I sigh then shrug helplessly, admitting the cold truth. “Okay, I was rude.”
Her tight smile shows no teeth and no pleasure. “That’s a start. But you were also rude to Kendrick and to Payton. Is that how you behave with guests? You say those sorts of things to clients?”
My cheeks redden with shame. “How do you know what I said?”
“I heard from the hosts and hostesses. And I saw their faces as you crashed each conversation with that crazed look in your eye. I can’t even imagine what you said to Bellamy.” Her stare intensifies, burning through me.
“I said . . .” The conversation with her replays in my head, but I don’t want to hear my foolish words again. “A lot of things,” I mumble.
“Like?”
But I don’t think it’s what I said that sent her away. It’s what I didn’t say. I didn’t say how I feel about her, or us, or anything.
I didn’t tell her a shred of the truth.
“Look,” I say, zeroing in on work, “just tell me what I need to do to fix the party.” I’ve got to be able to do that much.
But when I return to the main space, I see the event is a lost cause. Only stragglers are left.
Even if I was in my own world, I have excellent hosts and hostesses.
Terrific staff.
A great theme.
Fantastic drinks.
But this is like a high school party after the cops have been called.
It’s all my fault. I left, abandoning the scene. A host shouldn’t do that.
This vacant space is all my doing.
I set to work cleaning up, and I go home alone.
As I stare out at the city from my window, I hit play one more time on Bellamy’s podcast.
And what if he does want the same things? What if he’s changed? What if he’s open to all the possibilities?
I brace myself for the next part.
Chin up; lipstick on. Sometimes you have to talk to the frog no matter how much it scares you.
And I listen to the end yet again.
I’d rather kiss this one frog than any others, but first, I have to use my mouth to tell him how I feel.
I’m on my eleventh listen. Maybe my ninety-seventh. Who knows? It’s after midnight and the pad of my finger is sore from hitting play over and over on her podcast.
Every repeat reminds me that I blew it tonight—big time.
I toss the phone onto the couch, but I miss, and it hits the tiled floor with a loud clack, skids, then bangs into a couch leg.
Doesn’t matter. I don’t need a recording of what she said to me in front of the elevators. It’s etched in my mind.
I fell in love with you, you fucking idiot. I don’t want anyone else. I want you to be mine. All mine. Don’t you get it, Easton?
A pang jabs at my heart as I remember those words.
Words I wanted to reciprocate but didn’t.
Because of those damn flickering lights.
Because my heart is petrified of feeling something so damn good that I could lose again.
I stare at the city, my forehead against the cool glass, my breath steaming it up. I think over the last few weeks and all the things Bellamy and I did together, the time we spent, everything we shared.
My wandering thoughts stray to the city below as New York after midnight unfurls beneath me. Friends and couples stream in and out of bars, pool halls, ice cream shops, clubs, cafés. People come and go, together and apart.
And I’m not there with her.
I’m up here, alone, when I could be in Chelsea with her. Or she could be here. If I’d gotten out of my own way, said something, I could have been one of those people down there. That’s what I want. I want what they have.
“Fuck me,” I mutter. That stabbing feeling in my chest returns. Jab, jab. But it’s faster, the knife going deeper.
That clawing, too-heavy feeling from earlier is not gone at all. It’s multiplied by stupidity, making me even more hollow.
Slowly, I bang my head against the window.
Thunk.
And again.
Tha-thunk.
And that solves nothing.
“Man the fuck up,” I say. I’ve got to do something. I have no clue where to start, but if I owe my guests an apology, I sure as shit owe one to Bellamy.
Peeling away from the wall, I stalk over to the couch and grab the phone from the floor. Slumping onto the cushions, I open the screen, hop over to my email, and send her a letter.
42
Just the Start
From the Email Correspondence of Bellamy Hart and Easton Ford
* * *
Dear Bellamy,
* * *
I am so sorry. I was rude. I was a jealous jackass, and I did try to sabotage you. I behaved horribly. There’s a lot more I need to say, but I wanted to start by asking if you can forgive me.
* * *
Easton
Dear Easton,
* * *
Of course.
* * *
I understand that some nights we simply aren’t operating at our best.
* * *
Be well, Easton.
* * *
Bellamy
43
The King of Epic Bonehead Moves
As the bright light of morning streams into my bedroom, I know three things.
I miss Bellamy.
I fucked up.
And I pray that’s her call rattling my phone on the nightstand.
But the screen flashes with a cartoon avatar of a bearded dude wearing a crown.
“King TJ,” I grunt, hoarse with sleep.
“Well, if it isn’t the King of Epic Bonehead Moves,” he says.
I close my eyes, push my head against the pillow, and groan. “Word travels fast.”
“It does, indeed. Grandma texted me,” he says. Despite the complete suckitude of my life right now, I manage a small smile. Coco has taken all my friends under her bossy wing. “I heard you fucked up and need some spiritual guidance from a pro.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
TJ laughs. “Fuck if I know why she thinks I’d be any good at this, considering my love life is in shambles.”
“Join the club, man.” I sit up, squinting as the sun pelts me with its rays. It’s got a lot of nerve, shining so bright after last night.
“But I’m not calling to commiserate,” says TJ. “I’m calling because the one thing I do know is that when situationships”—I picture him drawing air quotes around the word—“like yours go belly up, you need to get your ass out of bed the next day. Meet me for a run in thirty. The usual spot.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, even though I can’t outrun my fuck-up.
I spend the first mile thinking, and TJ is friend enough to keep quiet and let me do that.
By the second mile, I admit I’m out of my element and I need help. “What would you do if this were one of your stories?”