Chapter Eleven
New York’s Finest
Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*
March 17
It’s always sad when someone forgets to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. So, imagine how depressing it was for me to see Dara Evans this morning wearing a ghastly gray trench coat. I’m not sure who told her Disney was holding auditions for Cruella De Vil in the East Village, but a memo must’ve gotten lost someplace (or maybe she doesn’t know how to read…?). Why else would she be wearing an ankle-length, baby seal fur coat on a warm March day? She might as well take out a billboard in Times Square to announce her supervillain status.
At this point, I think I’d be surprised if she allowed one of her henchmen to club the baby seals. You know how much she loathes those ostentatious baby animals, spreading joy and happiness everywhere they go. The little cute bastards. Who do they think they are???
Hide your puppies and kittens, New York. Cruella, aka Dara Evans, is looking for a new sweater, and your little Fido is the perfect shade of innocent to match her baby koala mittens.
<3 The Socialmedialite
*Annie*
I took a cold shower when I got home. Then I took another cold shower in the middle of the night after having a wonderful and frustrating dream about éclairs and fellatio and Ronan and a bed with a mirrored ceiling.
I would never look at an éclair the same way again.
I was losing my mind, and it was all because I wanted him. I wanted him very, very badly. My desire felt like a vise around my heart, a ball and chain around my ankle. It weighed me down, made it hard to breathe. I was having hot flashes.
Hot flashes!
I was a mess.
Things went from bad to worse when Gerta emailed me early in the morning to tell me that Ronan had canceled our appointment to go running in the park. He’d emailed Gerta, not me. He didn’t even cc me on the message.
Nor had he texted me; at least, I hadn’t heard my phone chime. Feeling adrift and depressed that I wouldn’t be seeing Ronan at all that day and, therefore, disoriented by my disappointment, I searched for my phone—just to make sure he hadn’t texted me.
I couldn’t find my phone. It wasn’t in my bag, in the basket by the front door, or next to my workstation. I couldn’t find it anywhere. After a half hour of frantic searching, I forced myself to stop, pause, and think.
The last place I remembered checking my phone was in my office, after the meeting, before Ronan had come to find me. Just that realization was enough to throw me for a loop. I’d gone over twelve hours without looking at my phone, checking in with my Socialmedialite blog. It had to be a new record.
Deciding that the phone must be at the office, I emailed Gerta back and asked her to check my desk for the cell.
Then I took another cold shower.
When I was finished but before I was dressed, I checked my Socialmedialite email account from my desktop PC, hopeful that Ronan had sent The Socialmedialite a message. I wasn’t disappointed. He’d sent two.
The first was composed early in the day on Monday, just five hours or so after I’d sent my message warning him about Brona’s claims of abuse. It read:
March 17
6:12 a.m.
Thank you for the heads-up.
You’re right. I’d like to do something crazy; I’d love to retaliate, but I won’t. Instead I’ll do something completely out of character and let my “publicity people” deal with this shite.
Just so you know, because I feel like I need to defend myself to someone (even if it’s some dude with a mermaid tat), she pissed me off any number of times; and she’d lash out during our rages and hit me all the time, but I never reciprocated. I would never hit a woman in a violent way. I would never do that. That would make me scum.
I’m used to fists against my face. You haven’t played a match of rugby if you aren’t bleeding by the end of it. When she hit me, it didn’t faze me. But her lies and dishonesty sure as fuck made a dent.
My heart constricted, and I pressed my fingers against my sternum, trying to massage away the uncomfortable, leaden heaviness that had settled in my chest. If I ever came face to face with Brona O’Shea, I was going to…well, I didn’t know what I would do. Part of me wanted to make her suffer for what she was doing to Ronan, what she was putting him through.
The other part of me really wanted her to suffer. So, if you’re keeping score, all of me was in favor of making Brona suffer.
I also thought about how sadly ironic his email was because I was, right this minute, lying to Ronan.
I wanted him but not enough to change. That was the truth…mostly.
