Chapter 6

• "Oh Zoey, hello." I realize my tone is formal and stiff. I can't help it, though. She used to be my secretary, and I screwed her over those many months ago, at the time of my uncle's passing. Not the best of times for me; over the years, I had carefully selected older socialites, wealthy women, and reserved women who didn't ask for much and didn't expect much in return.
• However, Zoey was willing, available, and had a passable sense of humor. When I hired her, she had recently graduated from a Miami-based school and was from a wealthy Spanish family. Her father, who worked at the Spanish embassy and had previously purchased a condo from me, had asked me to do it as a favor. A decent family, the kind my uncle would have preferred for me to wed into.
• So comfort was all I'd sought when my uncle passed away. That night Zoey had given me a gentle hug, and one thing led to another. Her beautiful legs and black, glossy hair drew me in. We were both alone that terrible, lonely night, and I needed something cozy and comforting to cling to.
• But all my own rules had been broken. Never share a bed with employees. Never have sex with someone older than five years old. And never, ever allow a lady to spend the night.
• Then, while Zoey's nude body was wrapped around my own, I had made the error of shouting Victoria's name while I was sleeping.
• Zoey left my house that morning crying, and she quit not long after. My gut turns like a brick of guilt just thinking about it. I had no intention of hurting that poor woman. I had sent a bunch of flowers as an apology.
• She says, "Are you in a meeting? I'm sorry to bother you." Her tone is upbeat and her voice is higher pitched than I recall.
• I aim to move this talk along quickly because I dislike keeping Victoria waiting. I clear my throat. Now that we're in the same building, my body hurts to be in that horrible room with her. "Actually, yes, I'm about to go into a meeting. Can I call you another time?"
• "Of course. Do you have my new number?"
• I lick my chin and take a moment to reflect. Do I? I highly doubt that, as she had sent me a rather critical text just after our sleep together, right before she quit. I had despatched the flowers of apologies when I received the text. At a minimum, I had hoped that we could remain friends.
• Miguel, I felt we were on to something bigger. You're not over her.
• "I switched phones recently, and I'm not sure if my secretary, uh, my new secretary, transferred everything," I respond sheepishly. I'm not making this up. However, I also believe that I erased her number after receiving the text because I didn't want a visible reminder of my frail state in the days following my uncle's passing. As already stated, not my best moment.
• "And I don't see your number on my phone. Why did you hide your number when you called?"
• Once more, she lets out a high, avian laugh. I was always a little bothered by her laugh. I had screwed her, and it had been such an error. Throughout her year as my assistant, she proved to be a valuable asset. At least her father was no longer a problem for me in the business world; he had quit the Embassy and moved back to Madrid. I assumed Zoey had accompanied him since I hadn't seen her anywhere.
• I try to stop her laughing again by clearing my throat. "Can you text it to me, please? I'm working on an important deal and am traveling."
• "Oh! When will you be back? I'd love to get together."
• "Won't be back soon. Not for a while. And after this trip, I'm headed to Madrid."
• "Madrid? Perfect! I'll be there in March. Maybe I can take you to my favorite tapas place in Malasaña. Remember? That's where my parents have an apartment."
• "Yes, that's correct." I stifle a cringe and wish I hadn't said Madrid, but there's a gloomy stillness on the phone. March in Spain with Zoey is something I don't want to consider. I want to focus on February, and on spending time with Victoria.
• "Well, I'll text you, and hopefully we can get together when you're back in Miami. Or when you're in Madrid. Either way. I'd love to catch up, Miguel." She breathes deeply.
• Not with her, and I don't want to catch up. "Will do," I respond in a clipped tone, recognizing that doesn't make sense in answer to her comment, but I'm glad she doesn't despise me.
• "Ciao Ciao, Miguel," with a trill.
• "Later," I whisper to myself. I catch Victoria giving Amelia a sneer through the glass of her workplace. Just as I turn off the phone, I hear Zoey's voice.
• "Wait!" she exclaims. "How about if I try you tonight? So we can talk then?"
• I can't stop glancing at Victoria, who is frowning at the newspaper she is holding in her lap. "Yeah, sure. Fine."
