“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. Her lackluster responses to anything L.A.-related lately are beginning to irritate me.
She presses her lips together, hesitates. “Nothing,” she says finally. “Just—who knows how long that could take? There’s plenty of time to see where things might go with Ryan in the meantime.”
“You mean to watch things crash and burn.”
Her eyes soften. She tucks her hand through the crook of my elbow, wraps her slender fingers around my biceps. “Ryan isn’t Nathan.”
“No,” I say. “But I’m still me.”
And there’s the rub. No matter how well things may go at first,there is a side of me that—if revealed—causes the whole house of cards to come tumbling down. It happened with Nathan, and that was hard enough. I couldn’t face that with Ryan. He got enough of a peek behind the curtain in Boston, and I’d rather chew on stemware than let him see any more. Would much rather he remain a fond memory than a present heartache.
My phone buzzes, saving Mar from having to muddle through a response to that mic drop. Butterflies take flight in my stomach when I see Ryan’s name on the screen.Finally.
All is well.
Relief whips through me like a whirlpool, despite the hint of an undertow beneath its surface. The implication of his continued employment at Woodsworth is that there is officially no chance for anything more between us.
Which was always the case, anyway. So, pulse, you can stop your arrhythmic beating now, thank you.
I share the news with Mar and ignore the disheartened look in her eye that indicates she’s also connected those dots. I’m starting to respond when I get another buzz.
How are you? How’d it go with your mom?
I slump back in my seat. Of course. Even as he’s facing what is surely an intensely stressful day back at work, he asks after me.
Fine, I start to type, then erase it, remembering the way he scolded my oft-used refrain. But I clam up at the idea of answering with something too real, feeling like I’d be giving too much credence to what we shared in that alleyway two nights ago. Not only to him, but to myself.
At the same time, it feels wrong to brush him off. After everything.
Could have been worse, I finally write.
True, he responds.You could have been camping.
A laugh bubbles out of me. I send a skull-and-crossbones emoji, follow up withFood was amazing, at least.
His response comes back.But how was the coffee?
A smile spreads across my face like watercolor paint. I send him a drooling emoji in response. Consider whether I should write that I’ll see him tomorrow. He did say he’d come to my keynote at the Lead Tomorrow conference on Tuesday, and I assume he’s still planning to. Though…who knows. It’s not strictly a book event. No reason for anyone from Woodsworth to be there, least of all the head of publicity who was only assigned to my tour at the last minute due to a staffing change. One who was caught in flagrante delicto with an author on camera, no less, and almost got fired for it. Surely they’ve reassigned him now—maybe even warned him to keep his distance, for optics’ sake. Which…all the better. Ryan will move on, work on other books, sleep with other women, and maybe find one whose heart is a cozy refuge rather than a haunted house.
My shoulders feel heavy. I sink into the worn upholstered seat, closing out of the text chain.
Before I swipe out of the app, another message catches my eye. The one Jacob sent this morning.
My thumb hovers over it for a moment before I give in, tapping it open. I type—Heading back now; hit you up soon—and before I let myself think about it, I press Send.
Chapter 20
The Lead Tomorrow conference is held at the public library in Bryant Park, aka the most magical location in all of New York.
They’ve rented one of the bigger event spaces this year, since their attendance is much higher than it was the last time I was invited. So high that I can’t pick out faces in the crowd. The spotlight shining in my eyes doesn’t help. Still, I can’t help scanning the silhouetted heads in the glorious salon, hoping but failing to see one specific one.
I guess he changed his mind after all. Which is fine. He has every right, doesn’t owe me anything. It would beweirdfor him to show up here. Right?
Intermittently, my eyes land on their true north: Maral. Seated at a table near the front and to the left of the stage, a sweating glass of water standing untouched beside her conference packet. Her dark eyes as grounding as the hardwood floor beneath our feet.
Shanthi’s not here—I gave her a few days off in exchange for being on 24/7 for almost two full weeks, plus the overtime she racked up fielding notifications during Kissgate. Girl has earned a vacation. (And she’ll get one: I booked her a spa day tomorrow, the gift card tucked into a delivery of a case of her favorite red wine.)
When I wrap up my keynote and step down from the stage amid a chorus of applause, people rush the small staircase before I even descend, questions and kind words and entreaties for selfies and endorsements ricocheting off me like pellets. They speak over each other with no regard for others doing the same. Ah, New York. It’s good to be home.
