CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CRAQUELURE

( — a network of fine cracks in the paint or varnish of a painting. )

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          "I'M GUESSING LUNCH WITH MAMA TATE DIDN'T GO AS PLANNED," Ginny states, when Michaela pushes open the door to their office with her hip, as her hands are busy carrying cardboard cups full of steaming hot coffee—exactly what she needs after the fiasco that was her lunch hour. Michaela scowls, setting a cup on Ginny's desk and another on Lennox before making her way towards her seat. "Yikes. What happened?"

          "Lincoln drama," Michaela replies, falling to her chair after setting the cup on her desk to prevent it from spilling. Ginny wrinkles her nose, tapping her pen against her planner. Sighing, Michaela finally looks at Lennox, who slouches on his chair, his long legs stretched in front of him. "There's also . . . what are they calling you two . . ."

          "Jennox," Ginny retorts, before Lennox can open his mouth, and Michaela quirks an eyebrow at the dreamy look plastered on her face. "It's all over social media and people are dying for more information. It even beats Kylie's pregnancy from last September."

          "I'm really happy about being compared to a pregnancy, so thanks for that," Lennox mutters, calmly sipping his coffee, and Michaela is glad they're shifting the focus away from her problems. Her phone is full of unanswered texts and missed calls, from both her parents, Roya, and Lincoln, but she turns it off and decides to ignore the device for the time being. "Besides, I don't know why people care."

          "I'm sure it has nothing to do with how famous Jillian is," Ginny continues, even though their lunch hour has already ended, and they should be getting back to work instead of gossiping, but the latter is all they ever do in this office, especially now that they're all talking to each other like regular people. "And plus, everyone knows you were there because you had a VIP invitation thanks to Mich"—Ginny gestures towards her—"and there's that photo of the two of you Mich posted to her Instagram on the night of the UD party, a few hours before you two . . . got it on. Jillian is also Mich's BFF . . . I can go on."

          Michaela sinks into her seat, flipping through the pages of the Vogue magazine she bought on her way back to the headquarters to avoid taking part in the conversation. Perhaps showing up at the office with it on her hand wasn't a good idea, and she received several accusatory glances on her way up, but, after the conversation she had with Yvonne and all its consequences, she couldn't let herself be bothered by what her coworkers were saying about her.

          She hates the petty drama and the competition unraveling within these four walls. When they publish something, they put on a smile and pretend they all love each other, that they're only here because they genuinely love their jobs, and everyone works perfectly as a team.

          Everyone knows that's a blatant lie. At the end of the day, all they care about is to be the best and present the best story possible to Old Howie while surviving the wrath of Blair. At the end of the day, they're only looking out for themselves and, deep down, Michaela can't really blame them for wanting to protect themselves and their work.

          ". . . she's leaving in, like, two weeks," Lennox says, setting his empty cup of coffee aside, while Michaela isn't even halfway through hers. Instead, she has been busy biting down on the plastic lid, staining it with red lipstick. "Even with all those things weighing in on the scale, I still don't understand why everyone is making such a big deal out of this when it's something that could have happened to anyone at that show. Like . . . you and Roya, for example. You two were pretty cozy whenever she wasn't stealing strawberries."

          Michaela feels like smacking herself in the face, to say the least, and that's being nice. She doesn't know why shivers run down her spine, realizing she feared he'd mention what happened between her and Lincoln—after the photos and the way she ditched him and how she was wearing his jacket while hugging another man . . . everyone who posted that photo on social media wasn't shy about mentioning those facts.

          Maybe Lennox didn't say anything because he simply doesn't care. They are under no obligation to be exclusive, when what happened between them was specifically a one-time thing and he was her friendly date for Fashion Week and when he disappeared to go make out with Jillian. Maybe he didn't say anything because his alliance with Lincoln is a lot stronger than catty social media rumors and suppositions. Maybe he didn't say anything out of respect for Michaela's private life and her feelings, both of which have already been pretty scrutinized by the media. Maybe, just maybe, Yvonne had a point.