• It dawned on me for the first time: I had slept with Zoey because she looked like Victoria.
• Without Miki, the office feels strangely empty as I go about it. I have so many files on my desk that it's probably a fire danger.
• Amelia whispers, "You want him. Don't lie." She grunts and eases her swollen bulk into a sagging armchair made of tan.
• I give my best friend a look and say, "Shut up. This is strictly business. And we are not getting back together."
• She holds out her thumb and forefinger in a circle, and with the other hand, her index finger slides in and out of the circle. "Maybe not as a couple, but I'd place bets on you two getting horizontal together in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
• She has the mentality of a fourteen-year-old boy, I swear to God. "Hell no," I say, slyly peering out my office window and into the hallway where Miki is pacing and talking on the phone.
• I give a loud snort. My voice resembles Hanna's deep Southern drawl, "Did you hear Hanna?" "My goodness, Miki. You have gotten even more handsome."
• Amelia shrugs. "He's filled out nicely. Remember how thin he was freshman year? Still sexy back then, but today? Sweet baby Jesus. Did you see those shoulders?"
• I had seen his shoulders, after all. I despise Amelia and Hanna now. "Witch. You're supposed to be on my side."
• "I am on your side. And I know that you haven't been on a date since your last breakup. And you haven't gotten laid since way before that since Steven wasn't exactly stellar in that department, either."
• Amelia is quite right when she describes my ex as withering. The TV news star Steven Davies was a nice guy. witty, endearing, and devoid of emotion. One person left Florida a year ago to take a position at a major Los Angeles station, taking his granite-carved jaw with him. He was working at a station in neighboring Jacksonville when I met him at a Florida media event. We dated for three years to kill time. He was a great dinner partner and lively at gatherings, but in bed, he'd been as handy as a submarine's screen door.
• The bright side was that my dad loved him.
• I sulk and shoot Amelia a cold stare. "I hate it when you're right."
• Amelia smiles. "I'm always right."
• "I can't believe Hanna told him about Steven."
• Amelia examines her thumbnail and says, "He seemed more than a little shocked by that."
• Reluctant to engage in small talk with Amelia about the heavy atmosphere in the room, I sit down behind my desk and make a show of looking for a pen while noisily scooping up papers and slapping them down.
• "Victoria," she murmurs on stage. "You two need to have a serious talk. Clear the air. I don't see this deal happening until you do."
• I pick up a copy of the Times and lay it on my lap like a baby blanket, saying, "I'm not talking about our past. We're adults, here to talk about business. We've got nothing to discuss other than whether his company will give us a loan." The sensation of newsprint is kind of relaxing.
• I whisper, "I don't want to talk about any of it."
• Yes, I do have a lot to say about Miguel, but this is not the appropriate forum. I may never have enough time to sort through all of my conflicting emotions toward him and our breakup.
• Amelia raises her eyebrows. "Why not? Maybe he's here to apologize. He didn't have to come here today."
• I sigh. "No, he sure didn't. And I wish he hadn't."
• "Well, he certainly looks like he wants you. Those eyes. God. I felt the tension from the moment he walked up. I can leave, you know. Give you some privacy."
• I fold the paper's corner and give a shake of my head. "Don't you dare leave me alone with him?"
• "Why not? You were together for four years. That's a long time. You loved him."
• I shrug, putting my lips pursed. How do I put it? Our relationship had been so difficult. Like a set of falling dominoes, one issue evolved into another until eventually, everything fell apart. We were on the verge of getting hitched. Nearly parents.
• We just about made it, but failed to.
• I feel my chest tighten as Miki enters again. I feel like I'm drowning in this tiny workplace because he takes up too much space.
• He grinned and returned his X-ray gaze to me, saying, "I'm giving you my whole attention right now."
• You're a busy man, and I don't want to keep you here longer than is necessary. How kind of you. Thank you.
• I give him a file, our fingers meet, and I can't help blushing—my cheeks are probably the color of tomatoes.
• "I assembled this for Florida Capital's vice president, but you might find it useful. It chronicles the history of the newspaper from the time of its founding in 1866 by my great-great-great-grandfather."
