Say the Word (2 page)

I’m not a bad person.

I vote, I pay my taxes on time, and I make funny faces at babies in the supermarket to make them laugh. I tear up at those awful animal cruelty commercials Sarah McLaughlin is always singing on, and I shower on a regular basis. I donate to charities even though I’m still juggling monthly student loan and car payments on top of my rent and grocery expenses. I stay out of the drama at work because work is hard enough to get through without wondering which of my catty coworkers is going to stab me in the back with a knife clutched in her perfectly manicured fingers. I don’t smoke or drink excessively – fine, I admit,
occasionally
I may indulge in a few too many glasses of Merlot, but nobody’s perfect – and I force myself to go running in Central Park at least three times a week. By anyone’s standards, I’m normal. A girl with her act together. Some might even call me “nice” and, for the most part, they’d be right.

I’m not a bad person.

I’m just not a particularly good one either.

To be fair, you can’t ever really consider yourself a good person when you’ve been singlehandedly responsible for the utter destruction of another person’s happiness.  And that’s really the only term you can use to describe what I did to Sebastian Covington all those years ago – I
destroyed
him. I watched unflinchingly as the life and love drained out of his eyes, and walked away without a backward glance.

It’s kind of funny how a decision you make when you’re eighteen can change your life forever. And by
funny
I mostly mean
absolutely fucking terrible
. When I broke off our relationship, I knew I was hurting him worse than he’d ever been hurt. Harder, though, was the knowledge that I was putting myself through unimaginable pain from which I would never recover.

I still remember that evening so clearly; I don’t think I’
ll ever forget it. Two eighteen-year-old kids, standing at our spot by the old oak behind his house. The hot summer sun was setting and a slight breeze chilled the air as we stood a few paces apart staring at one another. Bash could read me better than anyone – even before I’d spoken, I think he knew what was coming. His eyes had changed, an unfamiliar wariness filling them as soon as my lips parted.

I’d taken a deep breath and forced myself to say the words that would tear us apart forever. And when I’d turned my back and walked away, haunted by the look of betrayal and incomprehension in his eyes, I’d known we’d never speak again. The damage I’d inflicted with my words had cut too deep to ever really heal. I didn’t let myself cry then – that would come later, when I was alone in my bedroom and could finally allow the dull ache of my shattered heart to spread through my system like a lethal paralytic.

I’d known then, at eighteen, that my case of heartbreak was terminal, incurable. It wasn’t “puppy love” or “first love” or any of the loves that supposedly fade with time and large quantities of ice cream.  Because when you walk away from your soul mate – when you take real, true love and throw it in the fire and watch as it burns down to ashes – you know you’ll never be the same again. The heart isn’t like the liver; it doesn’t regenerate, no matter how much time passes. Once it’s gone, it’s gone for good.

I’d left mine with Sebastian when I walked away that day, and I hadn’t seen it in the seven years since.

I should’ve been thrilled; I’d played my part flawlessly.
And the Oscar for Coldhearted Bitch of the Century goes to…
me, Lux Kincaid. I hadn’t had a choice about the plot. Sure, the script could vary here or there, interspersed with improvised lines of my own – but the endgame would always be the same. Our story ended with me walking away, leaving him to a star-studded future.

Roll credits.

Maybe I should back up a bit – start at the beginning, before everything became so complicated and convoluted I didn’t even know which way was up anymore.

You know those stories about the good girl, from the perfect family, with the perfect freaking Rapunzel-like hair, who falls for the boy from the wrong side of the tracks? You know the one – that guy with the gruff exterior who, beneath all those tattoos and piercings and slutty man-whorish tendencies, actually possesses a heart of gold and a capacity for love and
commitment rivaling that of a Golden Retriever?

That wasn’t my story. In fact, you could probably say that was the exact
opposite
of my story.

