On a Wednesday (One Week #2) by Whitney G.



“You mean that level of plagiarism?”

“Huh?” He raised his eyebrow. “What did you say?”

“I said, yes. It’s a total honor.” I forced a smile. “Am I good to leave now? I requested the afternoon off for my birthday.”

“Oh, of course.” He smiled. “You know, one day, with your level of work ethic, you could be the next Michael Router. You could be bringing the sports department tons of those.”

He pointed to the plaques that lined his left wall, and my blood began to boil.

“Goodbye, Mr. Bruce,” I said.

“Goodbye, Miss Johnson. Be sure to check to see if Michael needs anything before you leave, okay?”

I didn’t bother responding to that; I simply walked away.

To everyone who worked on this side of the building, Michael Router was the best thing to happen to sports journalism since the internet.

His words were universally revered, instantly read upon release, and highly sought after whenever it took him more than a month to publish his next “jaw-dropping masterpiece.” Even million-dollar athletes were in awe of how he wrote the long, in-depth profiles that graced the pages of Time, GQ, and Infinity magazines.

The problem was, he wasn’t the one really writing them.

It’d been sixteen months since I started here, and no one else knew that this self-proclaimed “best sports-journalist alive” asshat couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag.

I was the puppet master holding the strings, and he was the stuffed suit who danced below—taking all of the credit and lining his shelf with awards that belonged to me.

There was only one reason why I had yet to blow the whistle, but with each day that passed, I stepped closer to the edge.

Grabbing a coat from my cubicle, I pulled the phone from its pocket and noticed a text from my friend, Alonna.



* * *



Alonna: Birthday drinks at Savoy this afternoon? Your boyfriend said he’ll pay for it. Please say yes. Please say yes!

Me: Sure. I’ll go ahead and head there now. (Just because he’s a successful guy doesn’t mean he should have to pay for everything, Alonna.)

Alonna: Ha! Like hell it doesn’t. See you there.





* * *



I wrapped a scarf around my neck and made sure I had everything before heading outside. Then, taking the long way to Pike Place, I walked along the pier and stared at all of the things that I swore I once wanted.

Sure, I’d asked for a new life with a hot guy, great friends, and a fantastic job, but none of it was enough to fill the vast void I was still trying to handle.

Shaking away the thought, I waited several minutes before heading inside The Savoy Bar.

For some reason, the entire bottom floor was empty. All of the chairs were pushed against the walls; the tables were stacked in the corners.

“Upstairs, Miss.” The bartender smiled at me. “You’re Courtney, right?”

“Right.” I paused. “Is my friend already here?”

He nodded, sliding me a cup of coffee. “You’ll find her upstairs on the roof top level.”

“Thank you.” I glanced over at the elevator, holding back a sigh once I saw the “Temporarily out of order” sign.

Steps, it is.

When I made it onto the final flight, I stopped dead in my tracks at what had to be a hallucination.

My coffee hit the floor, and my knees went weak at the sight of a smile I hadn’t seen in forever.

Kyle?

“Hello, Courtney,” he said, his green-eyed gaze pinning me to the spot. “How are you?”

I pressed my hand against the concrete wall, quite sure that today was a simulation after all. There was no way that this man had somehow become ten times more gorgeous since our last encounter.

Even the images and videos I’d caught of him onscreen failed to paint how beautiful he was.

He stared at me, and I stared back, and I couldn’t help but notice a palpable tension filling the hallway.

“What are you doing here?” I managed.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?” I swallowed. “I vividly remember us saying everything we wanted to say—including ‘Goodbye,’ two years ago.”

“It was sixteen months ago,” he said, correcting me. “Can I talk to you after this?”

“This?”

Before I could ask him what the hell “this” meant, the door to the roof swung open, and Alonna’s red-colored curls slapped me in the face.