Page 48 of Not a Friend (Crescent Light #1)

One Year Ago, January

She was here. Now she isn’t. And my pillowcase smells like lilacs.

T he hardest part about everything that happened was having to go back to work on Monday and act like I was alright. Everyone would be buzzing from the announcement of the Newbie Comp winner, and even though I was prouder of Ha-Joon than I was jealous, I was still so emotionally raw.

And to be honest, I was feeling physically raw, too. My legs were sore, my nipples sensitive, and the insides of my thighs sported faint purple marks that were suspiciously the size of Nate’s fingertips.

In any normal scenario, I might think of the residual marks and soreness as a turn-on. But they were only bitter reminders of how badly everything was fucked up.

I picked up coffee for Wren and Ha-Joon on my way to the office, determined not to let my sourpuss mood bring me down all day. The usual: vanilla oat milk latte for Wren, black coffee for Ha-Joon, Earl Grey for me .

Shiny gold balloons that spelled “congrats” were draped over Ha-Joon’s side of our three-sided cubicle. My lips quirked up just thinking about how Ha-Joon, our humble sweetheart, probably hated them.

“Congratulations, hot shot,” I said as I reached over his shoulder to put the coffee next to his laptop. I wrapped an arm around his chest and gave him a squeeze.

“Thanks,” he smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know how I feel about all the attention, though.”

“Hush,” I scolded, circling around and plopping Wren’s latte in her waiting grabby hands. “You deserve it.”

She let out a deep moan as she drank. “Mmh. You are a goddess, thank you. You just missed Lifestyle coming in here to formally congratulate our poor Ha-Joon. They applauded and everything. He got so red I thought he would burst into flames.”

“It’s very sweet. But it’s… a lot,” he murmured, fingers flying over his keyboard, already busy at work.

Maybe he didn’t love the attention, but he was flying on cloud nine in his own way.

His dark brown eyes sparkled, and a certain lightness immolated from his lanky form.

He’d even styled his black hair differently, gelling it back so it revealed his forehead.

He reminded me of a kid on school picture day, reluctantly dressed up and pretending not to be excited.

“A title on the cover of the next edition and a mention on the website’s main page is a big deal, Joon,” I said. “You need to let yourself bask in the bragging rights for at least a day.”

His ears, usually hidden under his dark mop of hair, burned red as he gave Wren and me a heartfelt smile before ducking back into his work.

The rest of the day was, thankfully, uneventful. We carried on, business as usual, knocking out upcoming dailies for the next week. I put my headphones in and worked silently for the most part, desperate to keep moving fast enough that my brain would stay occupied.

I was packing up my things, feeling grateful the day was over and proud that I kept my brave face on the whole time, when Julienne’s voice flittered out her open office door.

“McLaren, is that you?”

My head fell back and my eyes settled on a crack in the ceiling.

So close.

I’d been doing so well at avoiding people. I was peopled out. If Julienne wasn’t my boss—and terrifying, and brilliant—I might’ve pretended not to hear her.

Sliding my laptop into my tote bag, I slung it over my shoulder and trudged to Julienne’s office.

“Hey,” I said in my most normal voice, stopping in the entryway. “Did you need something?”

She leaned back in her seat, dark eyes assessing me. The barest hint of a smile graced her full lips as she extended one slender arm to gesture to the plush armchairs in front of her desk. “Come sit.”

It sounded like an invitation, but she wasn’t asking.

Getting fired would be very on-brand for how the last few days have been.

She must have seen the skeptical look in my eye because she added, “You aren’t in trouble.”

I made a show of releasing a relieved breath as I sat, and she laughed, teeth shining stark white against her dark brown skin. It was only then I realized I’d never heard her laugh before, and it eased something in me .

“Olive, I wanted to tell you personally how much I enjoyed reading your submission.”

My eyes widened. A tight, politely awkward smile formed on my lips.

Lovely. It’s like being rejected all over again. Only this time to my face and with an extra serving of pity.

“Actually,” she continued, “I enjoyed it quite a bit. As did the rest of the judging committee.”

“Oh. I mean—thank you. That means a lot.”

“And I’m not just saying that. You committed to the assignment. We asked everyone to dig deep, and you did exactly that. The level of care you put into your project was evident.”

