“I’m on an apology streak,” she said when they disentangled. “Do I owe you one too?”
He laughed. “No, you and I were always fine with each other. Before, during, since.”
Birdie nodded, relieved that after so many things she’d gotten wrong, she hadn’t gotten this wrong too.
“Elliot went upstairs, though,” Simon said. “A few drinks to the wind. A story to fix, he said.”
“Mystory,” Birdie said. Acid burned up her throat. “And I don’t thinkhecan fix it.”
“Well, you might want to give it a beat,” Simon offered. “Let him sober up, stop feeling sorry for himself.”
“What does Elliot O’Brien have to feel sorry for himself over?” Birdie retorted.
Simon laughed again. “I think a lot of people could say the same of you.”
Birdie raised her eyebrows. She’d forgotten how normal Simon was, how adjusted he was to the pomp and circumstance of celebrity so that he was utterly unfazed by its lunacy. The Birdie Maxwell in her adored him for it. She pulled him into a hug again.
“It’s great to see you, Simon,” she said. “And that’s fine, about Elliot. I have my own plan anyway, so I’ll give him the night. Nothing I have to say can’t wait. It’s been twenty years. What’s one night more?”
Simon’s face broke into a smile. “Birdie Robinson has her own plan. Perfection.”
“Birdie Maxwell does,” Birdie smiled back. “Birdie Robinson is just grateful to be here.” She paused. “Speaking of which—I need a favor.”
53
ELLIOT
Elliot woke toblinding morning light pouring through the drapes. His mouth felt like sandpaper and tasted even worse, like the olives from his martinis last night, but if the olives had curdled on his tongue. He creaked his head up an inch. Mona’s bed was empty.
He patted down the bed, in search of his phone. He thought he might vomit, but he couldn’t be sure if it was his hangover or if he was about to see the article he’d written about Birdie and Kai. His palm landed on his device, and he pulled it in front of his face, prepared for the worst.
Oddly, he had only a few notifications. None from Francesca. None from theTimesapp. He felt his forehead furrow, suddenly significantly more awake. He logged on to the app and searched for Birdie’s name. Nothing since his last story. He didn’t know if he should rejoice that Francesca had pulled his story or assume that she’d had enough when she did pull his story and was now ghosting him.Shit.He exhaled and was thumbing over to his email when he heard the key beep in the door, and then his twin burst in.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said, and held up a paper bag with grease oozing through. “I brought doughnuts for breakfast. Well, brunch, since it’s almost noon.”
“Noon?” Elliot shot straight up. “Noon?” He hadn’t even noticed the time on his phone.
“You were sleeping.” Mona flopped a shoulder. “I figured you needed it.”
Now Elliot was frantic. His fingers flew over his screen and landed on his texts. Nothing from Francesca.What was going on?He wasn’t sure if he’d been fired or was simply being ignored, but either way, Elliot reverted right back to pro reporter and doubled down.
ELLIOT
F—you’ll get your story by end of day. Thank you for the grace period.
He hit send before he could retract his thank-you because they were not really a relationship of thank-yous, but he wanted to show her appreciation all the same.
“We’re going to Clay Dodara at 3 p.m.”
“Clay Dodara? The magician? I thought... I thought we would head back home.” Elliot didn’t want to drag Mona’s oddball interests—magic was right up there with extraterrestrials—because that would only kick them right back into a fight, but he had less than zero interest in sitting through some magician’s matinee show for a packed house of tourists. She might as well have proposed that they divert their drive to Area 51.
“Birdie got us tickets,” Mona said casually, like she was testing the waters. “I didn’t want to say no. Besides, he’s been sold out for six months. Nelson said he’s incredible.”
There was so much to unpack in that sentence that Elliot didn’t even know where to begin.Birdiegot them tickets?Nelsonsaid he’s incredible?
“I wanted to get a jump on it, head home,” he grumbled.
“Well, I’m going to Clay Dodara. I guess you can drive back without me.”
