“These are my roots,” I said to Justin. “This is who I really am. I’m afraid, now that I’m on my own, this is the only thing keeping me from becoming that guy in the exposé.”
“Wow, man. That’s heavy.” Justin blew out a sigh. “I get it. I really do. But it’s a lot to pin on a piece of real estate. Why do you have to be anyone at all?”
I turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“You’re complicating things. Just be who you are.”
We had a saying at the office when brainstorming sessions or design concepts went off the rails—KISS. Keep it simple, stupid. From Quintanilla to Quinn, Boston kid to city playboy, I’d been trying to keep those parts of myself separate. To slip those identities on and off. But I was still that punk who’d hustled to become the man I was now. I was both. Without Mom to put me back in my place when I needed it, I was clinging to this, an empty shell of a house. “I’m overthinking it,” I said.
“You’re never going to forget where you came from or where you’ve been. You’re not my friend conditionally, dependent on which Sebastian I’m getting. You’re just Sebastian, dude.” Justin folded his arms over his chest. “And I’ll bet Georgina sees you as one whole man, not in parts.”
The way George and Georgina existed only in her head. To me, she was just herself—strong, capable, sensitive, sweet, soft . . . kind.
And mine.
If she’d still have me—as the man I was.
Opal strained against her collar until Justin released her. She galloped down the hall, jumping on me. I crouched and ruffled her fur as I glanced up at Justin. “That four-page spread on Valentine’s Day gift ideas for every type of sweetheart—think we can push it?”
“Considering the issue after that will be March, I don’t think so.” Justin cocked his head. “But we could move some things around if we do it quickly. Why?”
“I need a few pages and some prime real estate on the cover.”
Justin shrugged. “Who’s going to stop you?”
Nobody, that was who. I’d just faced off with the biggest obstacle in my path. Now that I’d confronted the house, I wanted to go home.
27
Georgina
My new assistant waved at me through the window of our conference room, and I motioned for her to come in.
“Countdown to the new guy’s first client pitch starts now,” Tonya said. “I’m making an office Dunkin’ run to keep him caffeinated. Want anything?”
I clenched my jaw to stem the emotions that flooded over me whenever I thought of Sebastian. Not even moving hundreds of miles away could distance me from his ridiculous obsession with that place. Or from him. “No, thanks,” I said.
Who needed caffeine when you were fueled by the need to forget a broken heart?
I was exaggerating a little. Things had been moving at a breakneck pace since I’d arrived in Boston—my job had been hectic, scary, and oddly fulfilling. It kept me busy, that was for sure, but it seemed there was always time to miss Sebastian.
I returned to the research I’d been compiling on a local TV station. It was currently succumbing to a shitstorm brought on by an opinionated, drunken weatherman. It was a beginner’s assignment, but I had about three people on my team I was still getting to know and had to decide who to put on it.
I couldn’t focus on the work in front of me. I tried not to think of Sebastian for this reason. Once I started, it was difficult to stop until I fell asleep at night. And hopefully, I didn’t dream of him. Or wake up with my thoughts full of him. The fact that I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the vet didn’t seem to help, either. A clean break had only made my mind messier.
Boston was full of surprises the way New York had been when I’d first moved there. Bruno and I lived within two blocks of Peters Park and still spent plenty of time outdoors despite winter. Finding the right apartment, getting my furniture from Brooklyn to Boston, hiring a staff and team that worked well together—it wasn’t easy, but no two days were the same, and I’d met so many people in the short time I’d been here. Plus, word-of-mouth was beginning to spread, which indicated I was doing my job right.
Nothing filled the void Sebastian had left, though. None of it had eased my guilt for pushing him away, even if I’d realized my mistake and tried to bring him back in the end. Every time I was tempted to read his pieces in Modern Man or listen to his podcast—each time I picked up the phone to call him—I was reminded that I’d already asked him to come with me, and he hadn’t. He had his own demons, but he wouldn’t face them until he wanted to.
After another forty minutes trying and failing to focus, I packed up my things and headed down the hall. Tonya talked into her earpiece, pointing through the door to my office, mouthing something I didn’t understand.
I entered the sunlit room, rounded my desk, and paused. The February issue of Modern Man: A Gentleman’s Guide topped a pile of mail, but it was about a week early. Aliana Balik clutched a silky red Dior robe over her breasts. The headline read, “Aliana: Mother, Activist, and our First Woman of the Year.”
“Tonya?” I asked. “Did this come in the mail?”
After a moment, she rolled to the doorway in her chair and held up a note that read “Delivered by messenger.”
An early copy, all the way from Dixon Media Tower—from Vance? Justin? Or Sebastian himself? He’d scored Aliana, and on the Valentine’s issue no less. He must’ve been elated. No doubt there’d been much discussion over which adjectives to use for her. She embodied many—glamorous, buxom, sensual. But that didn’t need to be said, because it was all there in her eyes. Show sex, say class. I hoped I’d had a presence in the room when they’d chosen activist over temptress and mother over model. From that headline alone, I didn’t have to read her feature to know they’d honored her instead of objectified her as Woman of the Year.
The sultry yet festive cover looked severe against my white lacquer desk. I picked it up, my eyes drifting to what my research had revealed as the next most important real estate—a heading right of the middle.
“The Bad Boy Issue (It’s Not What You Think)
by Sebastian Quinn (He’s Not What You Think)”
I froze. It was rare for Modern Man to include a byline on the cover and even more unusual that Sebastian would claim the “bad boy” moniker after what he’d been though. Why would he do that? I flipped through the glossy pages and stopped on a full-page candid shot of Sebastian in a tux, augmented by a subheader:
Some final advice from a former fake bad boy. And this time, it’s good.
I turned back to page one of the spread and read.
A question I frequently get as creative director of one of the fastest growing men’s lifestyle magazines is how a man can get a woman to notice him. In the next several pages, I interview some high-profile men who’ve happily traded their bad boy statuses for families.
But that isn’t enough. I took this pervasive issue a step further and offered myself up on the chopping block to get answers for all of you. I’m ready to make the trade myself, so the challenge: could I win over my dream girl?
Here’s what I learned dating a woman so far out of my league, we weren’t even playing the same sport.
Clutching the magazine open, the next inset quote knocked me off my feet and into my chair.
She’s the stuff of dreams but don’t call her my dream girl. She was as real as it got.
My breathing sped. I couldn’t help thinking back to the first time he’d spoken to me, how I’d frozen in fear and insecurity that a man of his stature would even look in my direction, much less strike up a conversation with me.
What makes me qualified to give you advice?
Not much. You might think differently after the headlines that’ve been printed about me, but you’re about to find out I was never a bad boy. I’m just another schmuck trying to get a girl to look in my direction. More on that in a moment—what you need to know now is that I’ve given a lot of advice in my life, and even more badvice, but there’s no harder way to learn life lessons than by falling for someone.