Page 40 of How Freaking Romantic

It takes approximately forty-seven seconds to throw on my clothes—the short pleated skirt and suede boots I had worn yesterday when I had planned on seeing Nathan—and fly out the door.

He’s not outside the building, and the sidewalk is empty.

I go left, toward the avenue, my mind racing as fast as my feet.

Even if I find him, what do I say? If I tell him the truth, not only would I be breaking a promise to Josh, but none of this is covered under attorney–client privilege.

He could be obligated to tell the courts about Josh’s financial documents, how his client covered up his addiction and then Josh’s secret will be out there.

But in the end, it doesn’t matter that I don’t know what to say, because by the time I reach the corner, Nathan is gone.

Some small part of me hoped that he would be there somewhere, that he knew I would follow him so he decided to wait.

But no. The sidewalks are filled only with the usual commuters darting back and forth, none of them noticing my dejected expression as I stand alone on the curb.

I pull my phone from my bag, typing out a quick text to him.

BEATRICE

DID YOU GO TO WORK? CALL ME.

Then I see the time: 9:29 a.m.

Shit.

I have class in twenty minutes, a two-hour seminar that requires all phones to be on silent. Then I have to go up to Frank’s office for my weekly meeting with Nathan.

That’s good news, I tell myself as I head to campus.

Even if I miss his call, I’ll still see him today so I can explain.

Exactly how I will explain still gnaws at my gut, though, anxiety that distracts from the crowds of students and faculty and tours as I maneuver my way to class.

I go through the motions: put my laptop on my desk, silence my phone.

Ignore the fact that there are no text messages waiting when I do.

At exactly 12:29 p.m., I head up to the fourth floor of Vanderbilt Hall.

The hallway is empty when I step off the elevator, and I do my best to ignore the growing sense of dread puddling in my stomach as I walk down to Frank’s office.

I unlock the door and step inside, putting my bag down next to my usual chair before sitting down myself. I glance at the clock on the far wall.

12:32.

I try to swallow back my anxiety. He could just be running late. A meeting at work ran over or something. I pretend the thought settles my pulse.

It’s another few minutes before I hear the elevator ding. Then I hear his footsteps, an even gait as he comes closer. But my relief dissolves when he walks in. He’s wearing his suit again, and he has that impassive expression on his face that I remember from the first time I met him. I hate it.

He doesn’t sit down like usual, just leans against Frank’s desk, his arms on either side of him, gripping the worn wood finish. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to crease his suit. Or he’s not planning to stay long. My heart lurches with the thought.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.”

He doesn’t offer anything else. It’s so quiet that I’m positive he must hear my pounding heart.

“Why didn’t you call?” I finally ask.

“I was at work,” he replies. “Why didn’t you?”

His voice is low and biting and I can’t help but bristle. But then something in me cools with the realization that he’s right. I didn’t call. I was in class, yes, but that wasn’t an excuse. Fear never is.

“Why were you at Josh’s apartment today?” I ask, raising my chin as if the act will give me courage.

“You told me that it was a conflict of interest to be with you while I was also Josh’s attorney. I was there to tell him that I’m handing day-to-day responsibilities of his case to an associate.”

“First thing in the morning?”

“I wanted to do it in person and outside the office so he didn’t think I was charging him a fortune just to admit that I was sleeping with his best friend.”

The words sound sharp enough that I almost wince.

He stares at me for a long moment. “What were you doing there, Bea?”

My mouth falls open, but everything I want to say is stuck in my throat. I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t know how to do this and keep my promise to Josh. I have to protect them, even when withholding information will end up sounding like a lie anyway.

“You need to talk to Josh.”

“I’m talking to you.” He somehow makes it sound like an accusation.

“I get that, but I can’t—”

“I’m talking to you,” he repeats.

My eyes narrow.

“Then talk to me,” I say defensively. The door of the office is open, and a couple of students pass, their eyes darting toward us. I immediately lower my voice. “Sit down and have a conversation instead of standing there like you’re interrogating me.”

He doesn’t move, but I swear I see a crack in his stoic expression.

“I know what it looks like, Nate,” I continue. “But I promise, it’s not what you think…”

God, it’s such a cliché. I can tell he thinks so, too, by how his head falls forward and he lets out a long breath.

“I’ve heard that before, Bea.”

I blink. And then I realize that it’s not just a cliché. It’s what Rebecca told him when she was lying about her affair.

Fuckfuckfuuuuuuuck …

“It’s not like that,” I say, my voice betraying a bit of panic. “I mean, I stayed there last night, but we didn’t sleep together or anything. It’s just… this is between you and Josh, and I can’t…” My brain is doing somersaults and it’s coming out as an amalgamation of dissociated words.

“You can’t what?” It’s not a question. It’s the statement of a lawyer taking a deposition, a means to garner information and nothing more.

Another group of students meander by the doorway. They must hear us before they pass, because they immediately lower their voices, as if trying to glean a few details as they walk by.

Damn it . Even if I was willing to implode Josh’s possibility of using attorney–client, I couldn’t tell Nathan anything right now. This is too private for student gossip.

“I can’t talk about this here,” I say, lowering my voice to barely a whisper. “Just call Josh, and then we can discuss everything. Trust me.”

“Right.” He nods, an absent gesture. “I’ve heard that before, too.”