I wasn’t the good girl, with th
e perfect hair, and a Stepford Wife for a mother. And Bash? Well, he hated needles and he’d never been too girl-crazy – even though, with looks like his, he could’ve had anyone he wanted. As the son of a U.S. Senator, he’d been raised with a constant awareness of the press. His father had drilled the importance of looking the part into Bash’s head from the time he could walk. We used to joke that in lieu of bedtime stories, his father had lectured on the merits of platinum cufflinks over gold in painstaking detail when he’d tucked his young son into bed at night.

Sebastian always looked like he’d just stepped off the glossy pages of a Ralph Lauren advertisement. With his longish dark blond hair pushed back from his face and each strand perfectly in place – not in a purposeful way that told you he’d spent hours in front of his bathroom mirror, but in that effortless way that only naturally beautiful people possess – his clean-cut looks instantly captured the attention of every girl in the room. And, as if to put him even further out of reach of us mere mortals, his warm nature and outgoing personality matched his appe
arance in every way. His heart was bigger than the county we lived in, which just so happened to be the largest in Georgia.

And me? Well, I wasn’t just from the wrong side of the tracks. I was about fifteen blocks and three bus transfers away from even approaching the railway, let alone crossing over those damn tracks to Bash’s side. Put in the plainest terms possible, I was white trash.

Dirt poor. Gutter scum. Lower class. It didn’t matter how you said it – euphemisms wouldn’t lift my family up above the poverty line or put more food on the table.

My childhood house, with its sagging roof, chipped shingles, and termite-eaten porch stoop, had been a laughable excuse for a residence. The blown-out tires on the front lawn and the rusted, ancient red pickup truck that had sat in the driveway unmoving for as long as I could remember didn’t do much to improve our shabby-chic aesthetic, either. My home was such a cliché of American impoverishment that it was almost funny – although, the fact that I had to live in such a dump was sobering enough to leech any humor from the situation.

Moving on.

You know those stories where the family is incredibly poor, but the strength of their love for one another overcomes even the toughest economic obstacles? Those people who, despite having nothing, also have
everything
because they have each other?

Yeah, that’s not my story either.

My parents were drunks. I don’t say that to be mean, it’s just a plain fact. They may have loved their children, but they’d always loved their vodka and gin just a little bit more.

When most people hear the words “child abuse” they immediately think of physical violence – fists flying and blood gushing. Some automatically assume that domestic violence is sexual.  A smaller percentage of people think of emotional trauma – ugly words and the undeserved, often misplaced, destruction of a child’s self-confidence.

My parents did none of those things. They weren’t bad people. They weren’t abusive. They were simply absent.

The official term is “neglect.” That’s how the lawyers and judges label it in courtrooms, anyway, right before they take you away from your parents and stick you into foster care. And maybe, if it had been just me, I’d have rolled the dice and tried out a fresh set of state-appointed guardians. But it wasn’t just me. There was Jamie to think about.

James Arthur Kincaid, better known as “Jamie” to those of us who’d shared a womb with him for nine months, was my brother and my best friend.

Jamie was a lot of things besides my fraternal twin. He was the only person who could make me smile when I wanted to cry. He was the distraction I needed whenever looking at my parents passed out on the couch, or the empty vodka bottles scattered across the stained beige living room rug became unbearably depressing. Always cracking jokes or making inappropriate comments, Jamie was the goofy, hilarious, ever-cheerful part of my day. He was the reason I got out of bed every morning.

He was also a cancer patient.

When Jamie was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, we were fifteen and I couldn’t even spell the name of the disease to type it into a damn Wikipedia search, let alone comprehend how much his diagnosis would alter the course of our lives.  In fact, at that point I didn’t know much of anything. The only thing I
did
understand with absolute certainty was that my parents could barely pay the mortgage each month, let alone afford all the expensive tests and treatments Jamie’s illness would require.

MRI. Chemotherapy. Radiation. Surgery. Drug therapies. Hospital stays.

I wasn’t a doctor – I wasn’t even a legal adult – but I’d still known that treatments like that came with a hefty price tag. And whether thirty thousand or thirty million, any amount of money was light-years beyond our budget.

