Dirty Headlines by L.J. Shen

Half my co-workers ended up spending the night in the newsroom to cover the oil spill. All evening people ran around asking where Célian was, but no one had an answer. I overheard stories from the same folks who’d so kindly made false assessments about my motives and personality when my boss had announced we were dating.

They said he had never missed an important item in his life, that he’d once shown up to work with a fever and lung infection to cover the Michael Flynn case with the Russians, that he was probably really eager to get back with his beautiful, albeit crazy, fiancée.

Kate sent me home when the clock hit eleven. She probably had mercy on me since I didn’t live around the block. She also knew about Dad, and I wished she didn’t, because I didn’t want to be the token charity case.

“Jude, grab your things. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“I can stay,” I said, and I meant it. I didn’t mind pulling an all-nighter. I hadn’t slept much during my first year of college, between working two jobs and keeping my grades up.

Kate momentarily tore her gaze from the monitor she stared at. “No. You’ve already gathered all information I need. I want you to go home.”

Arguing with her was just going to eat away her precious time, and besides, she wasn’t wrong. I needed to check on Dad. I grabbed my bag and walked toward the elevator, a pang of guilt slicing my conscience as I watched everyone else still hard at work.

I’d called the elevator when a hand clasped my shoulder, swiveling me around. It was Kate. Her normally snowy cheeks were red, and she looked flustered and out of sorts.

“If I knew where he was, I’d tell you,” she said, her breathing heavy from running.

“I know.” I smiled softly. “But I wouldn’t expect you to. Whatever Célian does with his life is none of my business, and it will not affect my performance here.”

Kate pressed her forehead to the cool wall beside us, squeezing her eyes shut. She looked tired. I got it. She was sans Célian and short on staff. “He’ll have some serious explaining to do once he finally gets back here.”

The elevator slid open and I stepped inside, giving her a thumbs-up. For the very first time I thought, and explain he might, but I will not be listening anymore.

I was about to round the corner and turn onto my street when a limo pulled up at the curb and the passenger door flung open. My eyes widened, and I stopped in an instant. My dad was no Liam Neeson, and if I was going to get kidnapped, I very much doubted I could be saved. I turned around to look at the person getting out of the vehicle. It was Lily, dressed to impress in what looked like a cocktail gown. She seemed to be alone.

“Can I help you?” I cocked my head. I wanted to be strong, but I was tired, hungry, and annoyed. And pissed at myself—so pissed that I’d let myself get carried away with a man like Célian Laurent. I usually made smart choices. I was a salad girl, and he was a deep-fried cake.

“Me? No, though I’m sure you’ll do it at some point once you get fired and have to become a waitress to support your slutty ways.” She walked toward me on her high heels. The limo driver looked the other way, like he couldn’t watch the scene. Her sentence hadn’t even made any sense. I folded my arms across my chest.

“Why are you here?”

“To tell you to back off.”

“If Célian doesn’t want me, he’s welcome to tell me himself.”

I didn’t agree with any part of that sentence. I was no longer sure I wanted him anyway, and at any rate, it wasn’t entirely clear we were even together. But I’d be damned if I’d let her boss me around like that.

Lily kept coming until she was chest to chest with me. She was much taller and a little leaner. Most of all, she was meaner.

“You’re ruining his life, Jade.”

“Jude,” I corrected. She’d seemed to love my unique name before she’d known her fake fiancé was sleeping with me.

She rolled her eyes, like I was an idiot for even pointing that out. “Whatever. You butting into his life means he’s losing everything he cares about. He doesn’t have any family of his own. We were his family—not to mention the network. You are toxic to him, and he’s trying hard not to hurt your feelings, but whenever I call him, he comes back.”

My face heated, but I said nothing. I didn’t believe her—not completely, anyway. Yet her words got to me. I started walking toward my house, bypassing her on the sidewalk. I felt her turning around behind me.

“He’s going to be back in my arms by the end of this week.”

“Good luck,” I shouted back, not turning around to face her.

