Pretty Little Mistake

Standing on the sidewalk outside Real Point magazine is the most surreal thing I’ve experienced in my almost twenty-four years of life. I’ve spent the past year since graduating from college interning for a gossip magazine for next to no pay and at the cost of my brain cells. It was a learning experience, that’s for sure, but the vapid nature of the people I worked with was a bit too much. It wasn’t even the talk of makeup and clothes that was an issue—there’s nothing wrong with liking those things; I do too—it was the catty behavior and backstabbing maneuvers that got on my nerves.

Real Point is my fresh start. They’ve been in existence only three years, which is practically a newborn in the print world, but their willingness to push boundaries and not dance around delicate issues, while also covering lighter topics, isn’t something every magazine is capable of. It’s why they’ve been able to grow rapidly in a dying industry.

Taking a deep breath, I smooth my charcoal pencil skirt and adjust my pale-pink silk blouse. There’s no need for the gesture—my outfit is perfect and not out of place in the slightest—but my nerves are certainly getting the best of me.

This is what you’ve dreamed of, Lennon.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to write. It started with me writing about my everyday life in my childhood diary. Tales of my adventures with my brother and his friend. We called ourselves the Three Amigos for the longest time. That was the beginning of my love of writing.

My parents are disappointed that all I want to do with my life is be a writer—their words, not mine—but I know if they’d gotten their wish, I’d be married to one of their friends’ rich sons and pregnant by now.

I’m constantly dodging calls from my mom trying to set me up on a blind date with some poor unsuspecting soul. She wasn’t a very attentive mother while I was growing up, but now that I’m an adult, she sure does care about who I end up with.

I know I come from a privileged background, and the last name Wells carries a lot of weight in certain circles, but I’ve always wanted to make something of myself on my own. As much as I can, at least. This feels like my chance to do that.

After pushing open the doors to the renovated building that was once a warehouse, I take the elevator up to the top floor.

I love that the office is in Brooklyn and not in some shiny brand-new skyscraper in Manhattan. This place has character, just like the magazine itself. It’s not cold and clinical; it has charm and life.

With a whoosh, the doors open, and I step out in my stilettos.

The loft space is filled with long tables with brightly colored desktops set up at intervals. Conversation buzzes as employees mill about. I have to tamp down the urge to smile. The energy here is infectious.

I head to my right, toward the glass-enclosed office of my new boss.

Jaci George started this production all on her own from the ground up. At only thirty, she’s built her empire herself. She started online when she was at NYU, with no employees but herself. Now here she is, running her own company with numerous employees. It’s an inspiration to me, how her determination and work ethic have paid off.

I knock on the door, and she looks up from her pink computer, smiling brightly and waving me inside. Her red hair is held back with a light-blue claw clip, her matching dress somehow both cute and professional. I look down at my own attire, worried I’ve overdressed.

“Lennon.” She stands, extending a hand. “I’m so happy to have you on board. Sit, please.” She motions for me to take the tufted lime-green chair. The entire office space is infused with color. No dull work environment here. “You look lovely. Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“I’m good, thank you.” I tuck my skirt under me, taking a seat.

Jaci surprises me when she takes the matching chair beside me instead of sitting behind her desk in the place of power. I already know this place is where I belong—a collaborative and supportive work environment is what dreams are made of. Well, at least my dreams.

“I like to welcome all my new hires personally on their first day. I think of you not as employees but as my extended family.”

I smile, nodding along. My hands sit daintily in my lap, one leg tucked behind the other. Studying her posture, I realize she’s much more relaxed than me, her body language at ease. She leans toward me, one hand lying gently on my arm.

Clearing my throat, I try to alter my posture as inconspicuously as possible. When I was young my mother sent me to etiquette classes—yeah, etiquette classes—so things like posture and table manners have been drilled into me. Sometimes it’s hard for me to let go of that stiffness and relax around others.

“It’s wonderful that you have such a personal relationship with your employees.” I plaster on a smile. I hope it doesn’t come across as stiff. Even though I already have the job, my nerves are getting to me.

