be on television, for one, and for two, I’m going to literally be the face of Fortress and the entire project as a whole. And this isn’t a small one, Eden, this is huge. Like state of Georgia economy changing huge.”
“Wow, you’re right, you should be nervous.”
“Eden!”
She laughs at my expense. “I’m teasing, babe. I mean, yeah, this is a big deal, but you’re the most qualified person for the job. You wouldn’t have been picked otherwise.”
I’ve tried to tell myself that time and time again, but I finally blurt out what’s been stuck in my mind for the last few days.
“What if he only picked me because I’m sleeping with him?”
“No.” She points at me through the screen. “I will not let you do that to yourself. He picked you because you are good at what you do. Period. Do you honestly think he’d stake the entire project on you TWICE if he thought, even for a second, that you couldn’t do it?”
“I mean, I would hope not. I guess I’m just psyching myself out.”
“None of that. You’ve got this, all right? I believe in you.”
“You always do.” I smile.
“Speaking of sleeping with him… How’s that going?”
Over the next two hours, when we both should be sleeping, I fill her in on everything. Savannah, being caught by that cop, my ever-growing feelings, and how incredible I feel when I’m with him. I don’t, however, share any of the personal conversations we’ve been having. Those aren’t my stories to tell.
“You’re in love with him,” she says point-blank, with a shit-eating grin on her face.
“What? No, no I’m…. no I’m not,” I deny.
“Oh yes, you are! Look at you! You glow when you get the chance to talk about him. He is nice to you, he treats you with respect, he’s clearly fantastic between the sheets,”
“Eden!” I exclaim, covering my face with both hands.
“Where’s the lie?” she asks, raising her left eyebrow.
I drop my hands and pout dramatically. “It doesn’t exist.”
“I knew it!” she whisper-yells. “I knew it. I told you. I knew it.”
“Oh, Eden, what am I going to do? I didn’t mean to fall in love with my boss. This is just so messy.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Is it really that simple? Can we just… decide that it doesn’t have to be messy?
I really, really hope so.
***
Sleep is still evading me an hour later while I’m lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, unsuccessfully trying to read a book on my Kindle app.
The bing of an incoming notification on Instagram startles me, but the content of the message is what makes my blood run cold.
A link to an old article about Coach Whitaker and me.
It’s from an account that I don’t follow, and that doesn’t have any images of their own or a bio… or even a profile picture.
I try hard to keep my account private, but trolls slip through from time to time.
That’s all this is, I tell myself. It has to be.
Block.
