“I think it is.” His tone is firm. Not the tone of the lover from yesterday, but the man who’s used to being obeyed. “Your safety is important to me,” he continues, his voice softening. “The more people know who you are to me, the more unreasonable it becomes for you to traipse around with no security at all.”
I keep quiet, feeling defiant. “It’s not like we’re taking out an announcement or anything like that.”
There is a short laugh from his side. “We won’t need one.”
He sounds so certain that I start wondering how many times he’s been through this, the excitement from the gossip columns whenever there’s a new woman in his life.
“Just let Joe pick you up,” he says. “I’m having enough nightmares as it is about how porous your apartment building is.”
I bite my lip. I love my apartment, and the building, and the fact that I live in a cute old walk-up. “Fine.”
“I’ll send you his number so you can call whenever you need him.” When I don’t answer he continues, “I’m probably going to work a little later than I planned tonight.” There is a regretful note in his voice. “But I’ll call you.”
“Sure,” I reply, disappointed. “See you whenever.”
He sighs. “Where are you now?”
Almost there,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”
AT the Gilt building, instead of heading towards the elevator bank, I walk across the lobby, past the waiting areas, towards the gallery. Here, pictures from Gilt’s history line the walls. There are black-and-white daguerreotype kind of images from the turn of the century when Francois Gilte, a French publisher with unproven stories of being descended from aristocrats, arrived in New York to launch a fashion and style magazine, the first incarnation of Gilt Style. After a few years of immense success, he’d gone bankrupt and lost the magazine to a corporation, but he was retained as the editor-in-chief, and Gilt continued to grow, adding more publications to its stables.
I move from picture to picture, the iconic editors over the years, women who’d ruled New York fashion with one look, word, or preference for an accessory. I’d grown up reading about them in Aunt Jacie’s issues of Gilt style. There are pictures of models, actors, society women, even renowned authors, long before they were famous, being honored for their stories in the Gilt Review.
There is something about being at Gilt, I think, as I study the pictures. It’s like being a part of history, of creating art that touches millions. Even if I never ended up at the Review, I doubted that working at some other literary magazine would ever feel as good as being in the Gilt family.
“Rachel.”
I turn around and see Chelsea eyeing me with concern. “I saw you on my way to the elevators. She eyes the pictures. “Hobnobbing with the ancestors?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah.”
She smiles. “It’s awesome, isn’t it? Well, the history, not the actual being here. But it’s better than someone trying to talk me into a season of Rich Kids of Kentucky.” She shudders.
“You’d look awesome on TV, though.”
She makes a gagging sound. “Never.” She peers at one of the pictures. “One of these women once described my mother as a heifer in diamonds,” she says with an uncaring shrug, then turns to look at me. “I saw a picture of you on some gossip site, kissing Landon Court outside the Remington House.” She peers at me. “You guys made up?”
I nod.
“Good.” She narrows her eyes. “I still want to go clubbing, whether you’re miserable or not. When are we going?”
I sigh, ashamed of having forgotten. Chelsea’s refusal to toe the line of idle heiress meant that she didn’t have many friends among people like her. She found most society people boring after a while, but that didn’t stop her from being lonely. “I’m sorry,” I say remorsefully, making an apologetic face. “I forgot, but we should go sometime this week. I’ll tell Laurie.”
Chelsea nods, satisfied. I am too, glad of the opportunity to make plans that don’t include Landon. For someone who couldn’t be counted on for the kind of long-term commitment I craved, I was in danger of making him the center of my life. I needed to go out with the girls, hang out and have fun without the shadow of my feelings hanging over my mind.
Chelsea starts to tell me about her flirtation with her hot neighbor. She still suspects him of being some sort of security specialist hired by her dad to protect her from would-be kidnappers. We’re still talking when we get to our floor and exit the elevator. It’s still early, so there’s almost nobody around. We’re walking in the direction of our offices when a door opens and Jack Weyland walks into the corridor.
I’m surprised to see him. It’s only been a few days, but the time spent with Landon has pushed him out of my mind very completely. I remember our last meeting with a feeling that’s almost like embarrassment, and his expression goes from surprise to something like pain, before he gives us a small nod and walks in the opposite direction.
“What was that about?” Chelsea asks, her eyebrows going up.
“I have no idea,” I reply, feeling conflicted. Once again, there’s that feeling of loss, because every single feeling I’d ever had for him and every dream I built around us, ultimately ended in nothing. Even after everything he put me through, I can’t help but feel concern that I hurt him, but sadly, there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
LANDON calls in the afternoon to confirm that he’ll be working late. So when I’m done for the day, I do as he instructed and call Joe to pick me up and take me home. Laurie isn’t in yet, so I microwave my dinner, and watch some TV in solitude, before going to soak in the tub.
My mom’s call doesn’t surprise me. I knew that one way or the other she’d find out about Dylan’s visit. She chides me for not telling her he was around.