CHAPTER EIGHT

HIRELING

( — a person who works only for pay, especially in a menial or boring job, with little or no concern for the value of the work. )

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          MICHAELA DOESN'T DARE TOUCH THE BOOK. It's too personal, too invasive—and she has stopped caring about whatever changes Lincoln splattered onto the book a while ago, knowing it's still about her and them and people will know—and it makes her uncomfortable.

          Granted, she owes him one, so she'll have to read it at some point, especially because he asked her to find any mistakes or scenes he should change. As of right now, it's Wednesday, the last day of the month, and the book remains untouched, resting on her bedside table and waiting for her to follow through her promise.

          Especially because it's also his thirtieth birthday today. It's the first time since the break-up that they're on speaking terms on his birthday and she has even gotten him a birthday present to show she's perfectly fine with how things are. Thus, to prove that to herself as well, not just to him, she promises herself she'll start reading the book by the end of the week, once both of their birthdays have passed.

          It's strange knowing she's about to turn twenty-seven. She doesn't feel a day older than twenty-one, which might explain why she's seemingly unable to behave properly and according to her age. Thus, when she arrives at work, she's determined to behave like she's supposed to instead of making one mistake after another as she's been doing until now.

          It's one thing to have hard to break habits. Michaela has plenty of those, but that's not the case here. Habits aren't your personality, even though Michaela should/has to change plenty of stuff regarding those two things, yet here she is, sabotaging her own happiness one gesture at a time. It does her no good to keep a job she hates just to prove a point, but she won't find another job if she gets fired from this one. That's a given.

          With her morning Pilates complete and her green smoothie resting comfortably in her stomach, Michaela is pretty certain she can handle whatever today throws at her. After all, she's a Tate and the Tate family certainly isn't known for raising quitters, even those who marry into the bloodline—Yvonne is the best example, making a name for herself in the fashion industry and working with A-list celebrities, which paves the way to become one of them herself.

          She almost forgets she's not on speaking terms with Ginny, and Lennox's desk has been placed in their office, so she's a bit taken aback by the cold reception once she steps through the glass door. She feels like a caged animal when she's here, with a snake habitat creeping closer to her whenever Blair decides to leave her lair.

          They're talking when she gets there and abruptly shut up when they hear the door slide open, quickly returning to whatever they were doing before the conversation began. It takes a lot more than that to make Michaela break and they all know it, so it's no surprise to see her stroll all the way towards her desk, chin held high, without uttering a word.

          The only sound in the room is that of keys being pressed on keyboards, joined by the faint buzzing of the heating system—which, fortunately, has already been fixed—and the occasional sniffling coming from Ginny's desk, proving she really is suffering from terrible allergies.

          Ginny opens her mouth to say she's writing about the National Snake Day and Lennox laughs, reminding her the National Snake Day lands in July—which happens to be her birthday—and earning an even louder chuckle from her. Michaela sighs to herself, wondering when these two ever became friends, even if they all know each other in one way or another in this business.

          They glance at her when they hear her sigh, so she returns the stare, letting them know she's not in the mood to be intimidated by inside jokes cracked right in front of her as if she wasn't even in the room. Tate women are much, much better than that. Tate men fight wars, but Tate women win them.

          "I mean, we can't all be best friends with Barbra Streisand, so I guess all I have going for me is being a snake," Ginny states, twirling a strand of dark hair around her index finger, and Michaela grits her teeth, forcing herself to bite her tongue and avoid saying something she might regret. She has to remind herself Ginny is her friend, and they just had a fall-out, not a full-blown break-up, but Ginny sure seems to think otherwise. "I wish Barbra liked me."

          Lennox sighs, leaning back in his chair. "Don't we all? I met her a few years ago on my way to Olive Garden—"

          "You eat at Olive Garden?"

          "I lost a bet," he dryly clarifies. "Anyway, she was there, I asked her for a selfie and an autograph, and she was super sweet. Totally not best friends, but I like to believe she thinks about me from time to time."

          Michaela takes the time to glance at today's flowers, courtesy of Ms. Streisand's PR team, and the bright-yellow bouquet of daffodils easily stands out in the black, white and gray room. Lennox's eyes meet hers for a split second and she rushes to look back at her computer screen, not really wanting to give them something else to talk about.

           As if they had virtually nothing else to talk about other than her, as she's self-centered to the point of making everything about herself. She has known both of them for much longer than they've known each other and, though she and Lennox have never gotten along, it's still bittersweet to see them leave her for one another. She knows she's not a particularly friendly person, but, dang, that stung.

          She then decides to make the heartbreaking mistake of checking Instagram, ignoring the voice in the back of her head that urges her to do anything but that, as it's almost certain she'll see something she wishes she hadn't, but she's also ignoring the pile of work sitting on her desk. There are plenty of things she doesn't want to see on Instagram or anywhere else, not just in social media, but it's Lincoln's birthday and there's a particular fan page for him she has always been quite fond of. They respected his privacy and hers as well throughout their relationship and were one of the first to jump to their defense when they broke-up.

          They're not the first account to pop up on her feed. He is.

          It's a simple post. Lincoln is just standing by a wall, with his neighbor's cat perched on his shoulder, and he thanks everyone for the birthday wishes, including Ginny.

          Nothing about the photo itself shocks her. Not even the description. He had always been pretty freaked out about turning thirty, as it's a turning point for so many people, and, though the description seems pretty light in nature, Michaela knows the poor guy must be having a midlife crisis over his birthday. What surprises her the most is seeing Lennox comment on it and noticing how Lincoln replied to him, as if they had been friends for years.

          She knows they know each other, but never really thought of the two men as friends. It's more than enough to raise the hair on the back of her neck and leave goose bumps all over her arms, even though the office is everything but cold.