“You’ve always been a fling! A meaningless one-night stand that got stretched into more because of the circumstances.”

I smiled bitterly. Yes. That I believe.

At home, I made Dad his vegetable soup for tomorrow, following the recipe they’d given me through his program. I was cutting a carrot into depressingly small pieces when my dad hollered from the living room.

“Would you look at that? Your boyfriend is famous.”

The first thing that popped into my head was that Milton had been arrested for killing a prostitute. He was so clean cut and morbidly middle class, it seemed like something he’d be capable of doing. I nicked my little finger when the thought of Célian sprung into my mind.

Was he in trouble? More importantly—was I supposed to care this much?

“How do you mean, Dad?” I tried to keep my voice light.

“He looks good in a tux, I’ll give him that. Of course, if I was as tall as LeBron James, I would rock a designer suit like nobody’s business. You have to see this, JoJo.”

I placed the knife on the chopping board and wiped my hands on my jeans, walking over to the living room. I stood behind the sofa, so Dad couldn’t see me. Good call, considering the horror I knew had plastered itself on my unsuspecting face as I realized what I was looking at.

It was a gossip show rerun from earlier in the day. Some New York socialite had celebrated her birthday and rented out half the left wing of some glitzy hotel. She’d ordered a cake the size of a house—literally, an actual house—and someone from the Guinness Book of World Records came in to measure it. As the camera spun around the horrendous excuse for a sponge cake (“It took over five hundred sacks of sugar and six hundred pounds of flour to make the cake…”), it caught some of the guests at the party. And there was my very own Waldo, who’d been missing in action for the past three days.

Lily’s arm was looped around Célian’s.

He smiled.

She clapped.

They looked happy.

Happy like record stores and stone skipping and stolen iPods could never make him. Happy like his fiancée had just helped him save his news channel.

“Who’s the girl?” Dad scratched his bald head.

“His fiancée.” Rocks. The admission felt like swallowing rocks.

Dad twisted his head, frowning. “JoJo?”

I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut so he wouldn’t see the pain swirling inside them. I wanted to run to the cemetery down the block where my mother was buried and throw myself on her tombstone and tell her I wished she’d really cursed me—so my heart would be lonely and hungry, so it wouldn’t be linked via an invisible string, like a balloon, to a man who was too good at sucking the air out of it.

“I thought you two were together.” Dad brushed his fingers along my arm.

“I thought so, too, Dad. He decided to get back with her earlier this week.”

“Idiot.”

I knew he meant Célian, but the same could be said about me.

The whole world had warned me about him, and I’d chosen to stick my earbuds in and ignore them.

“Well, I’m pooped. I’ll finish your soup tomorrow morning before I go to work.” I dropped a kiss on his head, escaping to my room.

I checked the messages on my phone. There were none.

I set my alarm for six in the morning and buried myself under the covers.

Lily had spent the evening with him, then paid me a visit to warn me she was going to steal him back.

She could keep him.

I walked into my office with a fresh cup of coffee and another new suit that cost fuck-knows-how-much so Brianna wouldn’t have to move her precious ass an inch. Kate was sitting behind my desk in my office, but I didn’t have it in me to kick her all the way back to the newsroom with my Oxford still stuck between her ass cheeks.

She didn’t look up from her laptop as I approached. “The dog house is all the way down, to your left, at the nearest Petco store.”

She rubbed her eyes, causing a streak of black eyeliner to run down her cheeks. She looked like she’d been sucking dick for twenty years straight without taking a break—haggard, hair frizzy, with red blotches covering most of her skin. Her gray shirt had at least three different sets of unidentifiable stains.

“You look stunning, by the way.” I slid her my cup of coffee.

“Well, you look like the asshole who’s about to get dumped and fired on the same day, so I wouldn’t go around offering sarcastic compliments.” She shut her laptop, tucked it under her arm, and stood up.

I followed her with my eyes as she made her way to the door. If she thought she was walking away without explaining her behavior, she was gravely mistaken.

“Stop,” I commanded. She did, her back to me.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I leaned against my desk.

