“Okay,” he said again. “Yes.”
ENTERTAINMENT TONIGHT: BREAKING!
BIRDIE ROBINSON HUMILATED IN COLD-DISH REUNION WITH HOT EX
Birdie Robinson has more to worry about than just her scuttled reputation from the fallout of her on-set fight with beloved director Sebastian Carol, brother of Kai Carol, the rumored secret ex of Ms. Robinson. It seems that she is making a fool of herself all over the country, this time in San Francisco, where she arrived, hat in hand, at Chez Nous, the award-winning restaurant of acclaimed chef Ian Sands. Multiple diners confirm toETthat Ms. Robinson tried to blindside Mr. Sands into a lovey-dovey reconciliation. Indeed, Isabel Marie, the hostess at Chez Nous (and aspiring model—she is represented by More Models in the Bay Area), had to forcibly remove Ms. Robinson from the premises, even when she demanded a dish of Mr. Sands’ much-heralded mussels.
“Ms. Robinson showed up here unannounced and unwelcome, and distracted Mr. Sands from his patrons and his award-winning meals and presentation,” Ms. Marie said. “What a sad affair for a woman who had convinced the public that she was a dream girl, a perfect embodiment of romance. More like a nightmare if you were to ask me, and I’m sure if you were to ask Ian as well.”
Calls to Ms. Robinson’s representatives have not been returned at press time.
16
BIRDIE
Birdie listened toElliot’s breath rise and fall and rise and fall. She was astonished that he fell asleep so easily. She didn’t know what she’d thought, that they’d lie awake whispering secrets and adoring words to each other or something like that, because they’d tried that once and look how that had gone.
“Elliot,” she whispered to his shoulder blades. “Elliot.”
But he didn’t budge. She was almost insulted at how heavily he slept, but then having a woman in his bed was not particularly revelatory for him, Birdie knew. She adjusted her pillow, rolled to her other side, and tried not to replay this evening’s entire disaster in slow motion.
Imani had texted her seven times and called her twice. Birdie ignored them all and eventually turned off her phone. The video from Chez Nous was circulating all over socials like wildfire, offering the public more fodder that Birdie Robinson was a better actor than anyone had given her credit for, since she’d convinced the public for nearly a decade that she was harmless and kind andsoft and cuddly. Like a teddy bear, one gossip account said.Birdie Robinson used to be a teddy bear, when it turned out that she was a grizzly.
She pulled the pillow over her head and groaned into it. Then she placed it against the headboard and punched it straight in the middle and set her head down on it and inhaled becauseoh god, it smelled just like Elliot. She shouldn’t delight in this so much, but she couldn’t help herself, like his scent was a dopamine hit. She rolled over toward him again and allowed her fingertips to brush up against his back, over his neck, up through his hair.
The night that he’d stayed over seven years ago, there had been very little sleeping. But for the hour or two that they did, Birdie mostly pretended to sleep while occasionally flitting open her eyes and marveling at him. Dusting his cheeks with her fingers, laying his arm over her stomach so no space came between them. Now his back was toward her as if he didn’t even remember that night, as if she were just another warm body on the right side of the mattress.
She shifted again, stared at the ceiling, then reached for her phone on his nightstand, which was actually just a tower of books stacked on top of a U-Haul box. She almost wanted to text Mona to tell her that her brother was more of a disaster than he let on, but she wasn’t in a position to judge, and also, she didn’t want Mona to start asking questions about why Birdie knew what her brother used as a nightstand.
Birdie hadn’t meant to ever keep secrets from Mona. Her best friend had never explicitly warned Birdie off of Elliot, but she hadn’t had to be explicit. Her expression at prom, when she yanked Elliot from the faculty lounge, was readable from the moon, and even without prom, it was always clear that she andMona were the partnership and that Elliot was the third wheel. So no, Birdie was not about to text Mona about his nightstand full of hardcovers and a moving box.
