A soft chuckle. “Ouch.”
I raise one shoulder. “That’s the price for your aloofness.”
“Maybe my aloofness was by design,” he says. “I couldn’t exactly tell you what I really thought. Not if I didn’t want to send you running for the hills.”
“Oh god. Do I want to know?”
Despite the dim light in the room, there’s still that twinkle in his eye. “At that first meeting, you breezed into the boardroom likeyou owned the place. Confident, empowered. Magnetic. Full of so much life that you were practically lit from within.”
His words reflect a version of me that’s well worn—the version people are drawn to, that’s fun and makes them feel good and beams light into every room I’m in. Brightness and positivity personified, complete with jazz hands. It does come naturally, most of the time. But it’s not the full picture.
The full picture is one nobody ever sees—also by design.
I’m surprised to hear that’s how Ryan saw me, though, given the vibe he gave off in that first meeting. But then, I’ve seen how quickly he draws the blinds on himself around me. Has his standoffishness been a mask all along?
“Then I started listening to your podcast,” he goes on, “and discovered how thoughtful and engaged you are in your interactions. People are comfortable sharing their stories because you make them feel like they’re the most important and interesting stories in the world. You make people feel seen, mademefeel seen in a way I hadn’t before. The pressure, the loneliness, put into words and validated. Yet you so rarely shared about yourself, and all I wanted was to know you. The you that’s inside this perfect exterior.”
His kind words about my podcast, and me as its host, touch an unexpected chord. But his reiteration that he wishes I would share more about myself feels different—higher-stakes, somehow—now that we’ve been intimate. My skin heats uncomfortably. The sheets tangled over my body feel like weighted blankets, heavy and constricting.
“I haven’t exactly been in a position to express myself freely, but now, giventhis…” He takes my hand, and my heart starts beating double-time, trepidation swirling in my belly. “Ana, I—”
As though sent by the heavens, a foreign ringing sound blares through the room. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief, willing my pulse to calm down, as Ryan reluctantly reaches for the landline on the nightstand.
“Hello?” he says into the receiver. “Yeah, she’s here.” He hands me the phone.
“Where have you been?” Maral asks on the other end. “Actually, never mind,” she rushes to say, “I know where you’ve been.Why haven’t you answered your phone?”
My purse lies strewn on the dresser across from the bed. “You silenced it yesterday.”
“Fuck me.” Her exhale hisses from the speaker. “Okay, don’t look at it. Go to your room immediately. Shanthi and I will meet you there.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I say, worried and instinctively walking toward my phone.
“I’m fine, but stop,” she says, knowing exactly what I’m doing. “Let me tell you before you—”
But it’s too late. I’ve already seen my lock screen, the comment notifications piling up in real time like bricks being laid for a wall.
Jeez, get a room! Isn’t SFL a family show?
that’s her publicist! i was at the reading she did at powells and he intro’d her
hope ur independntly wealthy bro coz ur about to get fiiiired
My brow knits as I read one nonsensical comment after another across social platforms. I tap on one randomly and see the post it’s attached to—a fan has tagged me, and who knows what they’ve said because my eyes immediately freeze on the image they’ve captioned.
It’s Ryan and me, in theSan Fran Livestudio corridor, bins and equipment piled high next to us, when he showed me the email from Meredith with theNYTnews yesterday. When I kissed him. When we thought no one was watching.
Someone captured the kiss in all its glory. Despite the as-yet-undefined problem hanging in the air, I can’t help marveling at just howgloriousthe kiss looks. The way Ryan leans into it with his whole body, the way my hands grip his lapels, the sliver of tongue shining through our open mouths.Damn.
But thisdamnis on the internet, apparently, for all the world to see.
“Shit, shit,shit,” I say.
“I know,” Maral sighs.
My hands are shaking. “How far does this go?”
“Not totally clear yet.”