She didn’t turn around. “I stayed here all night.”

“Why?”

“Have you not checked the news in the last fifteen hours?”

Alarm trickled into my system. If the mayor had decided to go into cardiac arrest on the first day I decided to unplug, I was going to be ushered to a room right next to him.

“Get to the point,” I bit out.

“Check your phone?” She spun on her heel slowly, arching a patronizing eyebrow.

I shook my head, regarding her through hooded eyes. “This game of yours might cost you your job, so I sure as hell hope you’re enjoying it.”

“Oh, I’m not. Trust me. Now, let’s see.” She made a show of turning to me fully, tapping her lip. “It started with the fact that the entire newsroom saw you leaving with your ex-fiancée a hot second after you’d declared that Jude is your girlfriend, which put her squarely in the position of being the official office joke—the building’s leftover who’s been dumped by the boss. Spoiler alert: she doesn’t like it. Then, sometime last night, it was revealed that there’s an oil spill threatening to kill thousands of mammals and birds. People stayed overnight. Jude didn’t, because she had to take care of her father after working overtime. So don’t worry, I’m sure she caught the Gossip Road rerun of you hanging out with Lily. Gosh…” She slapped a hand over her chest. “What a multitasker. Banging your ex and your life simultaneously.”

I erased the space between us, jerking my chin up to look down at her. She hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know—well, okay, except the oil spill—and I wasn’t an idiot, so obviously, I had a good idea of what it all looked like. Keeping Jude guessing was the plan. Pushing her away—the goal.

But I didn’t like what Kate had insinuated. “I didn’t fuck Lily. Her grandmother died.”

That was not something I could exactly shout from the rooftops. The Davis family was private. Her sisters were adamant about working regular jobs.

“Does Jude know?”

“She will.” I was playing with fire, but the self-fulfilling prophecy wasn’t uncalled for. I didn’t really do girlfriends, and the shit with Chucks was getting to be a bit much.

“You’re not listening, Célian. She’s not going to hear your bullshit. How will you explain hanging at Lily’s apartment building? Attending a birthday party with her? Disappearing on all of us?”

I shouldered past her, and she gasped, taking an evasive step. The impending calamity I’d inserted myself into with eyes wide open was going to come raining down on me. It wasn’t pouring, but we were already at a steady trickle. Shit. I was in deep shit.

“I attended all those functions for her family,” I told Kate, still unable to reach for my office door. “That included Lily’s cousin’s stupid birthday party. I went to her apartment, twice—without her—because I needed to get her fresh clothes and her toiletry shit. We were never in the same vicinity with our clothes off. She tried to hold my hand for half a fucking second at the party, and I bit her head off for it. We’re over, but that doesn’t mean I need to be an ass to her. I wanted to be there for the Davises, because when my life was crumbling and Camille died, they were there for me.”

Lily had been a no-show during those terrible days, but I still remembered the flowers and pastry the family had sent every morning, her mother checking in on me, her grandmother calling me three times a day to make sure I ate and showered and breathed.

Kate turned around, reaching for the door handle. I kept my face blasé. “Good luck explaining it to everyone, Célian. Because let me tell you something—the moment Jude walked into the room, she changed you. It wasn’t profound. It was even gradual, but it was there. In the way you started smiling, the way you softened toward your employees—just a little—and started doing the right thing by yourself and Lily. But standing here?” She shook her head. “I think that man just bailed on us, and it saddens me, because I was looking forward to working with, and befriending, the newCélian.”

She closed the door behind her, and I looked to the glass wall, catching Jude unpacking her lunch and dumping her bag by her chair. She looked up to meet my gaze like I knew she would. We could sense each other from miles away. I arched a come-get-it eyebrow. Her face remained unaffected, like she didn’t actually see me, and she began to roll her earbuds around her iPod, turning her computer on.

Stay calm.

Stay put.

Think it through. This is what you wanted.

Fuck it. I didn’t need to think.

I pushed off my desk, blazing into the newsroom. Everybody was nose deep in work, because evidently we were on the verge of an environmental disaster and nobody had time to be impressed that I had, in fact, gotten my head out of my ass.

