Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
It’s a thirty-minute walk from the downtown district to the Puerto Plata cable car, where a long line of tourists waits to take the ten-minute journey up to the top of the mountain. I manage to make it in the last group for the day, and we get crammed into the cable car like sardines. I don’t mind. Of the twelve of us, only two people speak English. I hear French rattled off quickly. Portuguese too. It would be stifling inside if not for the open windows. Everybody carves out spots at the sides as we rise over the city, lifted by a cable into the air along the side of the mountain. My stomach swoops with the ascent, and a little laugh of delight spills out of me. The woman to my left does the same, and we smile at each other, bonding over this unique, shared experience.
I know it’s silly, but when we reach the very top of the mountain and I stand overlooking the entire city of Puerto Plata and the surrounding ocean, I can’t help but tear up. It’s more than I can take in all at once, not just the view itself, but also the stark difference between this day and all the ones that have come before it. Today, I’m standing on top of a freaking mountain. Last Thursday at this exact same time, I was sitting in a crappy hotel room, staring at the inside of a mostly empty minifridge, trying to decide which frozen dinner I wanted to cook (unsuccessfully) in the microwave.
I’m crying because of everything I’ve done wrong. I hate that I’ve wasted so much. I don’t mean the years I spent taking care of my grandmother. No, I don’t regret that one bit. But she died last year, and I’ve lived every day since her passing as if I’m dead too. How did I not see it before? The monotony of it? The sinking dead-end job?
I breathe in a sense of conviction, staring out over the city. I know I’ve done the right thing by submitting that article to Gwen. I’ve shaken free of it all. I’ve really put myself out there now. There’s no going back.
Chapter Fourteen
PHILLIP
I’m pacing on my balcony, annoyed by the heat and the shitty signal I get out here. Already, I’ve tried and failed twice to connect with my team back in the States. Now, I have them on the phone for the third time, but I have no idea how long it’ll last.
“Do they not have fucking cell towers in the Dominican Republic?”
To say I’m pissed would be an understatement. I’m on the phone with Angela Carew, my personal PR representative, and Gary Marshall, head of Woodmont’s legal team.
Neither of them replies to my question, choosing to let it go. Wise, I think. I’m ready to chew someone’s head off, and I don’t really care who it is. It might as well be them.
“How do we kill it?” I ask, wanting to handle this problem quickly and efficiently. I want this off my plate so I can move on to more pressing matters, like finding Casey Hughes.
Neither of them responds right away. Gary clears his throat, only infuriating me further, before he replies with a weak tone. “I’m not sure we need to.”
I didn’t hear him right. Bad connection and all. “Excuse me?”
Angela speaks up now, sounding just as spineless as Gary. “Yes, actually, Phillip . . . I’ve read through it, and I had Laura take a look too. It’s not so bad.”
I squeeze my eyes closed and rub the bridge of my nose, trying to ease the tension headache forming there.
“I’m sorry. I thought I made myself perfectly clear here. I don’t want this story to run. Casey Hughes took journalistic liberties that I don’t agree with. Delving into my life. Bringing Vivienne into this, for Christ’s sake—”
“You’re looking at it from the wrong angle, taking it too personally.”
No shit, Sherlock!
It’s about me. What’s more personal than that?
“Laura and I both think something like this has been a long time coming,” Angela says, sounding more resolute in her recommendation now that Gary is on her side as well. “We’ve held off on taking interviews with larger publications, but Forbes or Newsweek would have eventually produced a story of a similar ilk. They’ve been contacting our offices off and on for months. Something would have eventually gone to print, with or without our backing, and I have no doubt their writers would have been a lot more ruthless about it. This piece from Ms. Hughes is soft, I assure you.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Gary cuts in.
“I have to agree; you’re getting off relatively easy with this, Phillip. I don’t think it’s worth coming down on the magazine and making a stink. Especially considering you were aware of the story. You did participate to some extent. So she fleshed out the rest of the interview . . .” His tone says Big deal. “You know they were going to discuss your relationships. It’s just fodder. Bon Voyage is not the New York Times. This could have been much worse. In fact, I’m confident, in time, you’ll come to appreciate the article for what it is—a puff piece, really.