Understood. For what it's worth, I think you two could be good for each other.
I don't respond to that. Because the goal isn't to be good for each other. The goal is to survive six months improving my brand. To provide stability for the board.
The goal is not to care what she thinks of me. Not to wonder what it would feel like if she looked at me with something other than suspicion.
Not to think about the jolt when our hands touched, or the way her voice softened, or the fact that she’s the first person in six years who’s made me want to explain myself instead of shutting down.
But I'm thinking about all of it anyway.
I pull out my laptop and open my email.
There's a draft I started last night and haven't sent yet. To Anna. My old elementary school pen pal. I've maintained contact with her over the years, though sporadically.
She who knew me long before I became "Seamus O'Malley, CEO" or "reformed playboy" or any of the other labels that define me now.
I read what I wrote: Things are changing. I'm not sure if I'm ready for it. I'm not sure if I'll recognize myself on the other side.
My cursor hovers over the send button. Then I add one more line: But maybe that's not the worst thing. Maybe some changes are necessary even when they're terrifying.
I hit send before I can second-guess it.
Then I gather my things and leave the building.
Outside, the city hums with early evening energy. People are heading home, moving through their lives with purpose and direction.
I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, briefcase in hand, and I realize I have no idea what I want Rosanna's answer to be.
No. That's not true. I know exactly what I want.
I want her to say yes.
Not because of the board. But because somewhere in that conversation, I felt something. Something that felt almost like recognition.
The contract will arrive at her door tonight. And tomorrow, I'll find out if she believes me.
Chapter eight
Rosanna
I met a girl today. She talks a lot. I don’t usually like that, but I didn’t mind. Is that a sign of something? —Shay (Age 15)
Yes. ASK HER OUT IMMEDIATELY! —Anna (Age 14)
The contract arrives at nine p.m., delivered by courier in a thick manila envelope that feels heavy with consequence.
Luna is sprawled on my couch, halfway through a pint of ice cream, when the doorbell rings. She gives me a look that saysthis is itas I sign for the package with shaking hands.
I don't open it immediately. Instead, I set it on my kitchen table and stare at it like it might explode.
Luna abandons her ice cream and comes to stand beside me. "You want me to look first? I can give you the sanitized version." I shake my head. "No. I need to do this." But I still don't move.
"Ro." Luna's voice is soft. "You don't have to open it. You don't have to read it. You can send it back unopened and walk away from this whole thing."
She squeezes my shoulder. "No one would blame you."
"I would blame me." I finally reach for the envelope, breaking the seal with more force than necessary.
Inside is a bound document.