By the time we were seventeen – the year I met Sebastian and everything changed forever – we were so far in debt that most days I skipped lunch, and I was on a first name basis with Shelby over at the collection agency. She called every few months or so, when the phone or electricity bills were inevitably late, to let me know they’d be shutting off our power again.

Some people aren’t built for struggle or hardship. My parents did the best they could, I honestly believe that. But they just weren’t able to overcome their own demons, to pull themselves out of the depths of the bottle long enough to sort out the lives of their children, which were rapidly falling into chaos.

Someone had to take responsibility – even if that someone was a seventeen-year-old girl with five dollars in her pocket and a long-overgrown haircut.

“Lux? You alive down there, girl?” The voice startled me out of my reverie. “Aren’t you meeting with Jeanine in a half hour?”

My eyes flew open, taking in the sight of my wireless computer mouse and a mason jar full of multicolored sharpies. If the discomfort radiating from my left cheekbone was any indication, I’d nodded off with my face resting on my keyboard. With my luck, my stolen ten minutes of daydreaming would result in a permanent
ASDF
imprint across my face.

So professional.

Pushing strands of long blonde hair that had escaped the once-elegant chignon out of my eyes, I propped my chin in my hands and looked up at the face hovering above the wall of my cubicle. Fae, who occupied the desk space adjacent to mine, was peering down at me, her long mahogany brown hair perfectly styled into a French twist that would’ve taken me several hours and an industrial sized bottle of hairspray to pin up. Knowing Fae, who could’ve doubled as an Herbal Essences model, the sleekly sophisticated up-do had taken her ten seconds flat to accomplish.

“Sorry,” I muttered, lifting my coffee cup for a hefty swig and attempting to rub feeling back into my left cheek. “Late night. I only got about four hours of sleep.”

“I can tell. You look like crap,” she informed me cheerily, skirting around the partition that divided our cubicles to lean against my desk.

I glared at her, but couldn’t object because I knew her words were true. I’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, worried about the pitch I was giving today. There were bags beneath my eyes and my hair had definitely seen better days. I could only hope that Jeanine would be more focused on the quality of my research and the hard work I’d put into this proposal than she was on my looks.

Hah, who was I kidding?

Fae and I worked at
Luster
, the largest women’s magazine in the United States. Our issues showed up on every newsstand, magazine rack, and waiting room coffee table in the nation, and circulated to more than 20 million regular subscribers each month – making us the go-to source for every feminine question you probably never wanted to know the answers to.

From sex tips to fashion, from the trashiest celebrity gossip to the latest and greatest diets and workout regimens… we specialized in it all. Complete with pictures of emaciated models in skimpy lingerie, of course.

If you’d asked me five years ago where I’d be working,
Luster
wouldn’t have been in my top five. Hell, it wouldn’t have made the top hundred. Most likely, it would have ranked right above “garbage collector” and just below “competitive hot-dog eating champion” on my long list of dream professions. 

Fresh out of college, I’d had big-city dreams – aspirations of working at
The New York Times
or
The Washington Post
, rubbing elbows with the best journalists in the nation. Reporting on issues that mattered, like politics, religion, warfare, and finance. Heck, even covering the sports circuit would’ve been an all right gig. Instead, the economy went to shit and I was thrust into a rapidly shrinking workforce with few opportunities and even fewer job openings.

So now, here at
Luster
– which happened to be the only place I could land something even remotely related to my degree in journalism that also included a decent salary and health benefits – I write about really, truly, deeply important issues. You know, topics like
“How to Zumba Your Way to a Better Butt!”
and
“The Orgasm-Guaranteed Sex Positions You MUST Try Tonight!”

Changing the world, one bimbo at a time. Go me.

But today was the day all that was going to change. I’d slaved over this pitch for weeks, doing research on my own time after work and compiling enough facts to make for a compelling piece in any publication –
Luster
included. If I could just peak Jeanine’s interest, I was sure she’d let me use it as the topic of my monthly column or, at the very least, as a small feature story.

