I don’t know how to broach the subject gracefully, in a way that won’t make me wish for the earth to swallow me up. Neither must he, given his stop-starts. But I know I don’t want him to continue his path down the aisle, and neither must he, given the way he’s lingering. I remove my bag from the seat at my side, a silent invitation.
His eyes don’t leave mine, and after a beat, he lowers himself into the seat. The corner of his lip lifts into a barely there grin, which I return. He puts his palm out, nodding at the earbud I removed. I hand it to him, and he inserts it into his ear.
We listen in silence, both gazing out the window for a few minutes. When I turn back to my computer, struck by an idea for a response to one of the interview questions, I catch Maral watching us from across the aisle. And smiling.
Chapter 9
The reading at Powell’s is attended by over a hundred people. The audience is engaged and chatty in a good way, and many people get several copies of the book signed, citing gifts for friends and family who are huge fans but live elsewhere or were otherwise unable to attend.
I ride the high all through Monday morning, when we travel to San Francisco (by plane this time—sorry, Mar and planet Earth), and into the reading at City Lights Bookstore that evening as well. The staff and patrons, many of whom have already read the book, are so welcoming and excited to meet me that I appreciate anew all the work Meredith put into finding the perfect stores to host us.
Ryan seems to be overcompensating for our boundary-crossing by going into hyperdrive work mode. I guess I can let him off the hook given that he’s killing at his job, verifying that bookstores have received the expected shipments of stock and promotional signage and making sure everything is set up properly and such.
We haven’t had a moment alone together to address (or awkwardly avoid, as it were) what happened between us on Saturday, and I can’t tell whether that’s by happenstance or due to deliberate engineering on his part. I’ve pulled up his contact more times thanI care to admit, chewing my lip over whether to send him a message. But ultimately I always decide against it, not sure what to say or how to say it or if there’s even a point in saying anything if it’s not professional in nature.
He’s been on his phone a lot more since we got to San Francisco. I thought maybe there was a problem with the event or the stock signings I’m booked to do at a local distribution center, but in one of my less proud moments I caught—okay, snuck—a glimpse of his screen and saw a text chain a mile long, rife with emojis. Then I peeked at the contact name at the top:Celine.
The gurgle in my gut is definitely not attributable to the fact that he’s texting with a woman who uses that many hearts and smileys and cartwheels and samba dancers. I would have pegged Ryan as a man who’d be drawn to a more serious type. A Kevin to his Captain Holt. But then, he’s clearly not serious enough about Celine—whatever their situationship—to avoid kissing another woman. Maybe his fling choices are cheerful sprites who temper his inner grouch by fawning all over him with heart eyes.
As we wrap up the signing, Mar, Shanthi, and I regroup to go for dinner. Shanthi invites Ryan, but he says he already has dinner plans for the evening.With who?I want to yelp, but congratulate myself on not blurting out the inappropriate question. It’s none of my business. But tell that to the organ going haywire in my skull. Maybe Celine lives here in San Francisco, or maybe he’s got asecondlady friend here in town—maybe he has hundreds! Girls in every port.
It’s none of my business, it’s none of my business, it’s none of my goddamn business.
Fisherman’s Wharf is only a twenty-minute walk from the bookstore, and we wind our way through the briny salt air, peekinginto harbor-themed tourist shops and buying some pre-dinner beignets from a stand Shanthi points out. While the mid-September weatheris cool, adrenaline from the event compounded by feelings I’m trying in vain to ignore keep me almost uncomfortably warm.
Maral can tell something is off, but thankfully Shanthi’s presence keeps her from probing. We eat seafood at a restaurant overlooking the twinkling lights of the Ferris wheel by Pier 41 and spend the remainder of the evening wandering the Marina District, taking in the Wave Organ, then the Palace of Fine Arts. Its magnificent lagoon-enclosed rotunda transports us into another world entirely, albeit temporarily. I enjoy the distraction of snapping photos for the feed while it lasts, before we call it a night and head back to the hotel.
Knowing I’ll be spending the morning with Ryan for the stock signings, I devise a plan to inquire about his dinner in the chillest way possible so as not to reveal how desperate I am for details. Mar would tell youchillis not in my repertoire, but I’m determined to debut it tomorrow.
Any fledgling chill I may have had goes out the window when I receive a text from Ryan first thing in the morning:
I won’t be able to accompany you to the stock signings today. The car will pick you up at 9 to take you to the warehouse. Jim Harding is the site manager who will get you set up. All very straightforward. Shouldn’t take more than a couple hours.
I swallow hard, rereading the text far more times than necessary. It’s so businessy that it makes my stomach feel hollow.
Who texts first thing in the morning after a surprise dinner thenight before to beg off their plans for the day? Theirworkfor the day. Someone who got laid is who. Someone planning to get laid again. Or at least enjoy a cozy morning with their lover. Coffee and croissants and curling up, tucking cool feet under each other’s thighs and sighing wistfully into each other’s satisfied faces.
So he’s got a side dish in San Francisco. Who cares? I could probably find one by just walking out into the street. God knows there are plenty of takers in New York, and this is the land of sexless tech bros—there are dudes in Patagonias who’d line up around the block for a piece of this.
What ownership do I have over Ryan, after all? None whatsoever. As Maral said, he’s a grown-ass man. He can do whatever, and whomever, he likes.
I chastise my roiling stomach and text back,Cool. Have a great day!then start to get dressed.
Shanthi accompanies me to the warehouse, which is in an industrial neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. The route is pleasantly scenic despite being freeway-heavy, with whole districts of the city perched on hillsides both distant and near, bright houses popping against the browns and greens of the landscape.
When we arrive, Shanthi photographs me standing in front of the hundreds of books piled on skids, stickies tucked into their title pages so I can flip to them quickly for signing. I’m led to a large table laid out with Sharpies and water bottles. There are also two cups of dark roast coffee waiting for us, which is a surprisingly thoughtful touch.
“You know the way to my heart,” I tell Jim, the affable warehouse manager acting as our guide.
As I finish scrawling my name on each title page, Jim—who only breaks from gushing about his grandchildren to gush abouthis wife—slaps the cover with aSigned by the Authorsticker. Shanthi takes a long video of me signing about twenty books, which she’ll post at 5x playback speed so it looks like I’m moving in fast motion.
When I’m finally done, Jim leads us to our waiting car in a parting that rivals an Armenian goodbye for drawn-outness. We thank him for his help, and soon we’re speeding back along the freeway to our hotel in the city, enveloped once more in the scenic hillsides.
I check my phone and see a few new text notifications. My horkoor Sosi’s daily Good Morning meme from L.A., rivaling Mom’s from earlier this morning in garishness; a couple from Nadia asking how things are going; and one from Maral in our group chat with Shanthi, suggesting we all grab burritos after the stock signing then check out the Golden Gate Bridge.
Nothing more from Ryan.
Shaking the cobwebs from my mind, I type out a response to Nadia to say things are great and that I’m looking forward to seeing her at the meeting with Craig Waters’s team on Friday. Only three days away, it shines like a floodlight on the nearing horizon.
