“Oh, you do?” She paused and looked into the camera.
“I do. I’ve been talking to the people atGames Overabout coming on the show.”
“You’ve been talking to them? That’s my job. Don’t negotiate anything!” she said, her eyebrows pitching into a deep V.
“I’m not negotiating.” He had to be up-front with her. She had to know that this was not a risky deal. Though, Ellie’s face when they said goodbye earlier was definitely not a zero-risk kind of look. “The host, you know El—Dr. Beltrami. She and I have been talking about it, just casually. She’s a family friend.”
“Family friend?” Teena asked, eyeballs still trained on the camera. “Are you sleeping with her?”
“Jesus Christ, T.” He reeled back in his chair. Thank God the house was empty. The beach crowd was probably getting ready for the golden houraperitivoon the deck, and he was actually jealous for once. He’d rather be grilled by all the Delfino elders simultaneously than face Teena on this.
“You’re sleeping with her or you want to,” she said.
“We are old friends.”
“So you want to.”
“It is absolutely not like that. She’s practically a cousin.” He winced internally at how wrong-sounding yet weirdly true that statement was in light of this weekend’s events. Either way, the details of their relationship shouldn’t matter. If that was the case, he probably should tell Teena that Ellie also vomited on his feet once when she ate some bad tuna for lunch when she was about six.
“This is a bad idea. If the two of you are going to be making cutesy eyes at each other on camera, it’s not going to help you gain credibility. They’ll think it’s a fluff piece and click on something else about you that looks just inaccurate enough to be entertaining. So that’s a waste of your time. And mine,” she said, pointing the tip of a nail into her chest. “You know what happened on her show, right? I’m going to findyou a way to get your statement out there, butGames Overisn’t going to be it.”
He didn’t actually know the details of what happened with Ellie and the show. He could google it, of course, but it didn’t feel right to. How bad could it be? He doubted she was capable of doing anything so horrible that he wouldn’t want to be a guest. Plus, it wasn’t only about him. He’d made a deal with Ellie—no, not a deal, a partnership. The idea of going back on it now, especially since he was trying to regain even a basic trust, yanked a line of tension across the top of his head. Still, how often was Teena wrong about something like this? Was there a number for less than never?
“I hear you. And I trust you, but this is going to be professional,” he said. “I think we can help each other get the right information out there.”
“I don’t represent her. I representyou. That means I have to put you first. Look, I am going to do what I do best, which is make you look like a star. I will let you know when I have an interview situation on lock. Then, it’s up to you to decide whether you want to do this the right way. I never push you. You know that. But I will let you know what I think is going to save your ass before you fall flat on it again.” She smiled, but she wasn’t joking.
“Understood. There’s some other stuff I want to talk to you about. I have made a couple of decisions about what happens after this. I love my brothers and I know that this is going to be a huge disappointment, but—”
“Do me a favor, okay?” she said, cutting him off. “Don’t make any decisions right now. Just wait. I’ve got to go. Stay out of trouble. And probably stay out of the good doctor, too,” she said, eyebrow cocked.
Cris still had a headache fifteen minutes after ending the call. Itwas one thing when he could blow off a press briefing in the cool shade of a recently acquired gold medal. Back then, his reluctance to talk could be spun into “competitive focus,” and the sexy, brooding vibe hadn’t hurt him, but this scandal tore that to shreds. Now, he pictured the press perched at their laptops, a committee of vultures waiting to shred him to pieces for being a washed-up delinquent. Unfortunately,Games Over, which seemed like a cushy and hospitable place to set the record straight, might be perceived as another piece of evidence that he was looking to hide out behind a friend. Teena’s voice rang in his head. She was right to be straight with him. Even he knew that sometimes he only responded to blunt force. No matter how much he hated all of this, running away was not going to work anymore.
He finally disassembled the tower of pantry staples holding up his iPad and returned them to the shelves before heading back up to the guest room to get ready for dinner. Only a few days ago, he felt more alone than he ever had. There was still no guarantee of anything with Ellie, but just the mere fact that they were talking made him hopeful—but for what? He looked around at his old room, a place where he was simply a guest now. Nothing was what it used to be. Not even him.
CHAPTER 16
Ellie sat on the bamboo couch in the living room of her parents’ apartment in her bathrobe as she watched them get ready for dinner while trying to avoid each other. She had already taken a shower but was currently providing the valet services for them that they usually provided for each other. It wasn’t exactly the quality time she wanted in order to talk some sense into either one of them, but it would have to do. She already steamed out the suitcase creases in her dad’s shirt, zipped up her mother’s dress, and was now waiting for the next potential crisis she needed to triage before getting ready herself.
Ellie had been wasting time going down rabbit holes on her phone when she read about a fellow NYU PhD student from the Steinhardt School who was publishing a book on self-compassion and achievement. She tried to ignore the wistful pang she always got when reading about fellow alumni who were doing amazing things. There was this tug from somewhere in her mind about whether or not she measured up to what she considered to be the “real” psychologists in her program.It wasn’t jealousy—more like embarrassment, but she wouldn’t admit that to anyone. She had the PhD in clinical psychology, but what she did not have was a license to practice as a clinician.
On match day at the end of her doctorate, she waited along with all of the other graduates to hear where she would be accepted for her internship. As part of a national program, the internship was necessary training for anyone seeking to be a practicing therapist. Without it, a PhD was almost useless for its intended purpose. One by one, her classmates posted on social media, sent texts, or called one another to share their good news. Ellie’s email never came. In the deepest part of her heart, she knew that she’d half-assed the application process, only selecting a tiny number of programs that she would want to be accepted to—even winging it through an interview or two. She’d sabotaged her chances and as much as she hated to admit it, it was partly because it was easier to get swept up into the life of a show host.
At the end of match day in her final year of the doctoral program, she calmly picked up her phone and accepted a different kind of offer. Magniv Media had given her the shot of a lifetime to take her little kitchen-table podcast to the next level. Sure, she’d be going against every instinct she had to stay away from the world of sports, which seemed to suffocate her family, but at least she’d be working in a psychology-adjacent field. At that moment it had felt like the smart move, and she could always try to get into an internship program the next year. At least, that’s what she told herself as the months ticked by, but she was no closer to reapplying for a match.
Worse still, when she found out that she was autistic, a secret relief whispered into her ear,You did the right thing. Who would have wanted an autistic therapist, anyway?The voice was tiny, but it wasso powerful that it scared her. She would never admit to hearing it, but it continued to haunt her.
“Ellie, can you help me with this clasp?” her mom called from the bedroom. Ellie passed by the bathroom, where her dad was using an enormous brush to rake back the scant hairs that covered the top of his head.
“We have a smaller comb, Dad,” she said to his reflection in the mirror.
“It’s okay, I have a big head,” he said, placing the brush into a drawer. He reached for an orangey-red bottle of cologne that sat on a ceramic tray on the clean counter and held it out to her for inspection. “This one?”
“That one is nice,” she said, smiling at the same bottle of Fahrenheit he’d probably had since the fragrance launched. He spritzed the cologne into his hands and patted it around his neck like he always did, as though it were aftershave. Ellie was going to tell him for the millionth time that it would last longer if he just sprayed it directly onto himself, but her eyes fell on a book that was sitting on the edge of the counter. It had a black cover with a drawing of a red truck in the middle. The title,A Thousand Naked Strangers, was scratched out in a bold white font. “Um, should I ask?” She poked at the corner of the book with her finger.
“It’s not mine,” he said, grinning.
“Well, whose is it? And what is it?” Ellie picked up the book and flipped it over to read the blurb on the back.