“Stop worrying,” Fae scolded, thumping me lightly on the head with a stack of glossy proofs for an upcoming edition. “I’ll fix your hair and even let you practice your pitch on me, because I am a wonderful friend. And hey, if you buy me a caramel macchiato from the good coffee cart – the one in the lobby with the cute barista, not the one in the tenth floor break room – I might even lend you my concealer to get rid of those under-eye circles.”

“Done,” I immediately agreed, spinning around on my wheelie chair so she had access to my hair. “Do your worst.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was striding down the hallway – when you’re wearing Christian Louboutin heels, you can’t really do anything
but
stride – toward Jeanine’s office. My long honey blonde locks were swept up into a graceful bun I’d never be able to replicate, my tired eyes had disappeared with a wave of Fae’s magical Sephora wand, and I was feeling confident after running through my proposal one last time.

I knocked lightly on Jeanine’s opaque glass door and popped my head through the entryway. Jeanine was on the phone, arguing with someone about what sounded like a graphics issue, but she gestured for me to come in and take a seat in the chair across from her desk. Her British accent did nothing to detract from the harsh words she spoke, or her scornful tone.

“Anton, I told you last week, the photo borders have to be
teal
, not turquoise. Honestly, after seventeen years in this business, you should be able to discern basic bloody colors. Or has all that time you spend staring at that computer of yours caused permanent damage to your brain?” Jeanine’s lips curled into a condescending smirk. “You know, my five-year-old niece has a Crayola set – perhaps I can arrange for her to give you lessons.”

I’m calm. I’m collected. I’m prepared. Just because she’s an epic bitch to everyone else on the planet doesn’t mean she’ll shoot down my proposal.

Call me Cleopatra: The Queen of Denial.

I sat and tried not to fidget for the next five minutes as Jeanine tore poor Anton a new one. Smoothing my hands over my skirt too many times to count, I ironed out invisible wrinkles so I didn’t have to meet her icy stare head-on. When she finally disconnected her call, I was nearly ready to run for the hills rather than pitch my story to her.
Nearly
, but not quite – I’d spent far too many hours working on this proposal to back out without even taking my shot.

“Lex, what can I do for you?” Jeanine asked impatiently, her tone immediately conveying that I was wasting her time simply by occupying space in her office.

“It’s Lux,” I corrected quietly. I’d worked here for almost three years, and she couldn’t get my freaking name right? Typical Jeanine.

“Right, of course,” she agreed. “Well?”

“I have an idea for a story,” I began, forcing myself to meet her stare. I imagined it felt similar to looking into the eyes of one of the Dementors from
Harry Potter –
her gaze radiated frost and seemed vaguely life-threatening, as though if I said the wrong thing she’d lean across the desk and suck the life right out of me.

God, I was such a nerd.

“Alessandra Rodriguez is coming to the city next month. She’s a bestselling author and Nobel Prize winner. Her awareness campaigns to put an end to violence against women have shaped global policy and helped thousands of victims.” I took a calming breath. “But there has been some speculation that her nonprofit is actually embezzling some of the donated funds, artificially inflating the company’s value while giving very little aid to the women they’ve promised to help.” I heard the excitement build in my own voice and hoped Jeanine was listening. “As you know, I have a background in investigative journalism. While I was in college, I had bylines in two national papers when my story about corruption and fraud by university officials hit the circuit. If you’d just let me interview her, ask some questions, and dig around a little bit, I think I might find something. I know
Luster
isn’t a newspaper, but an investigative piece would be a really great addi—”

The shrill ringing of Jeanine’s antique gold-gilded desk phone abruptly cut off my words. Without a word to me, she leaned forward and snatched the receiver from its cradle.

“What is it Anna?” she clipped into the phone, likely causing her secretary to flinch on the other end. “Oh? And why is that?” Jeanine cast her eyes heavenward, clearly exasperated by whatever Anna was saying. “Fine, I’ll take care of it.”

