She assessed my reflection as I leaned into the mirror, dropping my chinScream-style to apply mascara. “Are you sure that’s all he’s interested in?”
“Of course,” I said. “His job is too important—he can’t do anything to threaten it. I told you about his sister’s tuition issue.”
“You did. But being beholden to family doesn’t negate how a person feels. Life is bigger than what we owe people.”
Her tone had an unexpected weight to it. I lowered the mascara wand, giving her my full attention.
“I just think you guys have a lot in common,” she said, beautiful brown eyes imploring me, making my chest feel heavy.
“Yeah,” I said steadily, “one of which is that we know this is a casual thing.”
She opened and closed her mouth, then paused. “I’ve dated a lot of guys. I can tell when someone’s in it for a good time and not a long time. Ryan…doesn’t seem like that. Everything about him screamsserious,and he seems to really like you. All I’m saying is, don’t be so quick to dismiss the possibility of more.”
I thought back on Ryan growling into my skin last night, telling me he’d been dreaming of getting me naked since I greeted him bralessly in my hotel room in Chicago. Clearly he’s attracted to me, just as I am to him. But that’s all it is: attraction. We’re two healthy, sexually charged people who happen to have electric chemistry. Yeah, he respects me, and we do good conversation, and he wants to know about my life as it relates toSo Proud of You’s themes, but that just means he’s a curious, attentive person—it doesnotmean he wants a relationship with me. Hell, Woodsworth alone is a huge, glaring obstacle in the way of that possibility.
To say nothing of it being an absolute no for me, either way.
Still, Mar’s words come back to me now as I watch Ryan frown and swipe at his phone in the green room chair across from me. Sensing my stare, he raises his gaze to meet mine, his expression softening like a peony in bloom.
The possibility of more.
Images flash through my mind like a reel. Toothbrushes side by side on the bathroom vanity. Breakfast side by side at the kitchen island. Sharing a too-small throw blanket on the couch, soft curves yielding against hard muscle. Mistaking each other’s reading glasses for our own. Christmas with his family, Soorp Dznoont with mine. His big spoon to my little. Sharing plans and hopes and dreams. Bearing witness to good times and bad. Being known. The shine in his eyes gradually dimming. Withdrawal. Deep sighs. Silence.
You’re not who I thought you were. I don’t think I can do this anymore.
Nathan’s fatal words come at me in a rush of memory, and my hands are suddenly clammy, fingers trembling as I wipe them on the wool of my pants. This is the opposite of focusing.
I recenter myself, homing in on the TV screen, where the nutritionist is blending a slice of mango with about a bushel of kale and some kind of radioactive-orange powder in a Vitamix. Her skin is luminous, and I make a note to add the jarred smoothies to my rotation. Can’t burn a smoothie, right? Though if anyone could, it’s me.
When Brit comes to escort me to the studio for my segment, Shanthi falls in step behind us to record my walk through the backstage area for a behind-the-scenes post, trailed by Maral and Ryan. They stay by the cameras as I’m led to stand behind a curtain from which I’ll emerge when I’m introduced by the hosts.
They do a short introduction, showing a clip of my first viral video—which is often the prelude for my televised interviews—and elevator-pitching my book, before I’m invited out onto the set.
The interview itself goes swimmingly. Predictably, as soon as I’m on, everything else goes out of my mind and I’m sharply focused on the hosts as their spotlight-worthy smiles ask me the questions I’ve already prepared answers for (Maral received them a few days ago from the show’s producers). Our rapport is effortless and, if I hadn’t written the book myself, I’d be hooked into buying a copy.
When one of my answers garners a particularly hearty laugh from the crowd and I turn to acknowledge them, I feel a heady rush as I look out onto the studio audience. Thinking this could be a regular occurrence very soon, assuming all goes to plan and the meeting in L.A. is successful. This interview will only help—I’m killing it.
Afterward, Brit leads me offstage, where I’m de-micced and handed a network-themed tote bag with various swag items inside. Maral informs me that Shanthi’s back in the green room andshe’s off to grab coffee with Celine—I put them in touch and, today being our last full day in San Francisco, they’re taking the opportunity to meet up and talk all things environmental engineering.
Before she leaves, she shoots me a knowing look, raising one perfectly threaded brow toward Ryan.
For his part, Ryan’s wearing a smile that could rival the show hosts’, it’s so bright. Who would have thought this man, a total curmudgeon up until this week, could transform so completely? It’s so dazzling, I feel like I’m floating.
“You were amazing,” he says.
I shrug one shoulder mock-coyly as we head back toward the green room. “I just pictured you naked.”
He looks like he could eat me with a spoon. “I have great news,” he says quietly. He pulls me into a nook piled high with clear bins of what looks like extension cords and lighting equipment. His phone screen glows with an email from Meredith, the bolded subject readingBIG NEWS!!!! CONFIDENTIAL!!!!
I see my email address in the “To” field alongside his, Laura’s, and Nadia’s, but I haven’t checked my inbox in a couple of hours. I skim the body of the email, which is pretty to-the-point.
So Proud of Youis aNew York Timesbestseller!!!!
Congratulations!!!!!!!
Then there are about five lines filled with emojis ranging from champagne bottles and clinking glasses to cartwheels to confetti. Then a line saying that the list won’t be public till this afternoon and to keep it to ourselves till then. Followed by two more lines of emojis.
Holy fuck.
