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Joy Ride(74)

By:Lauren Blakely


“I wanted this so badly. I’ve been working so hard to make this happen,” she says, her voice wobbly as the Grand Central clock ticks toward one in the afternoon.

“I know, tiger. I know you have. But fuck him. He’s a dick.”

“That’s easy for you to say. This was my job. I came back to New York for this. We talked for months about me becoming his partner. The deal was I’d be his lead builder, and if it worked out, I’d buy in as a partner and he’d cut back his own hours and let me do more. Now that’s gone,” she says, slashing a hand through the air, as if she’s swiping the dishes off a table. “It’s just gone. And just like there’s no Smith and Marlowe, I don’t even know if there’s a Marlowe. I don’t even know if I still have a job.”

That’s when the waterworks unleash. Tears leak from her eyes and spill down her cheeks. As I tug her in close, shielding and protecting her, those tears dampen my shirt.

I stroke her hair, trying to comfort her. In the span of twenty-five minutes, I’ve gone from shock that she was partnering up with my biggest rival, to accepting that we’d work through it all, to reassuring her that somehow she’s going to be okay even though the rug has been cruelly yanked from under her.

I’ve got to figure this out for her. “Henley, let me help you.”

She pushes her hands against my chest and raises her face. Her eyes are nearly black. They’re hard, like she’s wearing armor. “And you,” she hisses. “You don’t even believe in me. You always underestimated me. You thought I couldn’t even get the work with Creswell unless I fucking snooped on you.”

I recoil, not so much from the accusation, but the swear. She’s serious. Holy shit. She’s serious.

“That’s not true,” I say, but I sound as if I’m backpedaling.

“It is.” Her voice splinters again, and another round of tears fall. “And you lied to me.”

“Henley, stop. I’m trying to help.”

“I was under NDA,” she says, stabbing her chest. “And I still told you because I wanted to be honest with you. And you—you were just trying to protect a deal. You could have said ‘Just discussing some business with him’ and left it at that the two times I asked about what Creswell was talking to you about. But both times, you said your conversations were about something else. How does that make me feel?”

I heave a sigh and try to right this ship that I’ve sunk through my own jealousy. “Terrible?” I offer.

“It makes me feel like you don’t trust me. But I trusted you, Max. I wanted to come to you. I wanted to ask your advice on this deal because I knew on Friday night it was starting to unravel. When I met with him after the dance class, I could tell John was getting cold feet.” Her pitch rises, and her eyes are like pistols, aimed at me. “I had to fight a battle with myself to honor my commitment to confidentiality, but all I wanted was to come to you. I’ve always admired you, always wanted your insight, and you—you couldn’t even give me the truth. And now what do I have?”

“Henley,” I say, imploring. “Let’s work this out.”

“I have to go.”

“Wait,” I say, grabbing her wrist. “Don’t go. Let’s talk.”

She shakes her head. “I need to try to figure out what I’m doing with my life at this point. But before I can do that, I’m literally going to spend the afternoon crying, and I’d rather you not see it.” She raises her chin, that defiant, proud chin, and then she turns on her heel and leaves the train station.





47





As I pace around my garage, talking on the phone to a guy named Leon who runs the best auto repair shop in the tri-state area, I know Blue Betty is in good hands.

“It’ll take me some time, but I can absolutely fix this baby for you,” Leon says in his gruff, no-nonsense tone as he details the bodywork that needs to be done. “That must have been a hell of a tree.”

“Stubborn motherfucker, that’s for sure.”

“Well, if you’d hit the deer, the car would be worse, probably.”

“The deer probably would be, too,” I say, deadpan.

Leon laughs lightly. “True, that.”

I hang up the phone, check my messages, and then I kick the wall.

Slamming the toe of my work boot against the concrete of my shop doesn’t magically deliver a message from Henley to my phone. Nor does it get her to pick up when I call. Every time I try her, it goes straight to voicemail. I’m not sure if she’s ignoring me or if her phone is off.