It felt a little like salt was being rubbed into my wounds. I wasn’t sure what, if any, response she was looking for.

She leaned forward on her elbows and steepled her hands under her chin. “Olive, I think the idea can go even deeper.”

My eyes widened further. “What do you mean?”

“I think there’s more of a story to tell, another level we can explore with the artists you chose.

I wanted to see if you’d be interested in taking another whack at it.

Obviously, I have some notes and a number of suggestions.

But if we can hone in on the research a bit, I think this could be a great piece.

Not to mention the positive impact it could have locally. ”

Julienne paused, giving me a chance to respond, but continued when I failed to produce a sound.

“The Newbie Comp is over, so the same incentives and distinctions won’t be offered.

You’ll have to submit the piece for approval, and it’ll go through the same selection process as every other article, but it’s still a great opportunity for you.

Something to hang your hat on if it’s approved, to be sure. If you’re interested—”

“Yes!” I nodded furiously. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but yes.

I believe in this piece. I’ll do whatever I can to see it through.

It would mean a lot for me, yes, but for the artists, too.

They—” Crescent Light flashed through my mind.

The determined look Nate got when he was on stage.

Muddy as things might be, my opinions on his artistry were unchanged.

He was brilliant. They were brilliant. “They deserve it.”

Julienne gave me another soft smile. “Your heart is in the right place. We can see that. Now”—she leaned back in her seat, reminding me of a queen on her throne—“let’s go over a few suggestions and discuss a timeline.”

Julienne and the panel loved my piece.

I said it over and over in my head because it just didn’t feel real. We spent the next hour in her office going over my article. She passed along notes from her and the rest of the panel, all constructive pieces of criticism I totally agreed with.

The biggest takeaway was that they felt there was a deeper level I could have gone into with each artist, but that five groups may have been too big of a pool for the level of detail they wanted.

Focusing on three artists, instead of five, would have allowed me to peel back another layer for each one.

I left her office feeling better than I had in days, with a new sense of challenge, of purpose. A fire within me reignited, determination flaring at the chance to push myself. The chance for my work to still see the light of day.

Diving back in, I took each of Julienne’s suggestions to heart as I reworked.

I leaned further into the details the panel liked and trimmed the fat on the sections that weren’t as strong.

My free time was once again consumed with the piece, and I couldn’t have been more glad for it.

I was on the precipice of something that could change the trajectory of my professional career, and I would not, could not, take it for granted.

While the rewrite sometimes served as a fantastic distraction from my personal life, it came with its own set of distractions. Especially when I shortened the list of artists from five to three, and Crescent Light made the cut yet again.

Only this time, I couldn’t blame it on any unconscious, personal bias about them. Nope. Crescent Light was hand-picked by the goddess Julienne herself as the artist she was most interested in learning more about.

It was harder to keep my head and my heart separated. Harder to keep my love for music and my history with Nate—both ancient and recent—carefully divided. Harder not to allow them to influence one another.

When I re-listened to songs, Nate’s soothing voice pulled me in. When I watched live performances, I got stuck watching the way Nate moved on stage. When I analyzed lyrics, I found underlying meaning in the words.

In fleeting moments, I could forget about what happened and let myself indulge in him. But the sour hurt would always return a moment later.

“I’m not your friend. I’ve never been your fucking friend.”

The article required focus, free from my clouded judgment. So, I packed him up in a box and shoved him into the corner of my mind to be dealt with, looked at, and reconciled another time .

I needed to quit him. Fleeting promises of a sweet, gooey center lingering under his unreadable shell wasn’t a good enough reason to keep holding out hope.

Like a moth to a flame, seeing him proved that all it took was one glance for me to be drawn in—for me to be burned.

I wanted to hate him. I wanted to blame him for my anger, my heartache, for taking up so much of my time, for occupying so many of my thoughts. I wanted to curse him for robbing me of a chance at ever forgetting about him, and demand answers I know I would never get.

And yet.

Crescent Light deserved to be heard by the entire world.

Maybe this could’ve been my way of reconciling a part of what happened so I could, at last, walk away from everything without being flooded with regrets.

Maybe this rewrite will give me exactly the kind of catharsis I need to finally quit Nate Cassidy once and for all.