She hung up without saying goodbye and returned her gaze to me. Her eyes were no longer chilly, but speculative.

“You’ve worked here for almost three years now, correct?” she asked, steepling her fingers in a contemplative gesture. Her out-of-left-field question took my by surprise.

“Yes?” I winced internally at the tentativeness in my voice.

“So you know where they do the photo shoots? At the ArtLust studio on Fifth?”

I nodded, confused about how this related to my pitch.

“I need you to go there for me. Right now. The assistant who normally coordinates the lunch deliveries for the models and production staff has apparently called out sick today, and evidently all of our interns are at some kind of rubbish career-building workshop,” Jeanine seethed. I think she would’ve rolled her eyes or frowned, if she weren’t so afraid of developing crow’s feet. “You’ll need to pick up the lunch order from Gemelli’s and bring it to the studio by noon.”

My mouth dropped open in surprise. She was assigning me a task typically reserved for unpaid interns or personal assistants — so far outside my job description it was almost laughable.

I’d already paid my dues. I’d worked my ass off, despite the frivolous and often unfulfilling nature of my job. This was bullshit.

“Jeanine,” I protested. “This really isn’t in my job desc—”

“If you want me to consider your pitch on Alessandra Rodriguez – not to mention keep your position here – you will do this,” she snapped, cutting me off. She leaned forward slightly with her eyes locked on mine, her coiled posture reminding me of some wild jungle cat about to take down an innocent grazing gazelle. “
Without
complaint.”

Bitch.

She had me cornered and she knew it. After a casual glance at her Rolex, Jeanine looked pointedly from me to the door. “It’s past eleven already. You’d better get moving, Lex. We can discuss your article tomorrow.”

It’s Lux, you narcissistic cow.

Cow or not, unfortunately she was right – the walk from our main office on West 57
th
to the ArtLust building on 5
th
took at least twenty minutes, not including the extra stop I’d have to make at Gemelli’s to pick up the food. And Gemelli’s was always packed during the lunch and dinner rush, with lines of hungry New Yorkers extending out onto the street as they waited for a variety of salad, soup, and deli creations that were some of the best Midtown had to offer.

“Thank you, Jeanine.” I almost choked on the words, but managed to paste an acquiescent smile on my face. “I look forward to speaking with you again about my pitch.”

I rose and walked out of her office, defeated and reeling. I’d prepared for the possibility that she’d shut down my proposal, but I’d never anticipated her assigning me to be her personal errand-girl for the day. 

As I headed for my desk,
lamenting the fact that I hadn’t packed a pair of flats in my purse and would thus be forced to run around the city in heels, I thought my day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Little did I know.

By the time I made it across town from Gemelli’s — which was just as jammed as I’d thought it would be — to the studio, my formerly pristine blue blouse was wrinkled from the relentless late August humidity, I’d stepped in a disgusting wad of pink bubblegum someone had been kind enough to spit out on the sidewalk, and I was running late. Juggling the flimsy handles of two massive paper bags containing a spread of salads and sandwiches, I glanced down at my cellphone as I pushed through the crush of
workers on their lunch breaks and winced as I saw that it was already quarter past noon.

I was late. Jeanine was going to skin me alive.

I startled as the phone rang in my hand, Desmond’s name flashing across the screen. Adjusting my grip on the bags so they were both clutched in my right fist, I lifted the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” I
asked, breathless from my efforts.

“Hey babe,” Desmond drawled.

“Do you need something?” I clipped, my tone sharper than I’d intended.

Desmond and I had been out on a few casual dates, but I could tell he wanted more. He was a nice guy – perfect for me, really. He was a physical trainer at the gym I sometimes worked out at, and when he’d asked me out a few weeks ago I was in no position to turn him down. I hadn’t been out on a date in three months and I hadn’t had a real boyfriend for at least double that period. Fae was threatening to sign me up for eHarmony if I didn’t break from my streak of solitude, and it was only a matter of time before she tricked me into another horrendous blind date with some poor soul from her seemingly endless stream of male acquaintances.