Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,37
red couch, a blue refrigerator, and not a single cup that matches in all my cabinets. There’s a funky, asymmetrical coffee table I found at a flea market plunked in front of the sofa, and instead of a television, I have one full wall covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, every nook and cranny jammed with my favorite, well-worn paperbacks. The rest of my wall space is covered in oil canvases — some complete, some half-finished, all my own handiwork.
It’s a mess.
I love every square inch of it.
After I’ve gathered up the papers by the door and tossed them in the recycling bin in my pathetically small kitchen, I head straight for my bedroom. Really, it’s less a room than a closet, separated from the rest of the apartment by glass-paned French doors. My queen-sized bed takes up almost the entire space, with a peacock green duvet and decorative blue and red feathered throw pillows. There’s no room for a dresser, so I got creative when I first moved in and suspended a horizontal ladder from my ceiling along the far wall. My colorful wardrobe hangs from the rungs like some kind of strange piece of modern art you’d find at a hipster gallery in the Theater District.
Artsy but functional.
I collapse face-first on my bed and fall into a restless sleep, in such a stupor after the emotional day — and the two glasses of wine I chugged — I almost forget to set my alarm. If I’m late for work tomorrow, especially after I ducked out early this afternoon, Estelle will either fire me or kill me — which would just be the cherry on top of an already fantastic week.
At the very least, I suppose I can be thankful that the reporters seem to have given up their quest. When Shelby dropped me off on her way home from Mark and Chrissy’s, I fully expected I’d have to sneak through the back alley, as I had this morning. It was a welcome surprise to find the camped-out news vans had gone home for the night, and the front stairs of my walkup clear for the first time since the story broke.
See, Gemma? It’s already blowing over — soon, that kiss with Chase Croft will be a distant memory. You’ll probably never see him again.
For some reason, the words I meant to be reassuring only seem to upset me more as I drift off to sleep.
***
The sound of my phone buzzing pulls me back into consciousness.
This is becoming an unfortunate habit.
Without opening my eyes, I throw out a hand and grope for my cell on the nightstand. As soon as my fingers close around the glittery, plastic shell of my three-generations-old iPhone, I yank it beneath the covers and click it on, peering at the too-bright, spiderweb-cracked glass through slivered eyes.
It’s not even seven, and there’s already a text message lighting up my screen.
Chrissy: You should see this.
Evidently, her Google Alert is still working, because there’s a link pasted beneath her words, and when I click on it, I see the story has only been up on the web for about ten minutes. I squint at the tiny caption at the top of the page, feeling my heart begin to pound inside my chest.
CROFT’S CONFESSION — CAUGHT ON CAMERA!
There’s a video clip below the headline, and after a moment of hesitation, I jab my finger viciously against the screen to queue the footage. The clip is choppy, but I recognize the Charles River running paths in the background, which doesn’t make much sense at all until Chase rounds a bend in the trail and jogs into view — whoever’s filming clearly knows his morning exercise route.
He looks great. There’s a dark stain of sweat on his gray t-shirt, his calf muscles stand out in sharp definition each time his sneakers hit the pavement, and his hair is damply disheveled in a way I’ve never seen before. I have to hand it to him — he never breaks stride when the reporters step onto the path and ambush him, their cameras already rolling; he just blows past, as if they aren’t even there, as if he’s done this so many times in the past, it doesn’t even faze him anymore.
The video stream gets bumpier as the cameraman picks up speed, running after Chase while his partner hurls questions rapid-fire.
Are you dating Gemma Summers?
Have you spoken to her since the kiss?
Are the rumors true? Have you two really moved in together?