“When I first read it, I did think it was great,” Flynn begins, then pauses, his brow knitting. He’s quiet, and there’s nothing worse on live TV than silence.
“And now it must be incredible. What with the book topping bestseller lists and helping bring those huge new crowds to your café?” Trish prompts.
More silence.
TJ sits up straighter, fear flickering in his brown eyes, awareness registering.
Oh, shit.
Flynn looks down, grabs the mic from his shirt, tugs at it, irritated. “Now, it’s just awful. I’ve been turned into a laughingstock—a circus sideshow. I only want to make the chicken, cook for people, and get great reviews. But that hardly matters anymore. I’m just some novelist’s trophy boyfriend.” He turns to TJ. “It’s all been about you—your coffee shop writing and your punny titles that you ask my advice on. But you can’t do that anymore—because we are over.”
Flynn storms off the set on live TV, but the camera doesn’t leave TJ. His gorgeous eyes are etched with utter shock. He mouths what, and I fill in the rest—what the hell just happened to me? I feel his pain in the way my chest clutches, my stomach curls, and I wish I could kiss it away.
Dumped on TV by a wanker who’s trying to get press for a chicken café?
And I thought the shit Arlo did was bad.
This is infinitely worse.
During the performance of Pillow Talk the next night, I pour those heartbreaking emotions TJ must have felt into my performance. The audience gives me a standing ovation.
I relish every second of their cheers. Especially since I know what it’s like to hear silence. To wander past theaters and wish I were part of the cast. To flip through channels and long for opportunities to leave it all on stage.
A few days later, the director gathers us backstage. “Good news. We had some American producers at our Sunday night show. Later this month, they’re taking Pillow Talk to Los Angeles for a limited run with the original London cast.”
I freeze, letting the enormity of the news sink in. That’s almost too good to be true. “Are you serious?” I ask.
“Completely,” the director says, filling me with the hope of breaking out of this plateau where I’ve been the past few years. This is my chance to finally reach the next level.
My castmates and I cheer, then indulge in a long group hug. I’m the last to let go. As the director shares more details, I feel all fizzy inside.
I’ve never been to the States. I haven’t had the chance to court the star-makers in Hollywood yet, having only now and then nabbed small parts in American flicks shot in England.
Something else appeals to me about America. Sure, Los Angeles isn’t close to New York, but it’s a whole lot closer than London is, especially when you’re both single and made a deal on a bridge seven years ago.
29
The Dating Vaccine
Some weeks later
* * *
TJ
* * *
I should be better at this breakup shit.
Considering all the imaginary people I’ve tortured. I’ve written ten romance novels, so I’ve eviscerated twenty fictional hearts. Often, in all sorts of terrible ways—from a dead girlfriend, to a six-time cheating boyfriend, to an awful liar of an ex who stole money, drugs, and diamonds. And in the ultimate shitty ex backstory, I gave one of the heroes in Top-Notch Boyfriend an ex who ghosted him by taking off for New Zealand, faking his death along the way.
Incidentally, that bit was pure fiction. To all the critics who claim Top-Notch Boyfriend is ripped from the headlines of my life, I say this: “Go show me my ex who faked his death.”
Wait.
Shit.
Hold on.
Do I have an ex who’s faked his death to get out of seeing me?
Actually, I’d rather not know.
Point is, I should be better at whizzing through all this heartache stuff and getting to the other side, since I had to fix those twenty imaginary hearts and architect all their happy endings.
Instead, I’m still in a funk. Partly because someone is staring at me at this coffee shop in Chelsea, and it’s not my friend Hazel across the table. The gawker stands next to the counter, a college-age guy with electric-blue hair, a nose ring, and an OMG expression. Lifting his phone, he whispers to a girl next to him in goth gear, whose jaw then drops to the floor.
Turns out, I’m actually the circus sideshow.
I wave. “Yup. It’s me. I’m the one you’re thinking of. Trish’s Morning News Show,” I say, and if I could hunker down and write at home, I would. But I’m a coffee shop writer, as Flynn so thoughtfully pointed out, so I’m here.
The guy’s smile ripens, like he can’t believe his luck. Stepping closer, he clears his throat. “We’re on Team TJ. Flynn is such a fame monger,” he says, raising a fist in solidarity. “We boycotted his chicken café.”
“And we left one-star reviews for it on Yelp,” the girl adds.
“Work it,” Hazel chimes in.
Then, the strangers snap a pic of me. I manage a small smile.
When they walk back to the counter, I slump in my seat, plant my face on the wood table. Portrait of Modern Dating Carnage—that’s what they’ll call this photo if anyone else snaps the shot of me while walking past Big Cup Coffee on Thirteenth Street.
A soft hand pats my hair. “The number of sightings is way down,” Hazel says.
Right after the breakup video went viral, people recognized me every day—as I got on the subway, went to the gym, grabbed a coffee. Now, more than a month later, it’s down to a couple times a week. The Internet moved on to fresh clickbait—a former child star turned out to be a secret cult leader, a woman found a turtle in a hamburger shop and adopted it. Named it Lunch.
“Yay, me,” I tell Hazel. I’m nearly yesterday’s news. I only need to ride this spotted-in-the-wild phase a little longer.
My friend strokes my hair. “You okay?”
“Fantastic. Never been better.”
“Ah, let me get out my decoder ring and translate that.”
That piques my interest, and I lift my face an inch. “I want to see this ring.”
The redhead across from me taps her temple. “I store it up here.” She shifts into a coolly robotic voice. “Target acquired is one TJ Hardman. Defeated, beleaguered wordsmith who hasn’t written a single word all day.”
Hazel shuts her laptop then clicks the screen closed on mine, a satisfied glint in her eyes.
“I didn’t save what I was working on,” I protest as I sit up.
“TJ,” she says pointedly. “You weren’t working.”
Fine, fine. Why does she have to be so right? “I wrote a Twitter post.”
“I know. I saw. It said Coffee is life. We need to jump-start you, stat.”
I stare through the window at the New Yorkers streaming by after work while the sun dips low on the horizon. “Why am I such a mess? I don’t get it. I don’t even miss Flynn.”
Turns out it’s super-easy to get over someone when he jerks the rug out from under you in front of, oh, say, everyone in the world.