“I do, and I will,” I say firmly. “I’m not giving up. L.A.’s crawling with producers—we’ll find someone else.”
She looks concerned, but doesn’t say anything more.
“Our flight leaves in a few hours,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ll meet you downstairs in time for the airport shuttle.”
Mar hesitates for a moment before rising quietly from the bed. “I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”
Shanthi’s head swivels from me, to her, to me. “Are you sure? Maybe it would be better not to be alone.”
Maral gently cups her elbow, leading her to the door, knowing it’s a losing battle. Knowing I’d rather be alone than have anyone bear witness when I’m in any state other than (jazz hands)Ana Movilian.
After they’ve left, I start packing. Anything to keep me moving, keep me focused on something other than the thing prying at my mind, seeking a fissure so the darkness can get in. Or, worse, out.
But it’s no use. Just as I’m tucking my running shoes into a suitcase, a torrent climbs up my body, unleashing in a whoosh that’s somewhere between an exhale and a sob. I crumple onto the bed, helpless against it, turning to drown the sound in the wrinkled bedding.
Mom.I’m sorry.
I picture her face, beatific in the imagined happiness I’ve been chasing for what feels like my entire life. The vision waves, scuzzes, her smile morphing into a grimace, a cry. She’s curled, broken by the weight of all she’s lost throughout her life. I reach for her, but she changes once more, her delicate features turning masculine, a beard sprouting and nose hooking. Kind black eyes under bushy brows and a barrel chest that smells like khoung and that I wish so badly I could hug again. Disappear into. Seek some measure of solace in, even if I can’t let all this darkness out. Even if that’s never been an option.
At the sound of a knock on the door, I sit up too quickly, my head dizzy.
I consider ignoring it, pretty sure it’s Ryan and very sure he cannot see me this way.
“Ana,” he says softly from the other side. “It’s me.”
It’s me. Like there’s only one person who could show up at my door in my bleakest hour and declare himselfme.Like there’s only onemefor me.
That’s exactly who Ryan has become, isn’t it? The person I most look forward to seeing every day. The person who listens to what I have to say without dismissing it in any way. Who helps me feel less alone. Who takes care of things. Who takes care of me.
Before I even know what my body is doing, it has teleported to the door, opening it wide to reveal his broad form filling the frame. His green eyes magnificent as he assesses me with concern.
“Are you still employed?” I ask, the vibrato in my voice betraying the emotion that’s threatening to burst the dam.
He can tell immediately. His brow furrows further as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him and enveloping me in a hug.
Damn, it feels good. Too good.
I melt into him, telling myself it’ll just be for a moment. Just a moment, until I can organize my heart, and have a conversation likea normal human. His arms feel so solid, unwavering, as they wrap around me. Like if he had the choice, he’d keep me in them forever.
The thought snaps me to, and I pry myself away.
“How did it go?” I ask.
He still looks troubled, but he doesn’t reach for me again. “They won’t pull me mid-tour, but I have a meeting with my boss and HR first thing on Monday when I’m back in New York.”
I breathe, some of my tension easing. “Is it a good sign that they’re keeping you on through the tour?”
He does a half-hearted shrug. “Who knows,” he says.
My shoulders curl in. “I’m sorry I put you in the position to risk your job. I know it’s why you kept…resisting when I pushed. I shouldn’t have pushed. I need to stop doing that—steamrolling. Mar’s been telling me for years.”
He takes a step forward, moving me back against the dresser. “Ana, I love that you’re tenacious. It’s one of your hottest qualities—and there are a lot of them. Obviously I could have done without this shitstorm, but…I’m glad you pushed. I mean,gladis a weak word for how I feel about having the best sex of my life. Elated, maybe.”
Something warm, satisfying, spreads through my chest. Like the first sip of strong coffee in the morning. My eyes drop to his lips, and he gathers me up once more, kissing me gently. My body softens in response, half sitting on the dresser as he presses into the cradle of my splayed legs.
“How are you feeling?” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I hated seeing those ugly things said about you.”
That sting reappears in my nose, and I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress it. “I’m fine,” I say, hoping to convince us both.
