We make our way to the platform, questions cropping up in my mind like moles I keep whacking down, fighting my instinct tohammer Maral with them. She’s being secretive for a reason. Badgering her will only cause her to clam up more, probably. So I aim for breezy.
“Where were you?” I ask. It comes out less breeze, more howling gale.
“Just met someone for breakfast.” She keeps her gaze averted, busying herself with opening doors, fussing with one of my suitcases.
“Who?”
“Simone James. We did our master’s together.”
She climbs aboard the train and we’re distracted by finding seats, stowing bags, and getting settled. I decide not to press. (Someone give me an award.) Maybe she did meet Simone for breakfast. Maybe she’s really wearing her lucky dress for no reason at all—or at least not to impress her secret lover. Hell, maybe Simone’s her secret lover and she’s not ready to come out yet. What kind of cousin would I be if I pushed that?
Shanthi promptly puts on her noise-canceling headphones, effectively pulling a curtain between us. Maral and I sit side by side across from her, Mar suddenly quite taken with her phone. I check my own. Ryan’s meeting is probably almost over. I start to draft a message, erase it, try again, erase that too. Every attempt is either too flirty or too cold. I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure what tone to hit because I’m unsure what we even are at this point. He remains an employee of my publisher—if he hasn’t been fired—and we remain…friendly. Do I just ignore the undercurrent of what else we’ve been?
I have to.
I decide on something simple.Hey, hope you got home safe. How did the meeting go?
Easy enough. Sounds like something I’d text to Meredith. That’s a good barometer.
I watch the screen, expecting ellipses on his side of the textchain, but nothing comes up. Maybe he’s still in the meeting, even though it took me so long to actually write that stupid message that it’s well past eleven now, our train chugging toward home. Meetings go long all the time. Would that be a good thing or bad?
Or maybe his lack of response is deliberate. Maybe Woodsworth did let him go and he doesn’t want to tell me for fear that I’ll feel guilty (accurate). If he’s out of a job, he has way bigger fish to worry about than telling me.
“You okay?” Maral asks, making me jump.
“Fine,” I say, my tight voice sounding anything but.
Her lashes dip as she glances at the phone in my hand. “Any news?” she asks.
I shake my head.
She reaches for my hand, but I flinch away, and she drops hers.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“As soon as there’s anything to share, you’ll be the first person he tells.”
A sound escapes my mouth, something betweenpuhand a choke. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do,” she says.
Something about her tone, its conclusiveness, irks me. “Now you’re a Ryan expert?”
To her credit, she takes my impertinence in stride. “I’d have to have spent the past two weeksburied undergroundnot to notice that he’s got feelings for you beyond just sexual ones.”
The very mention of his sexual feelings has my thighs sneaking together. It feels like it’s been a month since Ryan touched me, instead of just a few days. How will I go on without it?
“Do you know he called ahead to every daytime event to make sure they served your favorite coffee?” Maral goes on. “You’re not a diva, you don’t have a rider. But he did it. What about what he said to that dickwad at the Chicago event? And how about the way hestood up to your mom? Vartouhi may not have loved that, but I sure did. And I know you did too.”
My chin quivers as visions play on a loop in my mind. Ryan at my side, coming to my defense at the Chicago Q and A. Standing in my doorway that night, asking if I was okay, nobly averting his gaze from my braless breasts. Valuing my work, validating my choices. Sitting with me on cold cement in an alleyway as I reeled from my mother’s criticism. Listening with every ounce of his attention. Understanding, empathizing. Rubbing my back. Weaving his fingers through mine.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. So defeated it aches. “The tour is over, and he’s out of my life now. My personal one, anyway. Maybe also my professional one.” The phone—as yet responseless—feels like a lead weight in my hand.
“He doesn’t have to be. If he’s no longer at Woodsworth, nothing is actually standing in your way. Except you.”
“Are you forgetting our plan to move across the country?” Nothing is certain yet, but Nadia and I are meeting with Scope this Friday. Wheels are in motion. And they’re going to take me far, far away from Ryan. Which, all the better. Or at least not worse. Right?
She rolls her eyes, muttering, “How could I forget.”
