“Surprise?” he asked.
“Yes! Surprise!” she repeated. “I got an anonymous love letter, and, well, I’m here to see if it came from you.”
13
ELLIOT
Elliot checked theside mirror to see if they’d been followed, but blessedly, miraculously, the not-exactly-inconspicuous RV had not been tailed by the paparazzi. If they’d lingered at Chez Nous for even another minute, he suspected he’d be driving like he was a costar in a Kai Carol action film, peeling around corners, possibly driving straight on top of slow-moving electric coupes. As it was, he was breaking all sorts of local speed limits as he navigated to his apartment on the opposite side of town.
He checked the rearview mirror and saw the soles of Birdie’s Vans, Andie’s Vans really, facing him; Birdie was still kneeling at the base of the toilet. He thought he heard her retch and reached for the radio to turn the dial down. Or up. He wasn’t sure which was worse: listening to her puke to be sure that she was all right or listening to her puke, period.
“Bird?” he called over his shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be okay.”
It probably wouldn’t be okay, but it sounded like something that he should say in this moment regardless. Professionally, Elliot tried to never say something he couldn’t verify or back upwith concrete facts. Personally, he was significantly more squishy.He’d call her; he’d text her; hey, maybe we should get another drink sometime; hey, that was fun, we’ll do it again sometime.
He replayed the last few minutes in his brain, trying to get a handle on how he could frame it for his article to possibly make it any less humiliating for Birdie. But the video would be out there by now, photos and probably some live streams and hot takes were no doubt all over TikTok with some savvy Gen Zers offering up scathing commentary at her hubris.
It had taken a beat back at Chez Nous for Ian to comprehend what was happening. He blinked at Birdie several times, then slid his gaze over to Elliot, whom he’d met over the years. (As previously noted, Elliot did indeed love his mussels.)
“So you’re with her now?” Ian asked, ignoring Birdie’s question about the letter and whether he’d sent it, ignoring her entire presence, actually. “Please tell me that you are not with her now.”
“No, no,” Elliot said. “I’m just here as...” He intuited immediately, clearly, what Birdie had not. That they should have called ahead, that they should have warned Ian. That not only did he have no rosy feelings toward her, but he was entirely fine turning her surprise visit into a public dressing-down. Elliot wasn’t sure why Birdie was oblivious, but it was likely because she was already playing the part, had already committed to her role. Elliot thought then of how he’d lingered outside the school auditorium their senior year. She was rehearsing forLittle Shop, and he was done with swim practice but waiting around in case she needed a ride. He peeked his head through the door, just slightly, very quietly, so no one would notice he was even there, and he didn’t even recognize Birdie at first. She was belting out “Suddenly Seymour” and wearing a short blond wig and a wide high-waisted skirt, and Elliot knew with complete clarity that she was going tobe a star. She was unrecognizable, this girl whom he’d known since he was twelve. She could morph herself into anyone, she could will herself into believing she wasanyone. And right then, at Chez Nous, Elliot realized, she was a rom-com heroine in need of a hero.
“He’s here to document it,” Birdie said to Ian, unaware of the storm that was brewing. “He’s here to see if you wrote me the letter. I asked him to come. Also, did you know that he loves your mussels? The seafood, not your biceps. But, Ian, you are looking extremely fit.”
“You think,” he hissed at her, “that I would have sent you an anonymous love letter?”
“No, I didn’t—” she started, then stopped, then shook her head as if she were rebooting, and tried again. “I guess I didn’t know? And I thought, you know, maybe? It’s been such a long time, so I wanted to see you and... check.”
“It’s been a long time so you thought you shouldcheck?” Ian’s cheeks were pink now, his chest rising and falling. “It has been fourteen fucking years, Birdie. And now,and now, you think you can show up here—at my work—tocheck?” He pushed up the sleeves on his chef’s jacket, and his forearms were covered in tattoos, and Elliot saw Birdie stare at them as if she were looking at a map she no longer understood.
“I guess I thought—” she started.
“I don’t think you ever evenspoketo me after you just dumped me with no, less than zero, explanation. I mean, I should say, you dumped me for ‘Los Angeles.’ ” He held up air quotes, like “Los Angeles” was some bullshit excuse when she was really sleeping with someone else.
“Itwasfor that,” Birdie protested, as if that made it any better.
“Bird,” Elliot murmured, but she didn’t seem to hear him. He wanted to intervene, but he also knew he shouldn’t become part of the story. He’d promised Francesca he could be objective, unemotional.
“I went out there for pilot season,” she cried. “And... I don’t know. I don’t know, Ian! Maybe I’m here becauseI’mthe one who regrets it! Maybe all this time made me nostalgic, made me miss you.”
Elliot’s eyes narrowed. He knew, ostensibly, that he was here for a happily-ever-after reunion, but now that Birdie seemed genuinely up for it, he soured on the entire idea.
“You think,” Ian yelled, “that I give one shit—no, four shits—ifyouregret how you dumpedme? That you suddenly were struck by some sort of lightning bolt fourteen years later?”
The restaurant had fallen so silent that Elliot knew there was no hope for Birdie. They were witnessing a celebrity reputational execution, and there was nothing the public loved more. He glanced to his left, then his right, and cell phones were aloft and surrounding them like the fleet of an alien army.
“I’m not a supporting actor in one of your movies,” Ian rasped. “I’m not here for your amusement.”
“I didn’t say—” Birdie hiccuped, and Elliot watched the veneer slip away, as if she had realized—slowly but then also quite immediately—that this wasn’t another one of her roles she could try on for size.
“And I certainly have no intention of being the object of some ridiculous puff piece that Elliot O’Brien is writing for reasons that I don’t even begin to understand.” Ian lurched. Elliot reared a half step back and clicked his tongue as if there was no need to drag his own name into it, but then, well, hehadagreed to do this. Notonly agreed, he’d pitched it! And as far as content went, Francesca would sell more ad hits for this piece than she sold in a month. But. But, but, but, but, but.
But Birdie.
Elliot saw her eyes well, and he hoped that it wasn’t performative, but then he hated that he hoped that, and hoped that it was genuine, but then he hated that he hoped for that too.
“Hey, Ian, come on, dude,” he said. “Maybe just... you know, dial it back a bit? Go easy on her?”
