ELLIOT
The Boulevard barwas packed, and the wait for the food was interminable. Elliot’s brain was still racing at a dangerous speed; his pulse was still keeping time along with it. Birdie had veered toward the hotel’s exit as soon as the elevator hit the ground floor, and he watched heads swivel in her direction as she skittered out into the cool Vegas night.
Sitting at the bar replaying the elevator encounter—her vulnerability, the closeness of her breath to his—he knew with sudden clarity that tonight’s article to Francesca, all about Kai, unraveling the truth of their relationship, was a mistake. He’d thought he could be impartial when it came to Birdie, but he’d overcorrected, been too removed, too distant, too rule abiding to save his job, even if it cost him the girl. But the girl, he knew with lightning-bolt certainty, was the only thing worth fighting for. He didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him until now that he didn’t have to file any damn piece that he didn’t want to.
The air caught in his throat at the revelation. That for once, for the first time, he could choose differently, he could prioritizesomething more foundational, more important. He’d spent his whole life chasing the get at any cost, and now the cost would be Birdie. It was too high a price to pay.
His fingers were trembling when he pulled his phone from his pocket. He needed to get to Francesca in time.
Her voicemail bleated in his ear.
“It’s me,” he said, “please don’t run the article. It’s not ready. You can’t. I said some things I want to take back. Please, just...” He ran his hands over his face. “I know I’m pleading here, and I know I don’t deserve a grace period, but give me a day. Please.”
He hung up and stared at his screen as if he could will her to ping him back. Then he caught Simon’s eye from across the room and nudged his head up as a hello. He tipped the rest of his martini down his throat, closed his eyes, and sighed, waiting for it to take effect.
“Nursing a bruised ego?” Simon said once he made his way over to him. He passed Elliot a second martini. He really was an excellent host.
“Something like that,” Elliot said. He checked his phone again.Fuck.
“I’m not sure that anyone can solve her, Elliot. If it’s any consolation,” Simon said, mistaking Elliot’s distress for Birdie drama when he was mostly just furious, just sickeningly upset, at himself. “But you knew her before all of this pomp and circumstance,” Simon said. “So if anyone could be the one to solve the equation of Birdie Robinson...”
“Or Kai could. Kai will.”
“Kai Carol is a fucking buffoon.” Simon snorted. “Do you know how much money he loses in my casino?”
Elliot’s text buzzed, and his heart detonated. But it was only Mona.
MONA
Ok for me to borrow your laptop? My phone doesn’t have good service up here.
Elliot didn’t reply—Mona would do whatever she wanted anyway, and he clicked over to his texts to Francesca, but there was nothing.Fuck fuck fuck.
“Hey, did you hear me?” Simon said, pulling Elliot’s focus. “You’re down here nursing your second martini thinking that Kai Carol has you beat, and what I’m saying to you is that Birdie needs someone who was her equal long before she knew what back-end revenue was or flew to Dubai for twenty-four hours to shoot a perfume commercial for a million bucks.”
“I just wanted to solve this for her, you know?” Elliot said.
“For her?” Simon posed, then shook his head. “Or for you? Very different questions, very different answers. And respectfully, I think Birdie is well capable on her own.”
Elliot sighed and drained his second drink.
“Mate,” Simon said, resting his hand on Elliot’s shoulder. Elliot waited for his old friend to offer something insightful, for him to tell him he hadn’t blown it, that he still had his shot. But instead, Simon, so good at getting his guests what they needed, not necessarily what they thought they wanted, simply let his hand linger, then slid the stool back beside Elliot and sat. Simon couldn’t fix this for Elliot, and Simon already knew that.
No one else could fix it, solve it, resolve it, predict it, heal it. Who was going to do any of it in the end, if not him?
50
BIRDIE
Birdie was outin the middle of the crowds on the Strip. The temperature had dropped and the wind was kicking up, the late-winter air smelling like snow. Under the night sky and with the flashing lights and cacophony and street performers, she blended in with all the tourists, and it was a relief to just be Birdie Maxwell from Barton, California. She zipped up the collar on Andie’s Costco coat, which she’d borrowed, like maybe she could get lost in it. Like maybe it could swallow her up and take her troubles along with it.
She obviously hadn’t expected to see Kai, much less have him plead for another chance. In her former life, just a few weeks earlier, nothing would have brought her more joy than a Kai Carol mea culpa. But now she couldn’t help but wonder if his mea culpa actually changed anything for her. If, even with all their history, she wasn’t always going to put on a front for him, shade her story or herself with all sorts of small untruths. That’s what she’d grown excellent at both on-screen and off, and maybe, shethought, it was time to leave that strictly for the camera. Maybe it was time to revisit Birdie Maxwell.
Birdie Maxwell was not Birdie Robinson.
Birdie Maxwell liked sitting shotgun in Elliot’s Honda on the way to school, singing nineties music and frequently getting the lyrics wrong.
Birdie Maxwell liked school musicals that she took too seriously when half the sets were haphazardly painted and sometimes tipped over in the middle of the second act.