I knew now that for the last three days, I’d tried to deny my feelings toward Jude and make them go away.

I went directly to her table and slapped a hand over Kipling, which was open by her keyboard.

She looked up.

“Sir?” There was nothing in that voice. Nothing in her face. No fire crackling in the air between us. It was like she’d been turned off.

“Need you for a minute.”

“I’m right here.”

“Downstairs.”

“Not happening,” she said calmly, with everyone looking now, because that was the essence of Judith Humphry—a goddamn badass in colorful Chucks and a weird, too-grownup suit. “If you need something from me professionally, please say so right now, because I’m about to head into the conference room for an urgent call with NOAA’s public affairs officer.”

Only reason I didn’t clench my jaw was because I knew that shit would snap and break from the force. If she’d been any other employee, I would’ve thrown her ass out of the building with the phone cord and receiver still clutched in her fist. But not Judith. Not after everything we’d been through.

Truth of the matter was, I couldn’t verbally rip her limb from limb, even when she belittled me in public, because I didn’t want to.

Because I cared about her.

I was in love with her.

Jesus fucking Christ. I was, wasn’t I? First she got into my bed, then under my skin, then into my heart. There was no deeper tissue than that, so she stayed there, taking more and more space, until there was no room left inside me. If she cut me open, I would bleed her.

She reared her head back, like I was going to bite her face off. “Will that be all, Mr. Laurent?”

“Yes. Get on that NOAA call and report back.” I took a step away, my head still spinning from the eternal revelation.

I loved Jude.

I’d pushed Jude away.

I could have told her what had been happening at any point during those three days, but I didn’t.

I didn’t want her to know.

I’d wanted her to assume the worst and to give up on me, like everyone else had. My mother was indifferent. My father actively hated me. And my ex-fiancée wanted me the same way you wanted a limited-edition Hermes bag—because I’d look damn good and pricey on her arm.

“Sure thing, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir,” I snapped. My tongue has been inside your ass, for fuck’s sake.

“Yes, sir,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes at me.

You came all over my face with my dick inside your mouth.“Appreciate it, Chucks.”

In love. Fuck me.

With Judith Penelope Humphry from Brooklyn.

Who I’d met on a shitty rainy day after another fight with my father.

Who had stolen my wallet and my cash and my condoms and my heart.

Who’d sneaked into every fiber of my skin, one layer at a time, with her music and contagious laugh and daily moods and dirty Chucks.

I was in love, despite not wanting or agreeing to be.

So I’d pushed her away. If I disappeared, I didn’t have to make a decision. It would be made for me.

A decision to take a chance on someone.

A decision to live again.

A decision to give up LBC, and everything I’d worked for, because power wasn’t enough. Especially if you have no one to share it with.

That’s how I found myself doing the whole flowers-and-chocolate routine when I came to her house that evening. Did people do that anymore? Every romantic idea I had—and granted, I didn’t have many—was taken from stupid rom coms Camille made me watch when I was a teen. Lily had never bothered. She knew sitting me down in front of a Kate Hudson movie was a task akin to getting me to fuck a food grinder.

Maybe chocolate and flowers were a ‘90s thing. Judith was young. Perhaps to a point it made people feel uncomfortable. Ask me if I gave a fuck.

Célian, do you give a fuck?

Not even a half. Not even a quarter. Minus three fucks, and still counting.

I rang the doorbell several times, pacing back and forth. The door remained unanswered, much like my text messages. I’d tried to keep them curt and sane, but those were two traits I’d parted ways with for the past few hours, while dealing with an oil spill, a dying network, and a broken heart. I decided to shoot her one last message before I left.

Célian: We need to talk.

Célian: In a nutshell, I did not put my dick inside my ex-fiancée.

Célian: And she is still very much an ex.

Célian: Her grandmother died. We were close. I didn’t want to lay out all the shit in a text message. Which is fucking ironic, because PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE.

