I shake my head and softly say, “Not yet.” I’ve got a farmful of critters in my stomach just thinking of telling him, and the biggest of them is called fear. “Like you just said . . . I’m afraid to go out on a limb and then find myself just standing out there alone.”

“Is he seeing other people?” Wynn asks, her expression concerned.

I wait for the waitress to leave a basket of Italian focaccia with a little plate of olive oil on the side before I continue. “I never went in having any expectations of him being exclusive, but . . . I don’t think he is seeing anyone else. He still hangs out with floozies but . . . he and I are having a lot of sex. A lot of sex, Wynn.”

Her eyes brighten. “For a nonmonogamous animal like he is, this is huge! Sex with only you?”

I feel myself blush hotly; all the talk about sex only reminds me of the powerful high of having Saint inside me.

“Don’t be restrained by rules,” she then chides. “Just go with your emotions. All those great romances, they’re not planned, they just happen.”

“That’s the thing—no matter how crazy it sounds, I want to be swept away. I do. I want to believe it could happen to me for once.”

“So?” she dares. “You’re already headed that way. Wouldn’t you rather go with it than fight some war you might not even want to win?”

“It’s not that simple, Wynn.” I fall back in my chair with a weary sigh. “I don’t know how Helen will take it when I let her know I’m not doing this. Edge is on its last breath. Even if Saint could change and want something real with me, I’d be putting my own happiness before how many people’s jobs? It’s killing me.”

“Edge will die anyway.”

“No.” I instinctively deny it with a shake of my head. “This would have injected new life. . . .”

“And you, Rachel?” She looks at me as if to her, my well-being is worth so much more than the well-being of the dozens of people working at Edge. She looks at me as if one small card—me—trumps all the rest. “And my friend Rachel, what about her?”

27

ON THE EDGE

The answer to Wynn’s question eludes me . . . but I know by the next morning that there are some things we are capable of, and some we aren’t. There are speeds at which we cannot run. And situations we cannot ever solve. We have limits within ourselves, and I have finally recognized mine. I grew up loving stories, sometimes loving stories more than people. Loving people in the stories, or because of the stories.

But today I love a man more than I love the story—his story.

So I walk into Helen’s office certain that she’s going to fire me. Fire me for real this time. Not only that, but I can’t bear to look anyone in the eye today. Valentine at his desk, looking for the perfect stock images. Victoria isn’t at her desk today, and I’m almost relieved I don’t have her looking at me when I need to come to terms with the fact that I’ve failed. I want to fail.

Helen looks up from her desk, and her eyes are tired behind her glasses. Her hair is a bit messier than normal. I can see the stress all over her and I can feel it around us as I take a seat.

She doesn’t even greet me. I think she knows.

“This article on Malcolm,” I begin.

“Malcolm?” she repeats, her expression one of complete and utter bafflement. She pulls off her reading glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, then exhales. “Rachel, I’ve been very patient with you. You asked me for a chance. . . .”

“He’s different than what we thought he’d be.”

“Is he? I don’t think so.” She levels me with a hard glare. “See, I think he’s exactly how we thought he was. And I think just like hundreds of women before you, you’ve fallen. You think that underneath all that rich bad boy there’s a good man and that he’ll change when given the chance to.”

“He doesn’t need to change. The media has used his image to their advantage but he’s not who we think he is, who anyone thinks he is.”

“Oh, and you know this because you’ve . . . what? Slept with him? Had a few cocktails with him? You’ve known him, what? A few weeks, Rachel? How is that enough to know a man?”

“You can know a man with one deed. Just one. It isn’t about time.”

“Ah, you’re so deep,” she says sarcastically, then sighs. “The answer is no. You owe me an exposé. Your work has suffered for weeks, I need the material, and I need it on my desk by tomorrow.”