If I could be guaranteed that he wouldn’t leave me, if I could be certain that I wouldn’t be abandoned, I would have jumped through hoops lit with fire to have a chance with him. Basically, if Ronan was a member of a boy band, say One Direction, he’d be the Harry Styles. He was far too gorgeous and lusted after to be trusted to stay faithful, not to be stolen or have his head turned by the next sexy young thing who came along. I saw it happen all the time in my line of work.
But really, it wasn’t just the lust and the intangible chemistry between us. Although, at present, the lust had a lot to do with it.
Really, it was him. His aggressive teasing and shocking suggestiveness; how assertive he was; how dedicated he was to his family; how smart and strong and capable he was; how focused he was on his profession, how driven and ambitious. I understood his drive and ambition, and I lauded him for it…even though I wanted to see him eat ice cream and lose some of his puritan control. Secretly, I wanted to be the one he broke his own rules for. I’ll admit, it made me feel special, like I mattered.
And I knew that line of thinking was twisted and wrong and unhealthy. I mattered independently of whether Ronan Fitzpatrick desired me. I mattered regardless of whether he wanted me enough to settle down and give me stability and security and ice cream.
I kept Jamie at arm’s length, and he didn’t seem to mind. Well, he didn’t mind at first. And when he did mind, when he wanted intimacy beyond the physical, I ended things. I ended things because life came without guarantees. Jamie had broken his own rules for me, but that hadn’t mattered. Yes, Jamie was smart and handsome, but he lacked some intangible spark that Ronan had in spades. Maybe it was passion that Jamie lacked. Whatever it was, I was never in any danger of falling for him.
Not like Ronan. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Maybe Ronan would stick around long enough for me to lose myself in the promise of something concrete and lasting.
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut, and rubbed my forehead. Just considering this—a real relationship with Ronan Fitzpatrick—was madness. We’d known each other for such a short time. Granted, I’d let him in closer than anybody. I’d volunteered details about my past; I’d never done that with anyone before.
Ronan could no more promise me forever than my adoptive parents could. Maybe he’d last longer than the six months they’d given me before they got pregnant with their real child and returned me to the state.
I pressed my lips together, rolled them between my teeth—because my eyes were stinging, and I refused to cry about a distant memory that no longer mattered, about people who wanted me because of how adorable I was as a seven-year-old but loved me no deeper than the surface of my skin.
I cleared my throat and blinked away the moisture in my eyes, clicking on Ronan’s second email. It was sent late Monday night, after I’d gone to sleep but before my second cold shower. It read:
March 17
11:47 p.m.
Funny thing about lies, lying, and liars—the truth always has a way of coming out. I wanted to thank you again for all your help. I do wonder, why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?
-Ronan
I frowned because the message was strange. I read it back several times then read his first email again. I searched for some clue as to why his second email was so terse, his tone truncated. I knew better than to read emotion into written words, so I tried my best not to fret over the note.
I tried and failed.
The words looked angry.
I went back to my room and changed, contemplated how to answer his message as I dressed. I spent the rest of the day—between work and eating my feelings and trying not to think about Ronan—periodically clicking back to his emails and studying them, working myself up into ball of stress. In the end, I decided that honesty was the best policy.
March 18
4:10 p.m.
Dear Ronan,
I agree, the truth always comes out. I’m so glad you didn’t do anything rash. She doesn’t deserve your time and attention (or energy).
I was surprised by your questions in the last email, regarding what I’m getting out of helping you. The answer is quite simply this: I am getting the pleasure of your correspondence. I wonder if anyone has ever told you this before, but you are very charming and likable. You’re very clever; your emails make me laugh. I like you.
-SML = Someone (who) Maybe Likes (you)
I scanned it a few times for typos then hit “send.” The Socialmedialite was so much braver than Annie Catrel. I sorta had a girl-crush on my alter ego.
Approximately two hours later, still a ball of stress, I was just getting ready to log off of my work profile and start working on some blog posts when I received an email from Gerta.