          Part of her knows she should say something, maybe leave a light-hearted comment on the post to show all those people they're grown, mature adults, but she can't bring herself to do it. The memories of all they've been through and of what happened between her and Lennox are still too fresh, increasing the fear of igniting ship wars on the comments—though she's definitely not interested in pursuing anything romantic with Lennox—and screwing things up even more.

          Worse—those two are friends now. She doesn't want to step between their friendship and ruin that as well.

          She might be petty and a terrible person at times—not at heart, though, at least that's what she's been trying to convince herself of for nearly twenty-seven years—but she's not that petty. She would never go as far as destroying people's relationships, unless they're toxic and unhealthy, or even abusive, and is determined to leave those two alone. Better yet, she'll leave those three alone, as Ginny has somehow found her way into the inner circle.

          Whatever that is. Michaela can't bring herself to care about popularity and A-lists anymore.

          "Mich," Ginny timidly calls, around lunchtime. Lennox has already left, probably because he still refuses to be a good employee, but Ginny stayed until the clocks struck one. Michaela looks away from her computer screen, finding her standing by the door. "Are you coming?"

          "No," Michaela replies, drumming her fingers against her lips. She's not wearing any lipstick—at least not yet—so she won't have to worry about getting it on her hands and ruining her clothes by accident. "I think I'll eat here."

          Ginny sighs. "Are you sure?" Michaela nods, pulling a glass jar from her bag and raising it so she can see the overnight oats inside it. It's not what anyone would classify as a proper lunch, but she's been too tired to worry about preparing one of those, especially when she fears her days at Union Daily might be coming to a close. "Look, about what we were saying . . . we didn't want to upset you, or anything. It's great that Barbra likes you so much and still thinks about you. We'd all kill for a friendship like that with a celebrity."

          I dated one for six years, Michaela thinks, and we were engaged. But of course we never talk about that.

          "You didn't upset me," she clarifies. "I just have a lot to do. Go eat with Lennox."

          Ginny chews down on her bottom lip, seemingly wondering whether she should also stay here or not, but ultimately nods and leaves, her heels echoing softly against the floor as she walks away. Michaela, lightheaded and with a headache that would put all her hangovers combined to shame, struggles to open the jar, but ends up coming victorious.

          Take that, world.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          "HAPPY BIRTHDAY," Michaela mutters, standing in front of the door leading to Lincoln's apartment. The man himself is right here, arms firmly crossed, and leans a shoulder against the doorway. Even while hunching forward, he still easily towers over her—both her and the birthday gift she got from him, one she's not even sure he needs or wants. "Sorry for not saying anything on Instagram, but I didn't want people to start pestering you, or anything."

          "Michaela," he laughs, and she isn't oblivious to the missing nickname, "come on. You think I care about what people say about me on Instagram or on social media in general?"

          "Maybe not"—she throws him a small smile, one that nearly drains her of all her energy—"but I do. The rest of us mortals unfortunately care a bit too much about what others think and say about us."

          "Hmm." He tilts his head to the side and a strand of his hair, one that had freed itself from his bun, falls in front of his eyes. Michaela tries to resist the urge to follow it with her stare, but it's either that or staring at the lips of a person she definitely should have gotten over a long time ago. "Do you . . . want to come inside? I had dinner plans, but my friends bailed on me—on my birthday, even." Lincoln shakes his head, the strand of hair dances, and Michaela's heart jumps. "Not that you're my last resort, but you're here, so . . ."

          "Sure. Can you help me with this?" She pats the guitar bag in front of her and he finally looks down. "I don't know if you still play or if your old one is still alive, but I've always loved listening to you. The problem is that this thing is too heavy for me, and it nearly burnt off my muscles when I pulled it out of the trunk of my car."

          He slides an arm through the bag's strap, swinging the guitar to his back, and steps aside to let her enter the apartment, where the air is much warmer, and she can take off her soaked jacket. She conveniently forgot her umbrella at home and came here straight from work, meaning there technically wasn't time for her to go back and pick it up.

          The wind outside is brutal and, even though the heater has been turned on and her clothes should be warm enough for this time of year, Michaela is still shivering, rubbing her arms to regain some heat. Lincoln says he's almost sure there's something for her to eat in the fridge, as he couldn't survive on take-out and frozen meals for the rest of his life, but the incessant buzzing in her ears is getting harder to ignore and she can barely hear him.

          Her appetite always vanishes when her stress reaches a certain level. It has happened since she was, at least, fourteen and usually doesn't have disastrous results, as she manages to gather enough strength to overcome whatever is bringing her down, but it's different this time. There's the drama with Ginny, there's the drama with Lennox, there's Lincoln being back in her life, there are her failed attempts at making her parents proud, there's the pressure of trying to keep a job she hates . . .

          There's the pressure of being Michaela Tate.

          "You're pale," Lincoln states, when she supports herself on the back of a couch. She thought she was being discreet, but there aren't many things he fails to notice. "Is everything alright?"

          "No," she confesses, walking around the couch to let herself fall to the cushions. "Not at all." Lincoln sighs, briefly disappearing into his bedroom. When he returns, he's carrying a hooded sweatshirt and hands it to her, only sitting beside her when she puts it on. "I'm sorry for this. I don't want to make your birthday all about me."

          "Trust me, I've had enough of myself to last me for a lifetime." His hand brushes against her leg, quickening the thudding of her heart, and she doubts she's breathing. "Mickey. Hey."

          "You're so fine," she mutters, with heavy eyelids, and falls forward, resting her forehead against the crook of his neck. When he holds his breath, his own heartbeat starts racing against her face, and she feels it all, especially when he laughs.

          Especially when he slides an arm around her waist.