“Well, you know me, I believe a hands-on approach makes for a healthier work environment and happier employees.” I do know. It was one of the things that drew me to wanting to work for her. Word of Jaci’s unique approach has gotten around. Some find her to be a tad eccentric. But what’s wrong with wanting to handle things differently? “Before you join the morning meeting, let me know if you have any concerns or if there’s anything you’d like me to address.”

She laces her fingers together, waiting.

“Oh.” A piece of hair has escaped from the bun at the nape of my neck, so I tuck it behind my ear. “No. I’m good.”

When I’m put on the spot, my brain completely empties of any and all words, so even if I had anything I wanted to discuss with her, it’s off floating in the abyss of my mind now, never to be seen or heard from again.

“Well, if you ever have any issues, please let me know, and I wish you the best of luck on your first day.”

She extends her hand and I shake it. “Thank you so much.”

“We better get out there so Brendan can start the meeting.” She stands and I follow her out. “This way. Brendan handles most of the day-to-day things. He’s who you’ll report to, but I’ll introduce you to everyone before we begin.”

I nod along, taking a deep breath when we round the corner to meet my new coworkers. It’s a group of about fifteen people, a small staff but the perfect number for a magazine that’s still growing, like this one. They eye me with welcome smiles.

“Good morning, everyone. This is Lennon.” Jaci motions to me, and I lift my hand to wave. Nerves take flight in my stomach. “She’s our latest hire and comes to us after an internship at Pulse magazine. I’m excited to see what she brings to the table. Let’s all introduce ourselves.”

One at a time, everyone greets me, giving their name. I know I’ll never remember all of them and instantly feel bad for it, but I know I’ll settle into place here in no time.

After the last person has spoken, Jaci addresses Brendan—the red-haired guy at the head of the group with a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose—and asks, “Where’s Sulli?”

No sooner have the words left her mouth than, behind us, the elevator chimes.

I swear it’s like time slows down as I turn, watching those doors open to reveal the last person I ever thought I’d see again.

A startled gasp flies past my lips before I can stop it. My pulse quickens. Dampness forms beneath my arms.

I can feel my fight-or-flight senses kicking in, and I’ve never wanted to flee more in my life. For a split second I imagine running away, teetering in my heels, but the problem is he’s standing in the direction of escape.

Icy-cold blue eyes like the depths of the Arctic Ocean meet mine. I see the slight widening in them, the way the coffee cup in his hand trembles just slightly. His lips narrow like he’s tasted something sour as those eyes scan me from head to toe. My skin pebbles beneath the intensity of his gaze.

Beckham Sullivan.

Once upon a time, he was my friend; for the briefest of moments, he was my lover; and then, like a shock of lightning, he became Public Enemy Number One.

The irony of the fact that I just thought of him this morning, of how he and my brother inspired me to start writing, isn’t lost on me.

It’s like the universe heard my thoughts: the first time I let this man cross my mind in a very long time, the cosmos decided to show me just how cruel the world can be.

I lift my chin haughtily, going through the motions as Jaci introduces us like we’ve never met before. Like I don’t remember the scared thirteen-year-old boy the Sullivan family adopted. The boy who taught me not to fear the ocean and how to drive my car. The boy who stayed up late with me watching movies and reading all the stupid stories I scribbled in notebooks. The boy who took my virginity and shattered my heart like I was nothing to him after.

He takes my hand, electricity shooting up my arm. His eyes narrow to slits like he’s felt it, too, and thinks I did it on purpose. He immediately drops my hand, his flexing at his side like he’s trying to rid himself of the feel of me. I wonder if he’ll run off to the restroom after our introduction to wash away my stench.

“Sulli,” he says, like going by that makes him so different now. “Lead photographer.”

So, we’re pretending we don’t know each other?

I smile, but there’s nothing nice in it, and with the way his eyes narrow even further, he knows. “Lennon.”

Something tells me things are about to get interesting.