A rustling through the line made me think maybe I wasn’t the only one still in bed. “What was different?” she asked.
“Well, it started the same. The way it really happened. But then I was dad, and Darcy…” Turned out I couldn’t finish the sentence. Shit, I was messed up.
“You are not him,” Layla growled.
I grunted, unsure how to respond.
“You’re not!”
“I share his blood.”
“So do I!” Layla was yelling, and her righteous anger was more of a comfort than it should have been. I was an asshole. A womanizing bastard who was afraid of commitment and could be self-involved to a point just short of narcissism, but I was no abuser. I could never let myself become an abuser.
“I love you,” I said, breaking the silence that sprung up between us.
“I love you too, big bro. Now please, do me a favor and don’t fuck it up with her this time? I’m pretty sure she’s your soulmate.”
“Whatever. You still coming around next weekend?”
As the conversation devolved into future plans and good-natured ribbing, I finally took my first deep breath since waking up.
Just a dream. It was all just. A. Dream.
Darcy
“Hey Rowsthorn,looks like you’re going deep with your interview.”
I glanced up from my cell at the sound of my name as I stepped into the office on Monday morning. Tom Walker, weather columnist and douchebag extraordinaire, had a leer on his face that made me think he maybe wasn’t paying me a compliment.
“It’s coming along. Thanks, Walker,” I said with an attempt at a friendly smile.
“You wanna come interview me sometime? I could give you something to write about.”
He was not rubbing his crotch right now.
What the hell was going on this morning? I’d had similar snide comments from a couple of others as I had braved the coffeepot in the breakroom not ten minutes earlier. The swill, which I was fairly confident was a mix of imitation coffee beans cut with dirt to make it go further, was currently staining my favorite mug as it cooled on my desk. The conversation with colleagues had been equally off-putting.
“Rowsthorn. I wanna see you now.”
The bark of Mr. Fagan’s voice was a welcome interruption. Without bothering to reply to the HR nightmare waiting to happen, I turned my back on Tom the weather guy, and headed into the boss’s office.
Closing his door behind me to give the illusion of privacy, I slid into the lone wooden chair in the space. Pages of paper flew an inch from my nose as Mr. Fagan tossed a newspaper on the desk in front of me.
My first thought was to wonder why Mr. Fagan felt the need to show me a copy of the Swenton Daily. TheDailynewspaper was the only competition we at the Swenton Times had locally, though competition was a stretch. I would never mention it in front of my boss, but it was well known that the Times was the underdog that few were rooting for.
Then I saw the photograph.
The tingling started in my scalp. As though I were being slowly submerged in ice water, the feeling spread down over my face, my neck and shoulders, until I was certain I couldn’t feel my toes. With a strange feeling of disconnect, I tore my eyes from the image of two people in what looked like an incredibly intimate moment, and read the headline.
The Bullet Finds His Mark with New Belle.
The article appeared to be a trash piece about Kane’s history with women, and speculation over everything from how long this latest relationship would last, to —
I recoiled at the delightful line wondering whether I would be too small for him. Seriously?!
Feeling returned with a rush as my face began to burn.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” I said in a voice I didn’t recognize.
