Page 21 of Rush
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
I stared at Juliette. I wanted to hate her just because my life was shit and she’d been strong enough to find her happy ending, but I couldn’t find it in myself. She was the sweetest person I knew, not to mention the best assistant I’d ever had. She was genuine, unlike those bitches I called friends, but without them, I would have nobody, and I wasn’t sure I was cut out to be a hermit.
“Now, we might be between releases, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have a metric fuck ton of work to do. Backlist, backlist, backlist,” I declared, mentally shaking off my depression and readying myself for another hit of my drug. That drug being obsessing over work. “Where’s your notebook? I want to pitch some ideas for compilations to Charles.”
“Jade—”
I held up my hand, stopping her before she went too far and I snapped completely. “Juliette, if you want to help me, do your job.”
She lowered her head, hiding her concern. “Of course.”
Turning in my chair, I looked out over the view of Collins Street from my office window and began immersing myself in my latest pitch. Anything to not feel like a complete and utter failure. Sales, profit, image, return on investment, brand awareness…these were things I understood.
While I was hidden, I slipped the engagement ring back onto my finger.
After work that day, I walked a little slower than my usual pace on the way back to Ryan’s place.
Ryan and I had always had this love-hate thing going on. He would bait me, and I would fall for it every time. That morning had been no exception, and while it had pissed me off, it had also reignited some of the spark I’d lost sometime between Friday afternoon? and that morning. ?????
As soon as he let me in, he promptly went out, saying he needed to go for a run. Hardly one to complain, I let him go, glad for a little alone time. While I had the chance, I wandered through the apartment, opening and closing all the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen, prying like a nosey bitch. Unsurprisingly, ninety-five percent of his storage was empty. He owned a four-piece dinner set with cutlery, a blender, one saucepan, a scratched frying pan, and a can opener.
Finding the spare key he’d had cut for me on the bench, I slipped it into my bag and proceeded to pick up the rubbish lying around the place. I washed dirty cups in the sink, wiped down the bathroom, hung up wet towels, anything to keep my mind from dwelling on the gaping wound in my heart.
While Ryan’s place was nice, it smelled like a sweaty boy, so I threw open all the windows to air out the place a little. When he finally came back, he couldn’t mask his annoyance.
“Bloody hell, it’s like Antarctica in here.” He pulled the balcony door closed and proceeded to roll in the windows either side.
“You stink,” I said, screwing up my nose. “It was either that or fumigate with something that smells like flowers.”
“Last I checked, you were a guest, and I don’t need pest control…yet.”
“Just wait until I hang up all my delicates in the bathroom to drip-dry.” I smiled sweetly.
He grunted and pulled the curtains closed before sitting down on the couch beside me.
“Rough day?” I asked, looking him over. He seemed riled up about something.
“It seems we’re both married to our jobs,” he replied, sinking back on to the couch.
“I assume yours is a lot better than dealing with profit-loss statements all day.”
“At least yours is predictable,” he shot back. “I’m one bad day away from forced retirement.”
“It’s always a pissing match with you,” I said, flopping back against the couch beside him. “Who’s life is shittier? Gotta be yours.”
“It’s a slippery slope. You said you’re a workaholic. Do you think you’ll throw yourself into it after…”
“Of course,” I scoffed. “What else am I going to do?”
“Right… And that’s not unhealthy at all.” He rolled his eyes and raised his arms, folding them behind his head.
“I really want to punch you right now.”
“We’re all a work in progress, J.” Ryan laughed and immediately, the tension lifted. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
“Do I have to?”
“Have you ever been single before?” he asked, glancing at me. “I mean, for longer than a week.”
