“I don’t know. What do you think, Anette?”
“It wouldn’t be much of a celebration without us.”
I was staring at them both, utterly confused, when Xan appeared at our table with a ginormous frosted cake full of rainbow-colored sprinkles.
Anette slipped on a brightly colored paper cone hat. “Congratulations, Evie!”
“Whatever for?” I asked, astonished.
“For getting NOB to finish the script!” Anette grinned. “We knew you could do it.”
Ben blew on a party blower he’d produced from somewhere.
“This is amazing, thank you.” I’d told Ben last week that refusing to do the meet-cutes had worked. He must have thought it was all over. I was so touched I almost didn’t want to correct them. “But NOB hasn’t quite finished yet.”
Ben removed his party blower. “You still have to meet someone?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. For such a little word, it felt strangely hard to say.
“There’s still time,” Anette said. I very much hoped Ben hadn’t noticed the look his daughter gave him when she said that.
“I’ll just leave this here, then,” Xan said, placing the cake down. “Can I tempt any of you with my latest orange smoothie mash-up? This time, I’ve used avocado and raw—”
“No,” all three of us said.
“Coffee it is, then.” Xan did a “to each their own” shrug as he left.
“Make a wish,” Ben said, handing me the knife. He pulled Anette close, resting his chin on her shoulder, hooded eyes on me. It was kind of adorable.
I thought about what I wanted. To meet someone, surely. If this was a rom-com, two weeks would be more than enough for two people to fall for each other. One Fine Day. Two Weeks Notice. Moonstruck. In real life, it felt like an impossible time frame. And even if I was successful, after Ricky, I didn’t want to risk actually falling for . . .
Why am I still thinking this way? Sod Dicky. I’d spent a year believing I wasn’t good enough for him. After his behavior at the Ash, it was time to start accepting that he wasn’t good enough for me. I had two weeks left. NOB was so close to the finish line. My promotion, saving the agency—it was all within reach. And all I had to do was meet one single man and I could have everything I’d always wanted. That’s what I should wish for.
But is that all you want?
“I’m aging here.” Anette giggled as her dad tickled her.
“Okay, okay, I’ve got one,” I laughed, slicing into the cake and seeing it had rainbow layers.
I wish I could be a writer again.
* * *
“Red! Hey, Red!”
I looked up in shock. NOB was waving at me from the doorway.
What was going on? NOB? Here? In Gil’s? That just felt . . . wrong somehow. How had he even known where I’d be? Then I remembered my excuse for leaving last night—that I had to be up early to write up the meet-cute, as awry as it had gone. He’d pressed me for details—I thought to make sure I was definitely writing my report—but I hadn’t imagined for one second he’d turn up.
Yet here he was, standing over us, grinning that dazzling, too-white smile of his.
“Ah, the famous Gil’s. This is the place you do my reports? It’s so . . . provincial. Hard to believe we’re still in London.”
“What do you want?” I asked, seeing Ben and Anette’s identical scowls.
NOB held his hand out toward Ben.
“I’m Ezra, awesome to meet you. And you are?” After a pause, Ben shook his hand. It was like that moment in Ghostbusters when the streams crossed.
Anette was gaping at Ezra with frank fascination.
“I know who you are, you’re N—”
“Ben,” said Ben quickly, saving me.
“Why are you here, Ezra?” I asked. “I’m with my friends. Can’t it wait?”
“Sorry to interrupt your . . . lunch?” NOB said, taking in the half-eaten cake. “I’m here about our date, Red. You left last night before we could put something in the diary.”
Ben’s eyebrows shot up.
“There is no date, Ezra,” I told him, wondering at Ben’s reaction. I had complained about NOB frequently, it was probably that.
“You’re the screenwriter,” Anette said, apparently undeterred.
“My reputation precedes me,” NOB said, pleased.
“The one that can’t write.”
Ben choked on his coffee.
Anette ate a forkful of cake, humming to herself. NOB looked at her, perturbed. I gave Ben a pleading glance. After a moment, he nodded, retrieving Anette’s book out of her backpack, along with what looked like a photographer’s autobiography for himself. NOB was frowning at them both, then his eyes widened. He turned his head toward me. Oh, no, don’t you dare . . .
Silently, he mouthed the words Dull Dad?
Oh, no. He remembered the report about Anette’s school play. Streams well and truly crossed. He had to leave.
“Don’t you have a script to write?”
I mouthed Behave to him and checked to make sure Ben hadn’t seen. He was studying his book with an intensity it probably hadn’t done anything to deserve.
“That’s why I’m here.” Before I could protest, NOB slid into one of the chairs opposite us like he owned the place. “Ah, perfect,” he declared, eyeing the remains of cake. “May I?” He helped himself to a huge slice without waiting for a reply. When Anette signed furiously at Ben, he tapped her book, then concentrated firmly on his own.
“First of all, that wasn’t for you,” I said, tugging the plate from NOB’s hands. “Second, you do realize that cake is one giant glutenous carb, don’t you?”
“That’s kind of the point.” He scooped the slice from the plate, took a deep breath, and pushed half of it into his mouth.
“What are you doing?” I said, exasperated.
A throat cleared. It was Xan, with a large coffee. He looked between NOB and Ben and then at me. NOB gagged as he swallowed. “That’s full-fat milk and caffeinated, right?”
“That is what you ordered,” Xan replied, heading off with a roll of his eyes.
“What’s going on, Ezra?”
NOB took a huge gulp, shuddering at the taste.