Chapter 104 The Audacity
Her lips part slightly.
“I resigned a while ago, actually,” I add.
She scoffs under her breath, a short, disbelieving sound that holds no humor whatsoever. Then she drags a hand through her hair, pushing it back as she looks around the building like it’s suddenly something unfamiliar.
“I don’t believe this,” she mutters.
Her gaze sharpens, anger starting to take shape beneath the disbelief. “This is supposed to be one of the best publishing firms?” she asks, quieter now but far more cutting. “Is this really how they conduct themselves?”
She’s already pulling out her phone, fingers moving quickly across the screen, her expression tightening with every second.
“This is completely unacceptable,” she adds under her breath.
I watch her for a moment, then I nod slightly. “I’m not entirely sure what’s been communicated internally,” I say, my tone even. “But I can say this doesn’t reflect the standard I operated under while I was here.”
A brief pause.
“I share your concern. And I’ll be following up to ensure there’s clarity around what’s taken place.”
She glances up at me again, still keyed up, still processing. And I feel the pull of stepping back into it. Of fixing something that, for a long time, was mine to fix. But it’s not anymore. And more importantly, there’s somewhere else I need to be.
“I hate to do this,” I say, shifting the box slightly, “but I do have to go, I have some important plans queued up.”
She blinks, thrown off by that. “More important than this?”
I nod without hesitation. “I’m sorry,” I add, softer this time. “But yes. Infinitely more important.”
I make my way back to the car, the box a steady weight in my arms, but my mind's not steady at all. It keeps circling back to that moment.
Not the logistics of it, not even the implications.
Just...the audacity.
It sits there in my head, sharp and oddly defined, like it deserves to be examined before anything else. It’s a strange word, almost always loaded. People use it like an accusation. Like a verdict already passed.
The audacity of him.
The sheer audacity!
It rarely sounds like anything good. But technically, it could be. Audacity is just boldness. Nerve. The willingness to do something most people wouldn’t dare. And in the right context, that should be admirable.
Someone quitting a stable job to pursue something uncertain is audacity.
Confessing love when there’s no guarantee it’ll be returned is audacity.
Starting over at forty, fifty, sixty, when the world expects you to stay where you are is audacity.
All of those things require it, all of them could be called brave. And yet, you say it out loud, and it still lands wrong. Still carries that edge of... ‘how dare you?’ Like the word itself doesn’t trust you to use it kindly. Like it’s been claimed, over time, by something more cutting. I exhale slowly as I walk, shifting the box slightly.
There are other words like that. Words that should be neutral, even good, but aren’t.
Like selfish. It could mean choosing yourself for once. Setting boundaries. Protecting your peace. But no one ever hears it that way first.
Pride could mean dignity. Self-respect. Knowing your worth. But it’s almost always tangled up with arrogance. With something excessive.
Obsession could mean passion. Focus. Devotion to something that matters. But it never sounds healthy when you say it out loud.
It’s strange how language does that. How it takes something with potential for balance and tilts it so far in one direction that it becomes difficult to separate it from its worst interpretation.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about this. Out of everything that just happened, this is what my mind chose to fixate on?
Not the disrespect.
My grip tightens slightly around the box. That word fits more cleanly, it's simple and direct. Because I feel used. Like I’m still a tool to be leveraged, even in absence. Like leaving didn’t actually remove me from the equation, just changed the way I’m being applied to it.
I haven’t fully processed it yet, it’s all still sitting at the surface, unorganized and unresolved. And I know myself well enough to recognize what that means. I need to say it out loud. I need to hear it outside of my own head.
I need....Ryan.
Because he has this way of taking something tangled and placing it where it belongs. Giving it shape and perspective because he just sees things differently, clearer. And right now, I need that.
I need to hear him talk. To say this out loud and have it reflected back in a way that makes sense. That makes it real.
I reach the car and place the box in the backseat, careful but quick, like the sooner it’s out of my hands, the sooner I can leave all of that behind. Then I walk around and pull open the driver’s door, sliding in.
“I swear, you won’t believe what just—”
I stop mid-sentence, because something’s wrong.
Ryan’s head is turned slightly to the side, resting against the seat, his body's moving. Not much, just a faint, repetitive motion. Rocking slow and unsteady.
My chest tightens instantly. “Ryan?”
No response.
I turn fully toward him now, my heart already picking up pace, something sharp and immediate settling in my gut.
“Ryan,” I say again, louder this time, reaching for him. My hand finds his forehead...he’s burning up in a way that doesn’t feel right, his hair damp, sticking slightly to his skin. His eyes are squeezed shut, brows drawn tight, like he’s trying to hold something back by sheer force.
Panic hits fast.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice already slipping, already tightening in a way I can’t control.
He shakes his head weakly. Then he lets out a sharp breath, like it hurts to even do that much.
“I—it didn’t...” he tries, voice strained, uneven. “It didn’t hurt...that much when we left...”
The words come out broken, pulled apart by whatever’s happening inside him. And I realize that this isn’t just discomfort. This isn’t something he can just sit through. He’s in real pain. The kind he didn’t want to admit to earlier. The kind he downplayed because he thought he could handle it.
The kind that was probably already there, and worse than he let on.
There's tears quietly slipping from the corners of his eyes now, tracking down his temples as he keeps them shut, like opening them would make it worse somehow.
“Hey...hey,” I say quickly, my hand moving to his shoulder, grounding, steady even when I’m not. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
The words feel hollow even as I say them. I don’t know if they’re true but they’re all I have. I hear the oncologist’s voice in the back of my mind.
This is part of the process.
There will be pain.
It’s expected....
Like that makes it easier to watch. Like that makes it easier to sit here while it’s happening. They gave him medication for this, for when it gets too bad. But he’s never had to take it before. And for once, for once, I don’t have it on me. I always do, except now.
A sharp surge of anger cuts through me, sudden and overwhelming. It doesn’t fix anything. Doesn’t help him. Doesn’t undo the fact that he’s sitting here, hurting, and I can’t immediately make it stop.
“Hey,” I say again, firmer now, my hand tightening slightly on his shoulder as I start the engine. “Hang in there, okay? I’ve got you.”
I shift into drive, pulling out quickly, my focus narrowing to one thing....
getting him home.
Getting him settled.
Getting him what he needs.
Beside me, he lets out another shaky breath, his body still caught in that subtle, restless motion, like staying still makes it worse.
The negative audacity of the pain. The way it just decides to show up and take over. To consume without permission, without timing, without care for anything else that’s happening.
To reduce him to this.
And the positive, stubborn audacity of him
to choose to endure it.