|Home > Samantha Young > On Dublin Street Series > Moonlight on Nightingale Way (Page 45)|
|Moonlight on Nightingale Way(On Dublin Street #6)(45) by Samantha Young|
I shook my head and wrapped my arms around my waist, turning away because I could feel the tears start to come now. “I’m the idiot that forgot you like your quick fucks to come hassle free, with an ever quicker good-bye.”
“Don’t. Just go. There’s no point to arguing. You were right before. I should have asked you to leave then. I’m asking you now.”
After a moment I heard him walk toward the kitchen doorway.
I batted at my tears and turned around. “Logan.”
He stopped, looking back at me almost hopefully.
“I don’t want you back here,” I said, squashing that hope. “Maia is always welcome and I will be civilized to you for her sake, but you and me… our friendship is officially over.”
He tensed, an incredulous look in his eyes. “You’re killing me here, babe.”
Tears blurred my vision. “Please.” I looked away, swiping at the drops as they fell down my cheeks.
“Okay,” he said softly, and I heard him walk away.
At the sound of my flat door closing, I burst into tears, tightening my arms around myself as if it could somehow keep the pain from spilling out all over.
There are moments in life that change us irreparably. Sometimes those moments are grand and dramatic, tragic or beautiful in their intensity. Sometimes those moments are quiet and small, like footsteps fading behind a closed door. The subtlety of those moments can sometimes camouflage their impact.
And sometimes the impact is felt profoundly, but the quietness of the moment is lost on everyone else around you, adding loneliness to the equation.
That’s how I felt the next morning as I sat staring at my computer.
I’d fallen in love for the first time.
And he didn’t love me back.
I no longer felt whole. I felt like I’d given a piece of myself away but there was no reciprocation to fill the emptiness it had left behind.
My family’s lack of affection had been with me for so long that as I’d grown it had become a part of me. Every piece of me I’d tried to give to them had chipped away at me until I was this lonely teenager with a ten-mile-high wall of defenses and insecurities.
Aidan and Chloe had spent years helping me rebuild myself.
And I’d just handed a piece away without thought.
Was that really Logan’s fault?
He had told me weeks ago that he didn’t want to be in a relationship because he was concentrating on Maia. And look at how we were first introduced? His bed had seen more women in it than the bunks in a rock band’s tour bus.
I feared I had acted selfishly with blinders on.
Before I could stew any longer in my misery, my phone rang. I wiped the tear tracks on my cheeks and picked up. “Hello,” I said, grateful I sounded normal.
“Is this Grace Farquhar?” a woman asked. Her American accent was dented here and there with Scots.
“Speaking,” I replied, hoping it wasn’t one of those bloody call centers.
“Oh, hey, this is Joss Carmichael. Jo gave me your number.”
Joss Carmichael? As in… “J. B. Carmichael?”
She gave a husky laugh. “Joss is fine. I was wondering if you’re free to chat about possibly editing this manuscript I’m thinking of self-publishing.”
Was she kidding? Her phone call could not have come at a better time. Distraction was exactly what I needed. “I can talk now if you like.”
“Great. So I checked out your Web site, and your credentials and that all sound fantastic. Your rates are reasonable, you’re well educated, and you have a solid clientele who have continued to come back to you. I even downloaded a couple of the books you’ve edited, and I’m really impressed.”
I flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “Well, thank you.”
“You are absolutely welcome. My only concern is that you’ve edited contemporary and historical romance but no other genre. This manuscript is for an adult dystopian paranormal romance. The first in a series. It’s a little out there. A little dark and twisted. Like moi,” she joked.
I chuckled. “That sounds great. I read all different genres and love dystopian and paranormal, so I understand the narrative and structure for those genres. But of course I understand if you’d prefer to work with an editor who has edited in the genre.”
She was silent a moment. “That doesn’t bother me. I’m happy to work with you on it, but… I need to know you’re going to be brutally honest with me. I need an editor who isn’t afraid to tell me how it is. You sound awfully nice, Grace.”
“I’m not nice,” I hurried to reassure her. “I mean, I’m nice, but I offer constructive criticism when needed. Believe me I’ve even had therapy to help me do it,” I cracked, and then blanched, wondering why I said such a stupid, stupid thing!
Thankfully, Joss chuckled. “I hear you.”
Thank God she had a sense of humor.
“Okay. Why don’t we give this a shot, then?”
I grinned, feeling a little bit of light prick the darkness. “Really?”
“Really.” I heard her smile in the word. “So… when can I send you this manuscript?”
“Oh, just let me check my calendar.”
From there I booked Joss in. “I’ll send you the invoice for half when I receive the manuscript and the other half you can pay when you’re satisfied with the work I’ve done.”