• I know a lot about the history of the Dubois family. You are free to keep your file.
• "Okay," I sulkily reply.
• Miguel rests his hand on the sofa arm, then snatches it away when he spots a lingering stain: a features editor spilled coffee there a few weeks ago, and I didn't have the money for a professional cleaning. He looks almost comical, a broad-shouldered man on a small sofa; the furniture smells like old printing ink and sweat and desperation.
• Under the fluorescent overhead light, everything in my office looks worn out and cheap; in contrast, Miguel looks new and costly, as though he's been polished by a thin layer of diffuse sunshine and cash.
• I sit stiffly, my legs crossed subtly at my ankles, refusing to meet his gaze; I have to project a modest demeanor or I risk giving Miguel a range of conflicting, whirling emotions.
• Similar to irritation, giddiness, and longing.
• Miguel is staring at me with such intensity that it's making it difficult for me to stay focused on the talk, so I take a deep, tired breath.
• "I'll say it straight. The Times needs money; we're in trouble. I would prefer a loan, but I'm open to talking about buying the paper altogether or receiving a portion of the ownership. Two other private equity firms that I've already met with have rejected me. I was interested in learning what Florida Capital could be able to do for us.
• Perhaps I should have refrained from bringing up the other two botched funding attempts, but something in Miki's intense look compelled me to share my ideas. He blinks slowly and smiles. Is he making fun of me? Is he taking this meeting seriously?
• We pull our eyes apart and watch as Amelia shifts uneasily, lifting her protruding tummy up and down the chair. "I've been here ten years, and the Times had financial difficulties even before Victoria's father passed away," she says. It's the whole sector. Not our fault. Not due to Victoria. Thank you for your interest.
• Miguel stops her and looks at me with a scorching glare. "I read his obituary," he says. My sympathies.
• "Daddy would not be happy about the state of things at the Times." I nod curtly, folding the paper in my lap into a smaller rectangle and taking a deep breath. Though Dad has been gone for some time, my emotions are still fresh. Especially because I'm the family's business manager gone.
• "I'm sorry to hear about Kelvin," Miguel says in a tone that makes me feel both frozen and deeply touched.
• Don't cry, please, please, please.
• "We all are," I say icily. Miguel isn't sorry at all. Instead of partying with models at a South Beach mansion, he could have called, sent flowers to the funeral, or consoled me in person. I know this because I read about it in Ocean Life Magazine and sobbed myself to sleep that night, the worst night of my life since my father had passed away, Steven had moved to Los Angeles the month before, and I had finally come to terms with Miguel's lack of concern for me.
• Miguel looks around my gloomy office and says, almost to himself, "Kelvin loved only two things fiercely: this newspaper and you." I glare at him; he's right, of course, but it bothers me that he's bringing up details about my personal life that only he knows. "He never gave anyone else a chance."
• "Well, Kelvin did adore Steven—" interrupts Amelia.
• A short moment of horror crosses Miki's face, and I give a hissing noise out of the side of my mouth like a strict schoolteacher. Amelia clamps her hand over her mouth, and I glare at her.
• She mumbles, "Pregnancy brain," in my direction.
• I turn my head and close my eyes for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. Miguel's platinum watch gleams in the dim light of my office; it's probably a Rolex or something even more expensive. My father never liked Miguel. He thought he was a hustler. He'd even told me once that Miguel only wanted to mooch off our family money.
• Daddy, you were so incorrect.
• I wake up to a forceful knock on my office door and feel Miki's stare heavy on my body as I rise to respond.
• I furrow my brows and say, "I'm in an important meeting. It's Eric, the managing editor. He's about my age, going bald, and annoyingly ambitious. He's also sweating." Is it possible for this to wait?"
• "Not at all. Fifteen minutes ago, Bart resigned. immediately, claims he needs to go right away since he has a better job in Atlanta."
• "I'm grateful. We'll take care of this in about an hour." As I turn to shut the door, Eric raises his hand.