Instead, she powered on her phone and then googled Ian, spiraling further into what-ifs and should-have-beens. She clicked through pictures of Ian at charity meals, photos of him with beautiful women on his arm, and write-ups on how he was democratizing the dining scene in San Francisco—bringing reasonably priced haute cuisine to nonfoodies and turning them into believers. She lingered over his Levi’s campaign, where he looked like a goddamn movie star (she would know), and then read about how he donated his fee to public school lunch programs. As Birdie scrolled through write-up after write-up, a small part of her lamented that she had let him go so easily. That she’d overlooked what a diamond he was. Or perhaps, with hindsight, that she knew he was a diamond at the time and rejected him all the same. She’d been twenty years old and on the cusp of a whole new life. She wasn’t equipped for long-term love then.
No, that was a simple lie she could tell herself.
She was equipped for long-term love but not with Ian. Rather, with the man she sat next to at his mother’s funeral, whose breath rose and fell beside her now, the man who had made clear to her half a decade after Ian that her heart was on a fool’s errand in holding out hope for him.
Elliot sighed loudly in his sleep, and Birdie startled and threw her phone to the foot of the bed, like she didn’t want him to catch her reading up on Ian. She inched a little closer to him and closed her eyes, trying to time her own breath with his. Eventually, her eyelids grew heavy. She was surprised to feel the tug of sleep. There was something comforting, something tender, about lying next to Elliot O’Brien, even if she’d done it before, andostensibly, she knew not to expect that this meant anything. It meant less than nothing. Whatever that number was, she thought just before she slipped into dreaming, that’s what this was. A negative of less than nothing.
The next thing she knew, dawn was breaking through his window, and she pushed up to her elbows, and Elliot was gone.
Déjà vu. Just like seven years ago.
17
ELLIOT
Elliot had wildlymiscalculated. He’d been dumb enough to think that by parking the RV underground and whisking Birdie away to his apartment, he’d be able to outwit the press. Even though he was amemberof the press. This was at least part of Francesca’s problem with him: his tendency to presume that he was the smartest person in the figurative room. He didn’t even want to consider what Francesca would say if she knew that he’d shared a bed with Birdie last night.
He hadn’t been able to sleep, of course. He heard her whisper his name, and it took every ounce of cellular willpower in his entire limbic system not to roll over and face her. But if he faced her, then he’d kiss her, and if he kissed her, then he’d sleep with her, and if he slept with her, then he’d never be able tonotsleep with her again, and, well, okay, now he was spiraling. He’d felt her run her fingers over his back and neck and up through his hair, and he’d stilled himself to near paralysis so that he didn’t do the one thing his body was aching to do. And when she finally fell asleep, he did roll over so he could memorize her perfect longlashes, the spread of her hair on his pillow, her spray of freckles. And then because there was no point in pretending that he wasn’t wide awake, he pushed himself up to start his day. Because he owed Francesca an article before morning, and if he lingered even another minute longer in bed with Birdie, certainly, nothing was going to be written. And nothing good would come of it.
Once the sun had cracked the San Francisco skyline and after an hour or so hunched over his laptop, he felt reasonably decent about saving Birdie’s dignity in the piece, hit send, and then slipped out to get coffee. On his route home, that’s when he noticed a van parked across the street. He loitered behind a tree to be sure and saw a reporter he knew from around, Jaren Anders, asleep in the driver’s seat. Elliot had never liked Jaren, and now he fucking hated Jaren, who had probably texted a few mutuals and gotten his intentionally unlisted address and lurched over in his stupid TV truck. Elliot wanted to march right up to the passenger seat and pop Jaren squarely on the nose, but then Francesca would certainly have grounds for firing him—and also, he had to get to Birdie.
He ran into the back entrance of his condo, flew through the door of the apartment, and raced into his bedroom. He’d envisioned that he’d wake her, she’d be grateful, and together they’d triumphantly outsmart Jaren and cruise out of San Francisco undetected. Also, if Jaren had figured out where he lived, he suspected that the rest of the local press—and probably the national press, for that matter—couldn’t be far behind.
Birdie, however, was awake. He burst through the door, and before he could say a word, she scowled at him with what he felt like was her whole body. Could you scowl with your whole body? If anyone could, it was Birdie Robinson.
“I thought you left me,” she snapped.
