“My mother?”
“No, the other one.”
My cheeks flushed just thinking about her. “Sally.”
“Yeah. Her. You should call her. You have her number, don’t you?”
I rubbed my temple with my index and middle fingers. “She doesn’t work for my parents anymore.”
“Even better.”
“I’m not asking her for help, Tyler. I loathe her. I refuse to give her the satisfaction.”
“You’re saying it’s wrong for her to feel satisfied about helping you? I think that’s the nature of her job.”
“Satisfied in the way a scheming, smug, rat-faced cunt would be satisfied, not a life coach.”
“Well … maybe you can just try to stay busy. Keep your mind off it until I get there.”
I considered his suggestion, one project immediately coming to mind. “Your apartment needs some work.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I’m serious. That will take me at least twelve days. Can I unpack for you?”
“No.”
“Please? It will look like a real apartment when you get back.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not? Are you afraid of what I’ll come across in those boxes? What? Is there like … skin suits or shrunken heads or something? Don’t tell me you’re ashamed of your porn.”
He chuckled. “No, I just don’t feel right letting you do that.”
“You’re letting me stay in your apartment. I’d say it’s a fair exchange.”
The line was quiet for a few seconds, and then Tyler sighed. “You don’t have to, but if you want to, and it’ll keep your mind off things, be my guest.”
My smile faded. “Tyler?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fuck Jojo.”
“What the fuck, Ellie? I didn’t fuck Jojo when I had the chance a year ago. I’m definitely not going to now.”
“You’ve never been with Jojo? I thought…”
“Yeah, she’s still offended … but no. Never.”
I sighed, surprisingly relieved.
“So what are you trying to say?” he asked.
“Nothing. I just don’t want you making things awkward with my boss.”
“Right,” he said, self-satisfied. “I’m telling all the guys we’re exclusive. I’m telling Liam first.”
“We’re not.”
“You just told me not to sleep with someone.”
“Doesn’t mean we’re exclusive because I don’t want you fucking my boss.”
“So is it all right with you if I fuck anyone else?”
I clenched my teeth. “I don’t like this game.”
“Answer.”
“I don’t care who you fuck,” I snapped.
Tyler became quiet. I only felt victorious for a few seconds, and then it was gone. My pride and guilt both seemed to stem from the same hollow, but they filled nothing. I wasn’t sure where the need to keep Tyler at arm’s length came from. Part of me wanted to believe it was to focus on sobriety that was shamefully failing, the other that as individuals we were too fucked up to function. I let him just close enough to feel loved, and then threw him into the corner like dirty laundry. For someone who at most times was scared he would leave, I was trying incredibly hard to push him away.
I was getting one thing right: being undeserving. The shame sent me into another cycle of guilt and need and feelings of worthlessness. I wasn’t getting better; I was getting worse.
“Is it so fucking hard for you to admit, Ellie? Can’t we just be happy?”
I swallowed. “We aren’t a we. I’ve told you that from the beginning.”
“Then what are we doing?”
“We’re fucking and fighting, Tyler. That’s what we do.”
“Fucking and fighting.” Clearly shocked and frustrated, Tyler stumbled over his words. He finally laughed once out of frustration. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“We’ll talk about it when I get home.”
I hung up, instantly feeling sick to my stomach. I couldn’t keep busy to stay sober, deal with everything going on in my life, and pile on a serious relationship, no matter how much I wanted to.
The phone rang, and I answered, mostly scheduling meetings and fielding ad questions for Wick. He left once and then came back, putting his fist on my desk as he read my report over my shoulder.
He stood up and sighed, then turned on his heels, slamming his door behind him. The frames on the walls rattled, and my shoulders shot up to my ears. I’d worked for the magazine for a little over five months and had yet to experience Wick’s wrath. Maybe it was time.
The door was yanked open, and then I heard Wick sit in his leather chair. “Ellie!” he yelled.
I stood, pausing in the doorway, expecting a minor verbal assault.
“You’re a good kid. We’ve pushed you too hard,” he said, staring at the bookcase behind me.
“P-pardon?” It was almost more unsettling that he wasn’t screaming at me.