Spin (27 page)

30 in 30.

Yes, Saundra.

#*#!!

Two more texts come in, one from Greer and one from
Scott, both congratulating me. I text them back a thank-you as my desk phone
rings. I stare at it. Can that be for me? I haven’t given anyone this number. I
don’t even know the number.

“Hello?”

It’s the receptionist. “I have John Macintosh for
you.”

“OK.” The phone clicks. “Hello?”

“This is John Macintosh from
FYI
magazine,” says a medium deep voice with a slight Southern
twang.

“Yes?”

“Connor Parks is saying that everything you wrote
about him in your article is untrue. Do you have any comment?”

“He’s saying what?”

“That you’ve fabricated the entire story. At least
as it relates to him. He
did
confirm what you wrote
about Amber, and a lot more besides.”

I’ll bet he did, the fucking asshole.

“So, do you have any comment?”

I look down at the picture of Amber passed out at
Connor’s feet. “I stand by everything I wrote.”

“And do you have anything to say to Connor’s
accusations?”

“No, I have nothing to say to him at all.”

“Any regrets about going undercover to get the
story in the first place?”

Oh, I have regrets, but I’m not going to talk about
them with you.

“No comment.”

“Have you spoken to Amber since the article came
out?”

“No comment.”

“Do you know anything about her going missing last
week?”

“No comment.”

He makes a disappointed sound in his throat. “All
right. Thank you, Ms. Sandford.”

I hang up, and my phone rings again. This time it’s
someone from
OK.
Then
People,
Us,
and a few British tabloids I’ve never even heard
of. I say the same thing over and over. No, I don’t have any comment. No, I
won’t be giving any interviews. No, I can’t reveal my sources.

In between the tabloid calls, I get a call from my
mother. She read the article online, and she has a few questions. Yesterday, I
plucked up my courage and called my parents to tell them the whole story. They
took it pretty well, considering.

“Does that mean you didn’t need to be in rehab?” my
dad asked, talking to me on the staticky cordless phone I’ve been trying to get
them to replace for years.

“I’m not sure, Dad. I think maybe I did, but I’m
still trying to work that out.”

“I think it was a good thing, dear,” my mom said
from the phone that hangs on the wall in the kitchen where I used to talk to
Rory for hours.

“I thought I’d come home next weekend, if you’d
like,” I say to my mom after I explain what “K” is, and how you use meth. The
Rehab Education of Kate Sandford.

“We’d like that very much.”

I twine the cord around my fingers. “You could
invite Chrissie for dinner too, maybe?”

“Of course, dear. I’ll make your favorite
lasagna.”

“That’s Chrissie’s favorite dish, Mom, not
mine.”

“Is it, now?”

When the phone finally stops ringing, I have half
an hour until my first story meeting. At
The Line!
Oh. My. God. And all I had to do was sell half my soul to get it.

No sweat.

I start making a list of ideas that will hopefully
impress my new colleagues but end up with a list of the people I need to
apologize to: Mom, Dad, Chrissie, Rory, Greer, Scott, Amber, Amy, Zack, Joanne,
Saundra, Henry, myself.

Myself.

Myself.

Myself.

“A
re
you ready for the meeting?” Elizabeth asks, coming out of her office a few
minutes before eleven.

“Absolutely.”

I follow her to the Nashville Skyline room, feeling
nervous. Going back to the scene of the crime doesn’t really appeal to me.

Laetitia, Cora, and Kevin (all of who I vaguely
remember from my interview) are there, and we reintroduce ourselves. Kevin calls
me “Undercover Brother,” which I actually take as a good sign. If people are
going to hate you, they use your name to your face and a nickname behind your
back.

“So? What do we have this week?” Elizabeth
asks.

“The
Jonas Brothers
have a new album coming out,” Cora says.

Kevin shudders. “Ugh. Please tell me we’re not
covering that.”

“Agreed? That is totally not our demographic?”

“Arcade Fire’s new album might be more
appropriate,” Laetitia says.

“Perfect? Kevin, see if you can get an interview?
Maybe we’ll put them on the cover? Anything else?”

I raise my hand. “Has anyone heard of a band called
The Spread?”

“Nope,” Kevin says.

“Well . . . I’ve been following them
for about a year now, and I’m convinced they’re going to be massive. They’ve
just been signed, and I thought they’d be perfect for one of those ‘Who you’ll
be listening to this time next year’ segments.”