          Maybe it was for Jillian, even though what they have—whatever it is—seems to have happened in the blink of an eye. Hell, maybe it was just that, a simple coincidence and a consequence of the heat of the moment, and it's nothing serious or worth worrying about. Both of them can handle themselves just fine.

          When she stirs on her seat and the chair creaks, both Ginny and Lennox turn to face Michaela, interrupting their conversation, and it's the first time in her life she finds herself wishing she was smaller so she could easily go by unnoticed. They know there's something bothering her—Ginny because she's her best friend and Lennox because he has known her for way longer than most people who remain in her life and has seen both her best and her worst.

          "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

          Michaela blinks, as she expected those words to come out of Ginny's mouth, not Lennox, but it was, without a doubt, his voice that said them. She still freezes, despite the scorching hot coffee they have all been drinking and the warm, pleasant atmosphere of the office.

          She's not used to having him worry about her well-being. Period. It's not that he's not nice—because he wouldn't be nearly as popular as he is now, both at UD and away from it, if he wasn't. The problem is that he has never been this nice to her—ever—so she supposes she can't really be blamed for being caught off-guard.

          "I'm not sure," Michaela confesses, taking off her blazer and pressing the space bar on her keyboard to pull her computer out of its resting mode. There's an email from Blair in her work inbox, waiting to be opened, but she has been dreading doing it ever since she received it, even if it's just a story Howie wants her to write. She doesn't want to keep getting attached to this place when all she wants to do is leave, which is ironic considering how terrified she was last month when she thought she was getting fired. "I have no idea what to think or what to say about all that's been going on, but, um, maybe there are better things I should be focusing on—" Michaela pauses to take a deep breath. "Besides, I also don't want to dump this all on you when it's the same old drama you've heard about a million times. It's fine."

          "It's not the same old drama when that was the first time the two of you were photographed together since the break-up," Ginny points out. "And, like, I know you're probably used to it, but, if I was in your shoes, I think I'd be freaking out a bit seeing it all come back after so long."

          Michaela finally opens the email, not entirely surprised to find out they want her to write a review of Fashion Week, even if it's almost a conflict of interest. She sighs, replying with a quick 'okay –M' and finding herself wishing they'd ask her to write about deeper issues, as that's the reason why she had felt drawn to UD in the first place. Don't get her wrong, she loves her girly things, but it feels like it's all they see in her.

          She's a spoiled girl who only writes about makeup, fashion, her mother, and relationships. That's all there is to her—there's no real depth to her and the stories she writes reflect just that.

          They say you're as good as the last dish you present—Michaela knows this thanks to Ginny's addiction to Masterchef—but it's the same thing in the journalism business. If you're going out, you need to go out with a bang, and Michaela doesn't want to leave this magazine on a story about her ex-fiancé—a story in which she was just a guest editor. Though she's grateful for Ginny having asked her to write it with her, it's Ginny who deserves all the credit for the sales that interview will reward the magazine with.

          "I want to quit," Michaela admits, and they both look back at her, having already turned to their computers. "I don't think I can keep working for a magazine that no longer speaks to me on an intimate level. It's just not who I am."

           "What now?" Lennox questions, fingers interlaced under his chin and elbows set on his desk. His shirt's sleeves have been rolled up, showing off the dark skin of his arms. "You're just . . . going to leave? Just like that?"

          "No, of course not." Michaela opens a blank Word document. "We're getting that interview out and I'm going to find something amazing to write about and blow Howie's socks off while sending samples of my writing to other magazines." One that doesn't make me feel like the worst writer on the face of the Earth, she mentally adds, preferably. "After that, I'm out of here."

           "Good thing you mentioned that," Ginny intervenes. "The interview, I mean. We need Lincoln here to shoot the cover. You can't have a magazine issue without getting the man of the moment on the cover, right?"

          Lennox sighs. "Absolutely. When should I start getting ready for that photo shoot?"

