Dirty Headlines

He leaned down. “From the gentleman three seats to your left. He said to tell you that you should eat your meat.”

My heart cartwheeled, finishing its flip with an Olympic bow.

It’s okay. I can’t fall in love. Mom said so herself. What I’m feeling right now is a mixture of nausea, heartbreak from Milton, and guilt over what happened with an engaged man. The Bacardi certainly didn’t help, either.

I didn’t know if I should be mad, flattered, or crushed by his gesture. But I was starving, desperate for a drink, and dizzy from low blood sugar. I was also oddly relieved to know Célian was going home alone tonight. I didn’t want to be a charity case. But Célian wasn’t privy to how bad things were at my home. He had no way of knowing how dire the situation in my bank account was. My decision was made when the smell of pan-seared roast beef crept into my nostrils. I tore into it like a wild animal. Ava and Grayson stopped the chatter and stared at me.

“Did you just order a bottle of whiskey that’s worth two hundred bucks?” Grayson slurred, launching into a fit of hysterical laughter. Ava was busy cracking it open and pouring each of us a generous glass.

“I…ah, I’m celebrating getting over my migraine,” I mumbled around a hot piece of roast beef and the lettuce in my mouth. “Not the untimely death of a pop star.”

“God bless Advil, right? And handsome bosses.” Ava swiped her eyes along my chest, like she could see the thing inside of it stumbling all over the place, drunk as she was. The way her lips curved knowingly made me wonder if she had caught some of my exchange with Célian.

“I’m just glad the headache is gone.” I filled my mouth with more food. Talking wasn’t doing me much good at this point.

“Your boss is about to be gone next.” She drank in my reaction, and I gave it to her, my curiosity getting the better of me. I tilted my head to the side, catching Célian helping Emilie into her jacket as they made their way to the door.

“Seems so.” I picked a cherry tomato from my plate and popped it into my mouth. I sneaked one last glance at him, even though it was wrong. Even though he wasn’t mine to look at.

Célian ushered his cousin into an Uber, kissed her forehead, and tapped the roof in goodbye. Then, as if my gaze was an invitation, as if he could feel it on his back, he turned around and stared directly at me from the bar’s window. Our eyes locked, and everything stopped.

I’m not for the taking, my eyes said.

That’s for me to decide, his hissed.

“You still want to tell us there’s nothing going on between you and Bossman?” Grayson taunted from the periphery, his voice crawling into me, rattling something I was trying hard to keep dormant.

I opened my mouth, ready to defend myself, but the lie wouldn’t come out.

Sundays were library days.

Days of echoed silence and old ink and yellow paper. Of munching on sweets and stealing glances at eager, young students, reading and writing away their future, one word at a time.

Today, Dad had practically pushed me out the door. He’d made some excuse about me getting some Vitamin D, but it wasn’t even that sunny. Nonetheless, I figured he wanted time alone. The apartment was small. Besides, getting some me-time to think wasn’t the worst idea I’d had. I also needed to read more about the Sudanese crisis. I’d felt a little unequipped and uninformed this week when we’d discussed it in one of our rundown meetings. Célian shot facts from his sleeve at a speed I could barely register. Not only did he have the general knowledge of Google, but he delivered it with the charisma and finesse of Winston Churchill. I’d wanted to curl up like a kitten under his desk at that moment and listen to him talk all day.

That sounded degrading, even in my head, but it didn’t make it any less true. Hell, at night, when I turned off the light and looked out my window, I imagined myself sucking him off as he wrote the latest newscast. The man’s mind was even sexier than his looks. He was an amazing sight to behold, in and out of the newsroom.

“It’ll be a long time before you stop thinking about my cock every time you masturbate at the end of a long workday under your cheap covers.”

God, I hated him.

And he was three-carat engaged.

I settled into a chair and chewed into a retro foam mix of sunny side ups and banana-shaped candy, flipping pages. Two hours passed before my head finally lifted from the magazine I was reading. I could have stayed like that forever, but a shadow had darkened the glossy pages. I snapped the magazine shut and stared back at a stranger’s face.