I wait nervously while Elizabeth ponders the
suggestion.

“Sounds good? Do a thousand words and show it to
me? By Friday? Now what else?”

A
t
lunchtime, I swallow my pride and walk two sandwiches up five blocks to Rory’s
building. I stand in the doorway of her cluttered office watching the best
friend I’ve ever had reading something with such concentration it takes my
breath away. It scares me that I’ve done all the things I have in the last
couple of months without her to rely on. She’s the only person I’ve managed to
hold on to in my life, and, like Saundra said, self-sufficiency is not something
I need to work on.

“Hey, stranger,” I say.

Her head snaps up. She looks pale, and some of the
hollows have returned to her cheeks.

Did I do this? Did I sabotage her recovery when I
sabotaged my own?

“Hey, yourself.”

“Can I come in?”

She nods. I remove the large stack of paper from
the chair in front of her desk.

“Careful.”

I smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t mess with the
system.”

“What do you want, Kate?”

I sit down and hand her the sandwich bag. “I
thought we could have lunch together.”

She drops the bag on her desk like it’s
contaminated. “And what? Just forget everything that’s happened?”

“No. I want to tell you everything that’s
happened.”

Her eyes widen in surprise, and only get wider as I
fill her in on the missing details. I take her straight through from the dinner
with Amber to waking up with Henry to our tour through hell. By the time I get
to turning the tables on Connor, I can tell that Rory has forgiven me. All I
have to do is ask.

“So, do you forgive me?”

Rory picks up her forgotten sandwich and takes an
absent-minded bite. “For what?”

“For everything. For lying to you. For thinking I
could do any of this without you.”

“But you have done it without me.”

“But I don’t want to anymore, Ror. I need you.”

Rory reaches her hand across the desk, and I grab
on and hold it tightly. Since neither of us wants to cry at her work, we leave
it at that.

Ravenous, I unwrap my sandwich and put half of it
in my mouth. Those rehab pounds are going to come back with a vengeance if I
don’t impose some self-control.

“So, enough about me, what’s up with you?”

Her face lights up. “Well, they made me a
director.”

“About fucking time.”

I
spend the afternoon working on my article on The Spread, and fielding a few more
calls from journalists. When I check the Internet, it seems to be all anyone’s
writing about. What’s true? What’s false? Will Camber ever get back together?
Someone claims they were together Sunday, or was it Saturday?

Connor issues a formal denial, Amber stays mum.
This seems like the right strategy, because the coverage is leaning in her
favor. Everyone’s disgusted with Connor’s behavior and his desperate attempts to
slur her. Amazingly, no one seems to clue into the fact that Amber must be the
source of all the gory details. Except for Connor and Henry, of course. There’s
no way they don’t know.

I leave the office at five, feeling more tired than
I have in a long time. An honest day’s work, tomorrow will be another.
TSDOTROML. One day at a time.

When I get back to the apartment, Scott’s there,
hanging out with Joanne.

“I thought I’d take you out to celebrate your first
day of stardom,” he says.

“That’s sweet.”

Scott gives me a knowing smile.
“But . . .”

“But, I have somewhere I have to be.”

“An AA meeting?” Joanne guesses.

“That’s right.”

“I could come with, if you like.”

“Scott, that’s an incredibly nice gesture, but it’s
kind of something you have to do alone.”

“I don’t have any plans, Scott,” Joanne says,
smiling at him in a way I’ve never seen her smile before.

Interesting. Joanne’s into Scott. And come to think
of it, Joanne’s looking particularly nice today. Her hair is less Annie than
usual, and she’s wearing a black shirt over her jeans that makes her skin look
milky. Is this just a coincidence or did she know he was coming?

Scott seems disconcerted. “Oh, sure, right. What
are you in the mood for?”

“How about that Thai place near campus?”

“OK.” Scott turns to me. “You sure you don’t want
to join?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Scott gives me a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-to-me?
look before following Joanne out of the apartment.

Sorry, Scott.

I head to my room and close the door behind me. I
lie down on my bed and slap my earphones into my ears, pressing play. My
semi-sentient machine matches my mood by tossing out Grace Potter and the
Nocturnals’ “Apologies,” a song about love ending, and what can this make me
think about but Henry? Henry, Henry, Henry.

Did I mention that he never called me back?

