Page 41 of Lucas

I am also quite certain that having recent pics of my arrest in a bar brawl on Page Six hasn’t exactly helped matters any with prospective employers.

I snap my teeth into another carrot stick, refusing to feed my depression with ice cream or cake. The vegetables plug the hole in my gut, but my heart’s another matter. I glance over at my cell, the most silent it’s been in weeks, and will it to ring. I know I told Lucas I never wanted to see him again, but I miss him. That feeling isn’t going away.

I consider calling him to ask for advice. He’d know what to do, how to help me find a job, some kind of purpose. But the truth is, it’s not career advice I’m after, and he doesn’t have the capacity to give me what I truly want.

So now what?

I print off another half dozen copies of my resume and craft cover letters to the editors of the remaining reputable newspapers in the city. They’re my last hope, because if someone doesn’t hire me, I’ll have no choice but to leave New York.

The last of the small amount of money I got from the forced Rubberneckers buy-out package has fast-dwindled, leaving me with just enough money for one more month’s rent and a couple bags of carrots. Yum.

I gather the letters in my purse, check my appearance in the mirror, and apply a thin layer of pink lip-gloss, a little color to liven up the almost gray pallor of my skin. Not exactly confidence inspiring, but maybe someone will hire me out of pity.

I laugh without humor.

God, I’m pathetic.

Pathetic and ridiculous.

And sad.

That’s the real shitty part about all this. I’m spiraling into depression without the resources to make it stop.

I grab my keys and toss my sunglasses in my purse, then I slip into my most comfortable shoes. Time to pound the pavement—again. I swing open the door and freeze. “Lucas?”

His hand, as if just about to knock, lowers. I know in an instant that something’s not right. His dress shirt is wrinkled and un-tucked, hair unkempt. The tie around his neck hangs loosely, unknotted and creased. I search his face for bruises, cuts, some kind of indication that he’s hurt or been in a fight. But there’s a different kind of edge about him today, and it vibrates in the tense air between us.

“Hey,” he says, softly.

And my stomach does a flip. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him, and yet nothing about my feelings has changed. His power over me hasn’t weakened. If anything, it’s strengthened. My heartbeat picks up speed. “What’s wrong, Lucas?”

He runs his hand through his hair. “I can see you’re just leaving. I’ll come back another time.”

With a brief hesitation, I open the door wider. “Just come in.”

It’s probably a mistake to let him back in my life, but seeing him on my doorstep after so long without so much as a text does something funny to my insides. Gives me hope—perhaps falsely—that maybe this is a sign of some kind.

Lucas plunks down on the stool at the kitchen, and buries his head in his hands. “I’ve left Daylight Holdings.”

My pulse stutters. “As in quit?”

He bobs his head. “Yep. Mason and Holden bought me out, and I turned in my keys today.” He lifts his gaze. “It’s all amicable, and I didn’t leave on bad terms or anything.”

“Lucky you,” I say, under my breath. Liz and Marnie won’t return any of my calls, even when I tried to congratulate them on settling the case. I wasn’t looking for a thank you, but maybe some acknowledgement that my relationship with Lucas helped a little. I’ve been reading the magazine, and nothing on the editorial seems to have changed—there’s just a foreign name on the masthead, which admittedly hurt to see.

Lucas has the decency to look sheepish.

“I guess recently someone helped me realize that I wanted, needed, a change,” he says.

I’m not sure I follow what he’s saying but I stay quiet, allowing him to keep talking. I get the sense a lot of this has been building for some time and I know what it’s like to have no one to share with. Despite my reservations, I want to be here for him, no matter how this all shakes out.

“I know Rubberneckers wasn’t your dream job,” he says. “But you were still chasing a dream. You were still a writer. And one day I went to work and it hit me—that’s what I want too.”

I blink. “You want to be a writer?”

“What I really want is to run a newspaper. Something authentic. The kind of paper that can compete with The New York Times.”

“You hate the media,” I say, shell shocked. Whatever I expected Lucas to say right now, this isn’t it.