• "Hold on. As of right now, we have no photographers. Today is the day we have assignments due. At midday, there's a protest at City Hall. Additionally, before the city pool is emptied tomorrow, there is a dog swim event going on. For pictures of that, I've reserved a half-page, and the web editor also requests a slideshow. How ought we to proceed? Does the budget include funds for a freelancer?"
• I narrow my eyes at Eric and cast a sidelong glance at Miguel, who is listening intently.
• "Instruct reporters to use their smartphones to snap pictures. If no one else is available, tell the web editor to bring her camera to the dog event at the city pool. Alternatively, you go alone. I take it you still know how to shoot pictures?"
• I shoo a grumbling Eric away with a wave of the newspaper in my hand, shutting the door more forcefully than I meant to, then glaring at Miguel and Amelia.
• That is the state of affairs in this place. Photographs must now be taken by reporters themselves."
• There were five photographers and three times as many reporters twenty years ago, so this would have been unimaginable. Today is one of those days when I wish I didn't care so much about this stupid newspaper.
• "Why are you unable to find a new photographer? Miguel queries.
• "We stopped hiring new employees. Those who depart are not being replaced. It's an effort to cut costs," Amelia mumbles in response.
• "This business is dying from a thousand tiny cuts," I say, nearly hurling insults at Miguel as though he is directly to blame for the collapse of the American newspaper industry.
• "Tori, please calm down. I'll try to resolve this.
• Miguel's smooth voice bothers me. I'm more likely to get problems from him than have them solved.
• "All right. You're going to arrive on your white horse and be my gleaming armor after all these years. I'm grateful.
• It's not appropriate for me to come across as so cynical to someone who is attempting to assist me. I can't believe this is all happening. He won't lend me money, not after our breakup. My headache is back and I'm so embarrassed that I might as well put an end to this now.
• I nearly snort out loud when Amelia says there are options for papers: ending print delivery, reducing the number of pages, layoffs. I only half-listen; I've heard all the possibilities for years, as paper after paper around the country shrunk in size and scope. I plop back down in my chair and fiddle with the newspaper as Amelia rattles on about how the Times is uniquely poised to make a comeback despite a dismal newspaper climate, words that seem hollow because I acknowledged we can't even afford to replace a photographer.
• Miguel reaches into a pocket inside and takes out a small black notepad, writing in it with a platinum pen that shines.
• "We've been experimenting with different revenue streams lately," I interrupt. New subscription packages and ad costs..."
• "Oh? I used to get lost looking into his black eyes and am now trying, failing, to stay grounded. Miki asks, his stare hitting me squarely in response, so intense I waver and flail.
• "We're...now...running a promotion so people can subscribe to the paper digitally for twenty-nine dollars a year."
• Miguel looks at me as if I'm four years old, blinks once, then points the pen at me "Twenty-nine dollars? That is absurd. You're parting with your merchandise. It is not profitable.
• I sigh and wrap the paper into a baton in my hands, wanting to say, "No shit," so that I may keep gathering fury and indignation if I don't look him in the eyes.
• Amelia adds, "I felt it was fantastic when Victoria began contacting the private equity firms to ask for assistance. Florida Capital significantly improved the Dej Punts and Western newspapers."
• Miguel moves to Amelia. "I looked closely at the financials of those deals before I bought the company." The smaller newspapers were in comparison to the Times. Unlike your daily publication, they were weeklies. Their subscriber numbers, revenue sources, and ad rates differ. However, I'm constantly searching for other media properties for my collection. The Times could work."
• Miki had always been amazing with numbers, but I still rely on my fingers and a few toes to do basic math, so I shake my head a little.
• "What brings you here? I grin and gesture toward him with the rolled-up newspaper.
• Miguel stares at me in shock and says, "Pardon me?"
• "Why not? Are. You. Right here? Let's discuss it openly. You are the mighty condo owner. You possess half of Miami, businesses, and a ton of money. And we have a..." I wave the newspaper wildly in the air as if I'm Indiana Jones fending off snakes in a cave, dimly aware I'm not making much sense. "...a past. collectively. What brings you here? To you, this is a small amount. Why didn't Florida Capital send someone to collect our data?" kind of fire. Flames of humiliation.