And I’m pretty sure it’s not because he didn’t get
the message. Or, to be honest, the six messages I left him between Friday and
Sunday when
I
finally got the message, and stopped
dialing his number.

I’ve got to get a grip. I’ve gone further down the
road of being “that girl” (that stalking, can’t-make-it-without-a-particular-man
girl) than I ever wanted to. He doesn’t want to be with me. Maybe he did. But he
doesn’t now, and I have to find a way to move on.

And this music isn’t helping. I click it off and
stare at the ceiling. How does one move on, exactly?

Beep! Beep!

Maybe another piece of technology will be more
helpful?

It’s a text from Amber.

U coming or
what?

Then again, maybe not.

I stare at my phone, watching the electronic
numbers march toward zero hour. If I don’t leave in three minutes, there’ll be
no meeting for me tonight.

And what would that mean? Would I start drinking
again? Would I be putting TFDOTROML in jeopardy?

Am I willing to take that chance?

I swing my legs off the bed and stand up.

I don’t have any chances left.

Chapter 27

Running to Stand Still

A
month later, I’m packing up my meager belongings as Joanne reads a magazine on the couch while pretending not to care that I’m moving out.

“Did you buy this colander, or did I?” I ask her, holding up a lime-green pasta strainer.

“I can’t remember.”

“I’ll just leave it then.”

Joanne flips a page of her magazine aggressively.

“We can still hang out, you know.”

“Hah.”

I stop myself from saying anything more. When have I ever been able to alleviate any of Joanne’s moods? And it’s not like I’m going to be seeking her out once I leave here, right?

I close the box I’ve been packing with kitchen stuff and start filling another.

“Holy crap,” Joanne says.

“What?”

She flashes the magazine at me. “It says here that you’re Amber’s lesbian lover.”

“Excuse me?”

“Listen . . . ‘Amber Sheppard has been seen entering the home of an unidentified woman on at least three occasions in the last month, often late at night.’ There’s even a picture. It’s only the back of your head, but it’s definitely you. And look, that’s our front door!”

“Let me see that.”

I take the magazine. Sure enough, there are several shots of Amber entering my building with the time and date stamped below them. The first is the day we wrote the article together, and the latest was last week. The article goes on to speculate that Amber’s so heartbroken over Connor’s final betrayal (he’s been seen apartment hunting with Kimberley) that she’s now playing for the other team.

“God, they’re getting really desperate if they’ve started with that kind of speculation.”

Joanne eyes me suspiciously. “It isn’t true, is it?”

“Joanne!”

“What? It’s not like you ever go on dates.”

“You’re one to talk.”

She looks sheepish. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you . . . I’ve got a date on Friday.”

“That’s great. With who?”

“Well, actually, it’s with Scott.”

You could knock me over with a feather.

“Scott? My Scott?”

She frowns. “That’s right.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. When did this happen?”

“Remember when we went to dinner that time, after your first day of work?”

I don’t really.

“Sure.”

“Well, we had a really great time, and . . . one thing sort of led to another, it’s not a big deal . . .”

“That’s great, Joanne.”

“Yeah, well, it probably won’t work out . . . I mean, he’s way younger than me.”

“He’s an old soul.”

Her eyes brighten. “I think so too.”

“See, it’s a good thing I’m moving out. You can have the place to yourself.”

“It’s not like he’s moving in or anything.”

“Stranger things have happened . . .”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not. I’m dating Amber, remember?”

I look down at the magazine, scanning the rest of the photographs on the page. It’s the usual assortment of stars at parties with their arms around one another. But one of them makes my heart stop.

It’s of Henry. He’s squinting at the camera, looking annoyed. And beside him, beaming, is Olivia.

“T
hey look like a couple, don’t they?” I ask, staring at the photograph for the hundredth time.

Amy, Rory, Greer, and I are sitting at the coffee shop near where Amy and I go to meetings. I asked Rory and Greer to join us after the meeting given the whole Henry-seems-to-be-dating-Olivia fiasco.

Amy looks at the picture I’ve spent hours dissecting. “They look like they’re standing next to each other.”

“But what about the caption?”

Because it’s the caption that’s been torturing me.
Henry Slattery
(Connor Parks’s manager) and Olivia Canfield (Amber Sheppard’s publicist) looked like they were plotting more than a reunion between their employers at Sunrise the other night!

