“Just say it,” I say.
“Nothing.” The timer on his phone dings, and he plunges the press of the coffee carafe down before filling two mugs. He pushes one across to me with a carton of oat milk and the sugar jar. He takes his black, like his soul.
“Fine. Do you have pages to show me?” I ask with more edge to my tone than I mean.
“How long have we known each other?” Eli asks, not answering my question.
“Eight excruciating years,” I say, but Eli catches my smile.
“Eight years, so we know each other pretty well.” Eli takes a long sip from his mug, then turns to the sink and fills a glass with water. He tips it into the plant on the shelf above the faucet, sets the glass in the dishwasher, and takes another drink of coffee.
“Eli.” I wait for him to look at me. “Can you please finish your thought?”
I’m bracing for one of his classics—how I don’t understand women, how I always misread the signs. Maybe he’ll bring up that time I thought the barista was flirting with me, only for her to tap the tip jar. Or how my ex left me to go back to her boyfriend, saying I was too clingy. He wasn’t being mean, just trying to remind me of the long list of ways I’ve managed to screw this up before.
But that’s the thing—I didn’t push Liv. I respected her boundaries. She was ready for the night to end, so I let it.
Was I disappointed? Yeah. I liked her. I thought we clicked. The sex was great, really great, but it was more than that. It was the way the conversation flowed, how easy it felt. She said I made her feel safe. And then she asked me to leave.
“Why don’t you think I can write any pages?” Eli stares past me out the window. That’s not where I thought he was going. He takes another sip of coffee, then rounds the counter and sinks into the chair across from me, like he’s actually waiting for an answer.
“Um…” I’d armchair-quarterbacked Eli’s writer’s block a million times. Was it fear of failure? Was it stubbornness? Boredom? Was he afraid he’d peaked after winning a Pulitzer at twenty-five? It was probably all of those and none of those, and he already knew that. But I say, “I think sometimes it’s hard to live up to the expectations we have of ourselves in our minds.”
Eli nods. “I think maybe you could have asked to see her again.”
“Did you just reverse psychology me?”
Eli laughs. “You know how you tell me it’s okay to write shitty pages? That my next book doesn’t need to win a Pulitzer?”
“What’s your analogy here? Who’s the shitty pages in this story?”
“I’m no expert. God knows I haven’t been on a date in years, probably longer than you—”
“I did have sex just last night, mind you.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t rub it in.”
“I’m pretty sure the way dating works is you meet someone you find interesting, and you hang out. Then you ask to see them again.” Eli gets up from the table and tops off his coffee. “You two started unconventionally. Maybe she felt weird after having sex with her fake date. You could just send her a text saying you’d like to see her again…for real this time.”
“I don’t know, Eli. She didn’t seem interested in anything more last night.”
“Did she tell you to leave?”
I replay the night in my mind, how I was completely enamored with her brilliance, how she looked in my jacket, how soft her skin felt under my hands, and the little mews of pleasure she made during her orgasms. And how she told me she needed to get cleaned up…and I told her I should leave.
“Fuck,” I mutter, not meeting Eli’s eyes.
“Call the manager at Benu and say you are Elijah Thorne’s agent and you want a table for two tonight. There’s usually a three-month wait.”
I sigh and put my head in my hands.
“Or take her on a private helicopter ride around the bay at sunset. That will impress her.”
But I don’t think it will. I think about the gala last night, the fake faces, and the even faker attitudes. That isn’t Liv; she’s genuine, down-to-earth, and…real.
“When was the last time you left this house?” I ask Eli, raising my head.
“I went to the gym at six a.m. yesterday,” Eli says defiantly.
