The park is not very crowded tonight. A lot of people skip these events and opt for the walks or other sorts of End the Violence events, but I like coming out here with my books, my iPod shuffle, my snacks, and I’m set.

Recognizing some faces, I walk around until I find a nice spot under a tree.

I spread out my sleeping bag, say hi to the young couple nearby whose names I don’t know but who I’ve seen before, and stare up at a bunch of tree limbs and leaves poking into the sky. I rarely manage to get an hour of sleep whenever I camp out here, but I still do it just because I never want to get so comfortable with things to the point I don’t want to change them for the better.

After eating some berries and listening to music, I pluck off my earphones, plump my campout pillow, and drift off to sleep, dreaming that I’m lost at night inside a green forest, running in a man’s shirt, and when Gina, Helen, and my mom shout for me to come out, I can never find my way out of the deep.

I wake up with a start, sweaty and breathless and staring around in confusion. I’m at the campout. Shivering, I pull out my phone and then blink when I see I’ve got a message.

If I can’t drive you home yet, then at least let me pick you up and take you someplace.

I stare at the text from an unknown number with a wildly pounding heart and a tangle inside my stomach. I know it’s him, it has to be him. I think of him and his shirts and his stares and his grapes. I think of his yacht and his secrets and the ice in his eyes and the way he stares at me like he wants me to melt all of those mysterious icicles in him. I think of how restless I feel and how I can’t focus on anything else . . . and then I think of the exposé and struggle to center myself with that one goal, that one wish. Exhaling, I text back:

I wouldn’t object to a tour of the Interface headquarters

Done

I bite my lip, things that feel like butterflies now seizing me. These have to be story butterflies but I’ve never gotten them like this. Before I can stop myself I text:

Don’t you sleep?

Not when I don’t want to

I blush. God, is he womanizing right now? He could be such a great guy for one special girl, it’s depressing he lets everyone have a piece of him somehow.

You? Why are you awake now, Rachel?

Your text woke me, I write.

Sweet dreams then, Rachel

I close my eyes and think of his face in the YouTube video, his face at the club after he saw me, his face always so closed off and mysterious, as if he refuses to let anyone see and know who he really is or what he really wants from them.

Same to you—if you want to dream, that is

Oh, I sound so dumb. Urgh. Setting my phone down as if it’s suddenly a snapping alligator I just encountered in my scary green dream forest, I don’t sleep one wink.

11

OFFICE

At least my writing has benefited from my growing obsession with this tormenting fascination that has nowhere to go. This thirst for information is leaking into my writing, into anything I turn my attention to. I’m like a glutton craving something in particular but stuffing herself on whatever she can get her hands on in the meantime. Even if it’s information on something else.

“This piece is phenomenal!” Helen says. “Such fire. I can’t wait to see what you do with the Saint piece. What’s the dibs on that?”

I gasp. “What?”

She smiles and taps the notebook on my desk with one word, underlined until the page tore.

DIBS.

She props her hip on my desk, and I feel Victoria nearly fall out of her chair in her eagerness to hear what I have to say.

“None,” I say, taking the tablet and putting it aside. Really, so I’m doodling “dibs” now?

“Oh, what do you mean, none?” She turns. “Victoria, Victoria.” She crooks a finger and Victoria gets up and walks over, casual as can be.

“Helen?” she says. “Hi, Rachel.” She beams.

“Help me get Rachel in with that stylist who always has you looking so spectacular? With this face”—she tips my chin up—“there’s no way Saint should be able to keep himself from hunting her down. Thank you, Vicky,” she says, sliding into her office.

With Victoria near, I suddenly wish I’d said I’d made moderate progress. I wish I’d said anything to keep me from having to see her enormous, gloating smile. I can almost hear her thinking that I can’t even write a piece without her help. That I can’t get a man without her help.

“It’s not necessary, really,” I tell her.

“Oh nonsense, I know just what you need. I’m going to borrow this for a second,” she says, gesturing to my landline. So she calls her stylist and hums while she waits, and I need to save and close my file because nothing can mess with my mojo as much as someone sneeking a peek at my screen.