“That’s just gossip magazine drivel,” Rory says.

“But they often get things right. I mean, think about my article.”

Greer takes a large swig of her triple espresso. “That’s the last thing you should be thinking about, lass.”

“I know, but I can’t help it. Why didn’t he ever call me back?”

“He’s probably angry,” Amy says. “You did lie to him for weeks and write an exposé about his best friend.”

Right. Good point.

“He must hate me.”

Rory shakes her head. “Don’t be so melodramatic. From everything you’ve told us, he certainly doesn’t hate you.”

“But he doesn’t want to be with me.”

“But lass, didn’t you do everything you could to push him away?”

“I know, but that was before I realized . . .”

“That you were in love with him?” Rory finishes for me.

I nod.

“Have you ever told him that?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“You mean, call him
again
and leave him
another
message, telling him I’m in love with him?”

Rory nods her logical head. “Why not?”

“Impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” Amy says quietly.

“But if it feels like it is, isn’t that the only thing that counts?”

She gives me a sad look. “I think the only thing that counts is that love is rare. And when you find it, you need to grab on and not let go.”

“Sorry, but that’s a little too Hallmark for me.” I tuck the magazine away, sick of the sight of Henry and Olivia together. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Good idea.”

“You guys still doing that 10K race on Sunday?” Greer asks Amy.

Amy smiles confidently. “Of course. You sure you’re ready, Katie?”

“For the entire 10K? Probably not.”

“Then why do it, lass?”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Greer raises her coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Greer!”

“Ah, relax, Ror.” I raise my coffee cup and clink it to hers. “What are we drinking to again?”

“The possible.”

“To the possible.”

O
K, confession time again. I signed up for the 10K race when Amber mentioned in passing that Henry was going to be running in it. Even though I assumed (but couldn’t bring myself to ask) that she’d gotten this information from Olivia, I mentioned it to Amy at AA, and the next thing I knew, we were signed up.

I’ve been regretting my moment of weakness ever since then. However, I made a promise to Amy, and I’m all about keeping my promises these days.

So, here I am, lining up with thousands of other crazy people at the edge of the park early Sunday morning. I’ve got a tracking chip attached to my shoe and the number 764 pinned to my chest. My one-month-of-sobriety chip is strung around my neck. Maybe it’ll bring me luck.

Amy’s standing beside me, looking calm and collected. She’s been coaching me on race strategy and sports psychology. I’m pretty sure I’ve retained exactly none of her wisdom. I search the crowd for Henry, my heart lurching at every glimpse of red hair.

As it gets close to race time, the crowd surges forward, jockeying for position nearer to the start. Everyone’s all elbows and knees, and I begin to feel claustrophobic. When one elbow too many gets me in the ribs, I spin on the culprit in anger.

“Watch it, buddy, will you!”

The man I’ve yelled at recoils, but not because I screamed at him for no reason. It’s because it’s Henry.

Our eyes lock, and it takes a moment for me to realize that I’m standing there with my mouth hanging open.

Par for the embarrassing course.

I click my mouth shut. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

“That’s OK.”

I search his face. He looks the same as always, only a little white under his tan.

“I’m running in the race,” I say, stupidly.

His mouth looks amused, but it doesn’t travel to his eyes. “I can see that.”

A million thoughts, questions, emotions are running through my brain. And the one that pops out is, “Did you get my messages?”

He looks away. “Yes. I got them.”

I search his face again. “Look, Henry, I get why you didn’t want to call me back . . .”

Before he can answer, another runner stumbles into me, pushing me toward Henry. He steadies me against his chest, and we stay like that, surrounded and prodded by the eager crowd. My heart beats loudly in my ears, and I swear I can hear his heart too.

“Kate, I . . .”

A horn blares and the starter calls us to our marks. The crush of people becomes twice what it was before. We’re separated before Henry can complete his thought, whatever it was.

I search the crowd, but I can’t see him or Amy.

“Amy!”

“Katie!”

“Where are you?”

“Over here!”

I see a hand waving above the crowd and push my way toward her.

“Ten seconds,” yells the starter through his bullhorn.

“What happened?” Amy asks.

“I ran into Henry.”

“Are you OK?”

“I guess.”

“Did you say anything?”

“I tried to, but we got pushed apart.”

“On your marks! Get set! Go!”