His voice is back to the same tone from when I first stormed into his office. Aloof. Unbothered. It’s like he’s already done. Like he made up his mind before he even showed up here.

And that’s when it hits me: he probably did.

He knew exactly how this was going to go the minute I opened Josh’s front door.

Nathan has donned his defenses again, that familiar suit of armor that I have myself, and I’m left with the man I met all those weeks ago.

Except this time I don’t have my armor to match.

He destroyed it, leaving me naked and vulnerable.

A sacrifice on the altar of self-preservation.

“I’m not Rebecca,” I seethe. I want to say more, but a dull ringing stops me.

Nathan reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone.

“Nathan Asher,” he answers. He listens and nods.

“All right. I’ll be there in twenty.” He hangs up and puts the phone away.

A muscle in his jaw ticks as he clears his throat.

“I’m going to cancel class today. I have work to finish up at the office.

Please send an email out to let the students know. ”

My mom’s words come back to me —at some point you need to fight for you just as much as you fight for everybody else —but what seemed tangible only a few hours before, now feels impossible.

This isn’t my story, and putting myself in the center would be selfish.

No, it’s worse than that: it would hurt the people I love. And I can’t do that.

Staring up into Nathan’s cold eyes right now, it already feels too late anyway.

“So that’s it?” I can already feel the anger rising up inside me, ready to swallow the pain.

“Unless you have something else to say.”

There’s a vicious part of me that feels vindicated.

It’s like I somehow always knew this would happen, that no matter how good it seemed, it would end.

Because everything always does. I was so stupid to ever think this could be the exception.

All that’s left to do is leave before he sees how close I am to falling apart, and hope I survive it.

“I guess not,” I say, gathering my things back up and walking past him to the door. I pause on the threshold. “I take that back. When you do finally talk to Josh, don’t call me. I won’t pick up.”

Then I turn and walk away. And he lets me.

I get off the subway at 168th Street an hour later. The subway entrance is crowded, and I forget to watch out for where the top step is broken. The heel of my boot catches and snaps off, rolling away until it stops next to a half-eaten piece of pizza by the trash can on the corner.

I love these dumb shoes. I bought them on sale almost two years ago and had barely worn them since, too precious to even consider exposing them to the dangers of New York City sidewalks.

But I had put them on yesterday, back when I raced home to my apartment after leaving Nathan’s—showering and shaving and ripping my closet apart to find the perfect outfit to wear—because I thought I would see him. I had worn these shoes for him.

Stupid, stupid girl.

I hobble to my building, broken heel in hand, and find my apartment just as I left it, clothes strewn across the floor and furniture, a half-finished cup of coffee on the countertop.

It’s a still life that captured a perfect, fleeting moment filled with so much fucking hope.

My stomach twists and I feel sick, a perverse motion sickness as if the world has turned too fast and my brain can’t catch up.

I close the door behind me, drop my keys on the hardwood floor, and shuffle to my bed. It’s unmade, but I don’t care. I perch on the edge and stare straight ahead at the blank wall, at the crack making its way across the plaster. And for the first time in what feels like hours, I let out a breath.

You should have told him , a voice says somewhere in my head—a nagging, taunting hiss that I ignore.

I can’t deny that for a moment I considered it.

When Nathan stood in front of me, I was so scared of losing him I almost told him everything.

But then I caught that look in his eyes, the resignation before I had really said anything at all.

And I realized I had lost him before I even showed up there today. Guilty until proven innocent.

It hurts—a deep, sharp pain in my chest. My hand comes up to rub it out, but only seems to bury it deeper. This is exactly what I was so desperate to avoid. I didn’t want to get hurt. I didn’t want to show that vulnerable part of me and leave it exposed to someone who could do this.

But I thought he was worth it. I thought he was different.

Stupid, stupid girl.

After a moment I realize my phone is vibrating from somewhere deep in my bag.

I want to ignore it, but apparently there’s still some small part of me that’s refusing to give up on that hope, because I lean down to where my bag sits at my feet.

It takes a few seconds to find it, and when I reach for the glowing screen, I hate that I want to see Nathan’s name across it.

I see Jillian’s smiling face there instead.

I squeeze my eyes together, forcing back the tears and answer.

“Hey,” I say weakly.

“Hey, how did it go? Did you get Tex?”

“Yeah,” I say, letting out a shaky breath. “He’s fine. He’s with Josh.”

“Oh, thank God.” There’s a relieved sigh before she continues. “I was so worried. You have no idea—”

“I have to tell you something.” I force the words out, my voice so loud that she falls silent for a moment.

“Okay,” she finally says.

My mouth falls open. I want to tell her about Josh.

I want to ask her if she knew, or at least suspected why we’ve all been navigating this battlefield with only partial information.

But right now, none of that matters. The only thing I can control is the one thing that could hurt her even more. And I have to be honest about it.

“Nathan Asher,” I say.

“Josh’s lawyer?” she asks. “Oh God, did you go back to his office? Bea, if you—”

“I was with him this weekend.”

A moment, and I can almost hear her trying to connect the dots. “You ran into him this weekend?”

“No, I was with him. At his apartment,” I say as a tear rolls down my cheek. “I stayed with him.”

Silence. Painful, deafening silence. Then: “Bea. How long has this been going on?”

“Since I stormed into his office.” A moment passes, and I know she’s counting the weeks. I choke back a sob. “Jillian, please let me—”

She hangs up without another word.