Célian: Also—if you did catch the party, that was her cousin. The family was obligated to go. I left early.

Célian: And alone.

Célian: Why am I explaining myself to your message box? Let’s make it awkward for both of us. I’m coming over.

Célian: Open the door.

Célian: I’ll kick it down.

Célian: It’s a dodgy neighborhood, Chucks. Going doorless for a night isn’t ideal, but you asked for it.

I heard the click of the door opening a second after the last text. I looked up. Chucks had on a Sonic Youth hoodie and short shorts. She stared at me through a crack narrower than an ant’s anus.

“Here,” I said, thrusting the flowers—they looked about as wilted as me—and the red chocolate box with the pink cellophane in her direction. “For your stubborn ass, which I would very much like to eat again in the near future.”

“Is this a joke?” She blinked slowly.

I looked around me. Was it? Because it felt serious on an existential level to me. “About the ass or the apology? Never mind. No, in both cases.”

“Well, I don’t accept your apology, and I will not grace the ass comment with a response. Anything else?” she asked, but she was already pushing her door closed.

I spotted her father shuffling behind her. He shook his head when he saw me through the slit in the door.

“Célian,” he scolded. “You’re lucky I’m too sick to kick your ass. Wait. I’d never be too sick to kick your ass.”

“Sir, I’m trying to explain.”

He walked off to the couch, not sparing me another look. I went back to staring at my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Whatever she was. Fuck.

“There’s a perfectly good explanation for everything that’s happened in the last three days.” I tried a different tactic.

For the record, my BA was in pre-law and my masters was in international relations. I was supposed to be good with words. In fact, I knew I was. That did not stop me from shitting all over this encounter.

“Yet there is zero way to explain why you went MIA and brushed me off when the entire world knew you were with your ex,” she countered. “You know, Célian, Milton was wrong about a lot of things. One thing he was right about, though—royalty and plebeians don’t mix. It’s probably very nice to be sitting there on the throne, like you do.”

Did it look like I was having a good fucking time? What gave it away, the fact that I felt like hell, or smelled like it? My teeth ground together.

She swung the door open all the way, parking a hand on her hip. “Actually, I do have something to say, so listen carefully. When my mother died, she said the heart was a lonely hunter. I thought she meant I was incapable of falling in love. Because I never did. I liked Milton, a lot, and some guys in high school, too…” She trailed off.

I was hoping she’d get to the point before I had to kill my way through half of New York. Especially Milton. That guy was so high on my shit list, I doubted it was safe for us to be in the same state.

“But then I found out that’s not what she meant. It was right before we left for Florida. That day my father told me she was actually referring to a book. See, I’d never told him what Mom said. I didn’t want to tarnish how perfect she was in his eyes. Because I love him, and when you love someone, you want to protect them, no matter the cost. And I can’t afford to be with you, Célian, because I love you. But in order to learn how to love, you first need to learn how to live, and hating your parents, running around with your ex-fiancée, and playing power games is just not the way. I deserve more.”

I would tell her I loved her right now if I thought she would believe me. But why would she? I’d acted like an ass for months. Fuck, I wouldn’t believe me, either.

“Give me a chance.”

She shook her head. “No can do.”

“Judith…”

“Don’t do this.” Her eyes pleaded. I said nothing to that. “You will only prove what I just said—that it’s all about you. If you care about me at all, let me go.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Hoping like hell it wasn’t some test I was failing, I ran a hand through my hair, then slammed the chocolate and flowers against her corridor’s wall. Pitted glossy cherries and chocolate smeared down the side of her door.

And they say the French are romantic.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

I found the habit of repeating oneself unappealing. But that was because I was never out of sorts and clueless. I was now, and I didn’t like it one bit.

“Should we revisit this subject next week? Next month? Next year?” Was I even going to survive that kind of time?

“No, Célian. I don’t think we should.”

The door closed in my face. Gently, but firmly, like everything else she did.

I hung my head and shook it, staring at the floor.

She had a Game of Thrones “Hold the Door” mat.

And I fucking let her go. Because she did deserve more.