The horn blares, and we move forward as one. It’s a faster pace than I’m used to, but the adrenaline of the race, of seeing Henry, pushes me along past the huge digital clock hanging over the starting line.

“Stick with me, Katie,” Amy says. “Let people pass you so we can stay on pace.”

I slow down, and we run at a comfortable clip for a few minutes while my beating heart returns to almost normal. We round a corner to a straighter section of the path. I can see Henry up ahead, and my heart starts pounding again, taking my legs along with it. I’m running too fast, but I can’t seem to help myself.

As I stare at the back of his head, something falls out of the blackout. My hands in his hair. His on my waist. Our tongues meeting in between our mouths. The way the world fell away until he tasted alcohol.

“Katie, we should slow down, you’re not going to make it to the end.”

“I feel like I can do it.”

I focus on Henry’s back, his easy gait.

He must like me to kiss me like that.

But that was before he knew you were a liar.

No, I’d already told him that.

Right, but then you showed him.

But I’ve stopped drinking.

He doesn’t know that.

I tried to tell him.

Not very hard.

I’m running after him, aren’t I?

I almost laugh out loud as this realization thunks through my brain.

Oh. My. God. It’s true. I’m running, for Chrissakes, I’m
running
after a man to tell him how I feel about him. How did I end up at the end of a romantic comedy?

And if I catch him, if I tell him, what then? Why am I so sure he wants to hear what I have to say? Why am I so convinced that his reluctance is a mask for love?

How stupid can you be, Katie?

My energy drains away. My legs aren’t working very well anymore, and neither are my lungs. I stop running, doubled over, gasping for breath.

Amy stops and puts her hand on my back. “Katie, are you all right?”

I shake my head, unable to speak. I hear Amy call for help, and she and one of the volunteers supports me to the sidelines. I sink to the grass, wheezing. When I can speak, I tell Amy to go on without me, and she reluctantly agrees.

The kind volunteer woman wraps me in a metallic space blanket and hands me a glass of Gatorade. I drink it slowly as she gives me a ride on a golf cart to the medical tents. When we get there, I’m led to a cot, and a young nurse takes my blood pressure. After the air releases from the blood pressure cuff, the nurse tells me my pressure is low and that I should rest until I feel better. I don’t have the heart to tell her that feeling better is not an option.

I lie down on the cot and pull the space blanket up to my chin. I feel utterly exhausted, like every molecule of energy I’ve ever had has been drained away to nothing. Who knew that running flat out for thirty minutes could induce the same feeling as halfway between shit-faced and sobering up?

Runner’s high, I guess. Same damn thing as any other high.

Time passes. After a while, I begin to feel better, and silly. What the hell is wrong with me, anyway? Am I so thin-skinned that one encounter with Henry has me chasing my tail (OK, Henry’s tail) until I hit the wall? All this because of a boy? I’ve got to pull myself together. Like U2 says
.
I’m stuck in a moment I can’t get out of.

You said it, Bono. And nice guitar riff, The Edge. You work that shit.

I sit up, and the world stays steady. I kick off the blanket, and the cool air doesn’t kill me. I unpin the number from my chest and unclip the tracker from my shoe, leaving them both on the cot. I tell the nurse I’m leaving, and she reminds me to take it easy.

I find Amy waiting for me outside the tent with Rory. Amy’s face is glowing, and she has a medal hanging around her neck.

I give them a small wave. “Hey, guys.”

Rory looks concerned. “What happened to you?”

“Turns out I’m not Supergirl.” I notice the camera in Rory’s hand. “Thanks for coming, Ror. Sorry you didn’t get your shot.”

“I had a place in my scrapbook all picked out and everything.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Amy laughs. “You two always have such intellectual conversations?”

“We’ve known each other since we were five,” Rory says by way of explanation. “It stuck.”

“How did you do?” I ask Amy.

She looks proud of herself. “Fifty-two minutes.”

“That’s great! Sorry I slowed you down.”

“Are you kidding? I beat my goal by three minutes, even with the medical diversion.”

Apparently chasing after Henry makes me a good pace bunny.

“Should we go?”

Amy and Rory exchange a guilty glance.

“What is it?”

“Someone wants to talk to you first,” Rory says, pointing over her shoulder.

I look, but I don’t really have to. I know it’s going to be Henry, and sure enough, there he is, sitting on a park bench with a green-and-orange Gatorade cup in his hand, looking nervous.