“Are you going to stay on for the full tour?” I ask, my brow knotted. “I admire the dedication, but will you get paid beyond your last day?”
Nadia puts her hand on my arm. “Hon.”
“I, um.” Meredith coughs. “I can’t go on the tour.”
I need another drink. This is worse than I thought.
“So. Okay.” My voice sounds low, hollow. “I guess we don’tneedsomeone from Woodsworth. But Maral’s only arranged some of the speaking events, we still need someone to do all the bookstore event logistics.” My mind is spinning through all the details that could go wrong that absolutely can’t go wrong. This tourhasto go well—my reputation, my career, myfuturedepends on it. “We don’t know anything about the store reps you’ve been in contact with or their expected shipments or—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Meredith says quickly, as if glad to be called upon to deliver some good news at last. “We’ve got that all sorted—someone’s coming in my place.”
I suck in air through my teeth. “You know I love Alison, but she’s still pretty green—”
“It’s not Alison,” she says. “It’s someone way more experienced, senior to me, even. And luckily he knows everything about your campaign because he worked with me on it.” Her eyes flick to Nadia, who nods for her to go on.
No.No. Not the Storm Cloud.Please don’t say—
“Ryan is going to come on the tour with you.”
Chapter 3
JFK is a zoo and I love it. Not counting the toxic vibes emanating from disgruntled travelers and beleaguered airport staff, this is exactly the kind of energy I thrive in. The excitement—thepromise—of escape, of exploring new horizons. 10/10, highly recommend.
Maral, with her single weekender slung over a shoulder, helps me wheel my three swollen suitcases to the bag check. Shanthi texted us this morning that she was going to get to the airport early, try to use the Wi-Fi for some last-minute launch posts, and meet us at the gate. Now I wonder if she just wanted to get out of porter duty.
Usually my speaking events are one-offs and we’re only away for a night or two at the most. We used to do day trips in the early days too, but Maral has stopped booking those as a humble protest against air travel. If it were up to her, we’d take a cross-country train for this tour, preferably electric.
But that would mean being stuck for even longer with harbinger of doom Ryan Grant. Hard pass.
My heart sinks again at the reminder that Meredith isn’t coming with us. She’s the reason my book has gotten so much positive buzz, securing favorable coverage in outlets likeRefinery29, Marie Claire,andPeople,where my videos and podcast had beenmentioned (positively) in the past. She’s also the one who got an advance copy into the hands of a Hello Sunshine scout, which is how we landed the Reese pick. Meredith has been a guardian angel for my book, her multiple emails a day always a bright spot. In short, I love her.
And as much as I’m feeling sorry for myself over losing her and being stuck with a tour publicist whose commitment to my book is questionable at best, I am so, so happy for her. She got a better, more fulfilling job. One that recognizes her value, that will allow her to live life on her own terms. She wanted it. She strove for it. She earned it. She’s a fucking boss and deserves every good thing.
After we clear security, I pull up UrbanStems on my phone and place an order to be delivered to her at the office, the nicest arrangement they have, and scroll through the card options for a combo apology/congratulations one. They make those, right?
My phone blips with a message from Nadia:Have a TV update—is now a good time?
I gasp, tugging on Maral’s sleeve, showing her the screen. “Oh my god.”
I dial Nadia and put the call on speakerphone—I know it’s obnoxious in a public place, but dreams are coming true here, people, so just deal with it.
“We have interest,” Nadia says by way of answering.
My legs have a mind of their own, making me jump up and down in the middle of the airport concourse. “Who?” I ask.
“Craig Waters. Based in L.A. His daughter’s a fan of the podcast, and he thinks you’d make a great host for a talk show he’s producing.”
Somehow I stop myself from screaming at full volume. It’s happening—it’s all coming together.
Mom’s voice looms, as it tends to do, at the edges of my consciousness. Her response when I told her I was leaving my residency to focus on the podcast full-time rooted itself in my mind.
If you were on television, that would be one thing. Like Oprah, or Drew Barrymore. But dropping out of medicine to, what, talk to people through their phones?
When the podcast took off, I talked to Nadia about the possibility of parlaying it into a TV show. Specifically in L.A., where Mom’s expressed interest in moving to since Maral’s parents relocated there a few years ago. Nadia’s been casually scouting in Hollywood for me, with nothing really solid to show for it yet. But finally, with the podcast’s fifth year charting in the top ten and buzz building for my book, my name is recognizable enough that she got a bite.
I’ve already envisioned the whole thing: I’ve got a roster of ideas for episodes, guests, themed shows, and special events. In my mind the set is artfully decorated with lemon-yellow chairs on a blue stage, plants and bookshelves in the background, maybe a skyline. (Maral insists it has to be L.A., but my mind’s eye can only pictureNYC for some reason. That istheskyline, after all.) I’ll buy a house a tight twenty-minute drive from the studio, with a nanny suite—or pool house—for Mom, and a neighboring property for Mar. Close to her parents’ place in Glendale. We’ll find Mar a house with lots of trees on the property to combat the smog, maybe install solar panels on the roof. California’s way ahead on energy-efficient housing—she’ll love it. I’ll love it. We’ll all love it.
Finally, I can start to repair the giant crater that was blown into our world six years ago, fill it with my family’s contentment once and for all, seal it up. Every last one of us, happy. I’ll make sure ofit.
