Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Maybe I need to hear it to drive the last nail into my heart and euthanize it for good.

“She resigned last night, I'm afraid,” Matilda says softly. She hesitates, her lips pursed, then seems to make a decision and reaches for something I hadn’t noticed before, hidden behind the monitor.

It's a neatly folded slip of heavy paper sporting the Just Vibing letterhead past the creases.

“This is for you,” she says, passing it across the desk and still watching me with that awful look.

She can't fathom what I feel when I recognize the loopy handwriting on the back of the folded sheet, spelling out my name.

Mr. Roland Osprey, CEO, Osprey Media.

That’s who I am, isn’t it?

That’s all I am.

I take it and swallow, running my finger along the edge of the page just light enough to almost give myself a papercut before I unfold it.

The carefully penned words are written with an icy formality that still doesn’t stop me from hearing Callie’s voice in my head. She's clipped and withdrawn and still hammers me with that fucking guilt all over again.

Mr. Osprey,

Please accept my resignation as Chief Editor of Just Vibing, effective immediately. I apologize that I am not able to provide the courtesy of two weeks’ notice, but I feel your time would be best served by transitioning in a new EIC as soon as possible. I left a month’s complete editorial calendar with my team. With Matilda’s assistance, you should be able to continue operating smoothly with our content until a new hire takes over.

My reasons for resigning are complex, but in the end I feel that I am ill-suited for the role. I am not a good fit for the corporate culture of Osprey Media, nor am I able to operate Just Vibing to your standards. The magazine would be better served by someone who better aligns with your vision.

I wish you luck in all your endeavors.

Sincerely,

Caroline Landry

Just like that, she’s laid me out like Prometheus for the vultures, my insides exposed to be picked apart.

My vision.

My standards.

My fucking pride.

In perfectly polite coded language, she’s told me what a steaming piece of shit I am and how she can’t stand rolling in the dirt with me anymore.

“Mr. Osprey...Roland?” Matilda murmurs. “Are you all right?”

The paper crumples in my fist. I close my eyes, then open them and force a smile, already turning away from her.

“Everything’s fine, Matilda,” I lie like the robot I still wish I could be. “I just have some business to attend to. I’ll leave the magazine in your capable hands.”

* * *

What am I even doing here?

Standing outside of Alvin Landry’s townhouse like a beggar who has nothing but an unwanted love letter to his name.

Only, I don’t have the right words to fix this.

I’ll wing it, I guess.

There can't be that much art to groveling, right?

Breathing slowly while I count in my head—and trying not to laugh bitterly at another Callie-habit I’ve adopted—I step up to the gate and buzz the intercom.

“Who is it?” a gruff male voice answers—Alvin’s, though he sounds a hell of a lot clearer and sharper than he did the last time we spoke.

“Rol—” My voice actually cracks. What the hell is wrong with me? “Roland Osprey. I’m here to see Callie if you don’t mind, Mr. Landry.”

The intercom static goes dead.

I wait a minute, but there’s nothing, not even Callie speaking. I stare at the house helplessly, wondering if I’m really desperate enough to test the gate—until the door swings open.

My stomach knots.

It’s not Callie who greets me like a beautiful killer angel sent to collect what's left of my heart.

Alvin steps out like a man reborn.

I do a double take.

The last time I saw him, he was a tortured mess, unshaven, hair dirty and eyes hollow, clothing ill-fitted, a dark shiner on his face.

Now, I see a stranger with a trimmed beard and brushed grey hair. His eyes and hands are steady, his clothing neat and clean.

He moves fluidly as he makes his way down the steps and the front walk. Eventually, he stops on the other side of the wrought-iron slats of the gate and stares at me, eye to eye and man to man.

“You’re too late,” he says coldly. “She’s gone thanks to you. You and your goddamned mess ran her off to her mama in New Orleans. Couldn’t even stand being in the same city as you no more.”

Okay, fuck.

I deserve that.

“Sir, I’m sorry, I—”

“No. I don’t want to listen to your shit, son.” There’s steel in Alvin’s voice and in his spine. “Look. I’m grateful for what you did for me. Don’t think I’m not. But it don’t buy forgiveness for the other crap you've done. Not just to Callie. Goddamn, no wonder she acted so cagey about you. If I’d known you were that Osprey boy, I’d have never let you near her.”