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          SAYING IT IS A LOT EASIER THAN ACTUALLY DOING IT. Lincoln has been followed by cameras for quite a while and one would expect him to be used to it, as he's always nice to those who try to snap a quick shot of him and sometimes even stops for a brief chat, but the truth is he absolutely hates it. He hates the loss of privacy and the invasive questions that come with stardom.

           Photoshoots are on a different level than having paparazzi following your every move, but Michaela knows Lincoln still gets a bit uncomfortable in front of a camera—in fact, she feels almost as awkward standing in front of the door leading to his apartment, even though she's already holding the keys.

          She never knows what she'll find on the other side. She's constantly dreading finding another woman there, doing the exact same things she used to do in this place, but maybe it would be a good thing for him—trying to move on, that is. After all, it's been over two years since they broke up and it certainly hasn't done them any good to keep worrying about what the other has been up to in the romantic department of their life . . .

           It still makes her blood boil, though. She was supposed to be the one, much like he was, but there's no use in trying to force something that clearly has no future—his grandmother certainly saw it coming and might as well have cursed it, considering how it ended and why it ended.

          Her words still resonate in Michaela's head, even after all this time. Lincoln loved her at some point of their relationship—that much she's certain of—but maybe his grandmother's accusations had some bit of truth to them and the only reason they stayed together was to prove a point. They wanted to prove they could do it, even against all odds, even if the feelings weren't real anymore, and it messes her up from the inside out. Truly.

          Her feelings were real and still are—all the time she spent in therapy trying to figure it out was certainly worth it, at least in that aspect, and she sleeps with a clean conscience, knowing she tried her hardest to make things work. Relationships, however, don't survive when only one of the parties involved is making an effort; if you're staying because you want to prove your dead grandmother wrong and not because you loved your partner, you might as well not even be in it.

           When she finally decides to stop being a coward and inserts the keys into the hole, Michaela has to remind herself to keep breathing. They haven't said two words to each other since Friday, but she knows she has seen the photo plastered on social media—there are quite a few different angles of it, but all of them include him burying his face in her hair and her clinging to the back of his shirt, holding on to it for dear life.

          There's no way he hasn't seen it. They've been constantly tagged on the various posts, and he has posted something to his account since then, meaning he hasn't deleted the app. It's not even a big deal, in her opinion, as they weren't doing anything special that could possibly wake up the slumbering fangirls as it did, but it exploded as soon as it saw the light of day.

          "I thought I'd stop by to tell you we need you to come over and take a few photos for the cover and the interview," Michaela announces, slumped on a couch. It's Thursday night, as she hadn't bothered to stop by ever since Ginny told her they needed him at UD, but, truthfully, she was just trying to gather enough courage to talk to him . . . almost a week since the last time she saw him. "It shouldn't take long."

          Lincoln, stirring on his own seat, with his laptop set over his crossed legs, briefly looks at her. "And you had to come all the way over to Brooklyn to tell me that? Not that I don't like having you around, but . . ."

          "I like being in Brooklyn"—Michaela crosses her own legs—"and I'd much rather talk to you in person instead of having to go through your assistant."

          He wrinkles his nose. "I know this isn't Manhattan."

          "I know it too. I once lived in this apartment with you, in case you've forgotten."

           Lincoln sighs. "Still. You wouldn't have to go through my assistant after all this time." Michaela nods, fidgeting, and tries to ignore the awkwardness hanging in the air. Though things have certainly changed between them, with it feeling as steady as a roller coaster, she expected them to be able to have a simple conversation without it reminding her of all the couples counseling sessions. "Do you . . . want to stay for dinner? I really have to finish this today, but . . ."

          "Why?" He blinks, silently asking her to clarify. "Why do you want me to stay?"

          "Because"—Lincoln sighs for the second time in under a minute, which is never a good sign—"I think we should talk. Not about the book, not about that photoshoot, and especially not about dinner."

           "About us."

          He nods. "Us. Whatever we are. Whatever we were."