Page 54 of Dirty Work

I start pacing again, my synapses firing at warp speed as a plan begins to take shape. An outrageous, impracticable, so-over-the-top-it-just-might-work plan.

“You still there?” Connor asks. “Or did you finally grow a pair and hang up so you could get your ass on a plane to New York and grovel in person?”

“I’m here,” I say, ignoring his put-down. I’m a man on a mission, and petty insults aren’t going to distract me from my game plan. “Do you have a pen and paper handy? Or better yet, boot up your computer.”

“Why?”

“Because I have an idea. And I’m going to need your help to make it happen.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Ainsley

ITTAKESALMOSTa week for Dale to respond to my email. Not that that surprises me. He always did things at his own, leisurely, the-world-will-wait-for-me pace.

What surprises me is that I’ve been staring at my computer screen for ten minutes without opening the damn thing.

I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of. That he’ll give me the answer I’m hoping for. Or that he won’t.

Before I can overthink this anymore, I pull up my big girl panties and click on the email. It’s another minute before I work up the nerve to focus on the screen and read what he’s written.

Ainsley,

Sorry it’s taken so long for me to get back to you. Una and I are in Fiji, celebrating our anniversary.

I wince. Way to rub it in, Dale. Once a dickweed, always a dickweed, I guess. I say a silent prayer of thanks that I dodged that bullet.

I scroll down and read on.

You asked if your work was really the cause of our breakup, and the answer is yes—and no. Yes, the demands of your job made it hard for us to spend quality time together, and our relationship suffered because of it. And no, despite what I said at the time, that wasn’t the reason I broke off our engagement. Or at least not the only reason.

The truth is, if you were the right woman for me, I would have been willing to compromise on the work thing. Maybe even been a stay-at-home dad to our eventual kids. But love is like the tide, it comes and it goes, and the tide ran out on my love for you.

I know this is hard to hear, but the least I can give you now is honesty. I hope this gives you the closure—or whatever it is—you’re looking for, and that you can move on like the rolling ocean waves, with strength and purpose.

Gotta go. Una has us scheduled for a couple’s massage at the hotel spa. Maybe the three of us can get together for drinks or something when we get back to the city.

Dale

I stare at the screen for a hot second, trying to make sense of the what-the-fuckery I’ve just read, then burst into hysterical laughter. The tide ran out on my love for you? Move on like the rolling ocean waves? Who does Dale think he is, Walt freaking Whitman? Hell will freeze over before I meet him and his not-so-blushing bride for drinks or anything else.

Still, I appreciate his honesty. No matter how painfully saccharine. And I’m talking acute physical pain here, like I’ve got a stomach bug. Or food poisoning. But he did make one good point—being in a relationship requires trade-offs. Compromise, not sacrifice. Bending, not breaking.

Am I willing to meet Jake halfway? Is he willing to meet me?

I know my answer—hell to the yes. Sure, Jake went a little off the deep end when his deal fell through. But so did I, dropping ultimatums like atom bombs and storming out without giving him a chance to calm down. We had a good thing going, and I let it go without lifting so much as a finger, never mind putting up a fight.

No more. Time to lace up my gloves and get into the ring. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I open a new browser tab and I’m deep into an Expedia search for last minute deals on flights to Miami when someone knocks—no, pounds—on my door. I glance at the clock on my computer screen. 8:59. My worker bees are right on time.

“Come on in, door’s open,” I call, minimizing my browser. Strategizing my next move with Jake will have to wait. You know the saying, “little pitchers have big ears?” Well, nosy assistants have big eyes. And long necks, perfect for reading over your shoulder.

“What’s so funny?” Erin asks as she barrels into my apartment like she’s got the NYPD hot on her heels. But no, it’s just Aaron, balancing a tray of cardboard coffee cups with a familiar green logo.

“Yeah.” He hands me one of the coffees and takes his usual place for our morning meetings in one of the chairs across from my desk. “We could hear you laughing all the way down the hall.”

“Funny meme on Facebook,” I lie, taking a sip of my coffee—light and with more artificial sweetener than I care to admit, just the way I like it.