“I’m just going to kill it,” I say. “Don’t make it a double homicide.”
“I’ll get you an un-killable plant.” She flips a page. “You need it.”
When we left New York, Katie packed up her entire—already overstuffed—apartment and had her life shipped across the continent. I shoved four boxes of books into the corner of her moving truck, filled two suitcases with clothes, and left everything else behind.
It took Katie three days to re-create her cozy, colorful bohemian home. I’ve been in my place a year and I still haven’t bought a bed frame. The couch is from the “As Is” section of Ikea, the table from my parents’ attic, and the dresser from the last person who lived here.
I could have taken half of what I’d had in New York, but I hadn’t wanted any of it.
“This place looks like a depressed college student lives here,” my sister had said the last time she visited.
I used to love nesting. I’d search for art and vintage furniture and weird ceramics to fill my home. Right now, the only decoration in the whole apartment is a half-finished puzzle on my dining table.
My therapist thinks I’m afraid to put down roots again.
I don’t think she’s wrong, but knowing that doesn’t mean I’ve been able to do anything about it.
If I leave for the weekend, I’m certain Katie will do more than just buy a couple of plants for me.
“I can’t go to Montana with Gabe Parker,” I say.
“With Gabe,” she corrects. “He’s just Gabe.”
I glare at her.
“You’re supposed to be the voice of reason.”
She laughs. It is, of course, a complete lie. No one has ever accused Katie of being the voice of reason in any situation.
“You know that’s not why I’m here,” she says.
She’s the kind of person you call when you need to rob a bank and you want someone to give you permission to rob that bank.
My bag is by the door. The car will be here any minute.
“If you really want, when your ride gets here, I can go outside and tell them that you’ve changed your mind,” Katie says.
I gnaw on the corner of my lip.
“Is that what you want?” Katie asks.
“This is a bad idea,” I say.
She pats the sofa cushion next to her. I sit.
“You know what I’m going to say.”
“Maybe,” I say.
I still want to hear it. Because Katie is the only person who knows the actual truth about what happened between me and Gabe. She knows because after the Brooklyn party, after everything Jeremy said, after I showed up on her doorstep, soaked to the skin, throat sore from crying, I told her everything.
Katie believes in the power of the universe and karma and purpose. I know, as far as she’s concerned, the reason that Gabe is back in my life is some sort of sign. And it’s my responsibility to follow such a sign.
“He’s not Jeremy,” Katie says.
I let out a breath.
She’s right, but that’s not the only reason I’m hesitating.
I can’t escape Gabe, and it feels almost pointless to try.
After my first book came out, I was invited to appear on Good Morning Today. My first TV appearance, and I’d been excited and nervous. Jeremy hadn’t been able to come, but Katie had been my plus-one in the greenroom and she’d helped calm me down before I went on. I’d worn a blue-patterned dress that another writer friend assured me would look good on TV. I’d had someone do my hair and makeup.
It was going to be a short segment—a chance for me to talk about the collection—and my agent was excited for the exposure.
I hadn’t been prepared for how bright and alienating the set had felt. I was grateful that I hadn’t had to walk out on camera, that I was seated during their commercial break and mic’ed up. It had felt as if Carol Champion—the host—and I were on a little, isolated island in the middle of blinding lights.
All I could see was Carol, and I focused on her like she was the life raft I was swimming toward.
It started out fine. Carol asked about the book and I was able to string together several coherent sentences. I’d even made her laugh. Then, with a conspiratorial smile, she had leaned toward me.
“We obviously have to talk about the article,” she’d said.
It had felt like my own smile was bolted to my face.
“Obviously,” I’d said.
I’d been prepared for it. I was always prepared for it.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the way Carol sat back and looked directly over my shoulder at the camera.
“You all know the article I’m talking about,” she’d said before giving a big, broad wink. “The one that made Gabe Parker a household name.”
“Well, I’m sure he didn’t need my help with—”
“Have you seen him since the article?” Carol asked.
My hands had gone cold.
“No.”
“Really?” Carol’s face had been a contortion of faux surprise. “You haven’t kept in touch?”
“It was just one interview.” I’d tried to redirect the conversation. “There are several others in the book—”
“What would you say to him if you saw him?” Carol asked. “If he walked out onto this stage right now?”
I don’t even remember what I said. I just know that my brain panicked, like it had been dropped into quicksand and was flailing and only sinking deeper. The thought of Gabe coming out—of the two of us meeting again this way—had caused every part of me to shut off, like a computer booting down.
But Gabe hadn’t been there, and I think Carol apologized for the “harmless prank,” as she called it afterward. Katie said that I had pulled it off fine, but I was pretty sure my impression of a deer in headlights had just added further fuel to the ever-burning rumors that something salacious had happened that weekend and I was just being coy.
Ten years ago, at lunch, I’d thought about fame. About how I wanted it.
I’d been so stupid then. I hadn’t realized that wishing for fame was the ultimate monkey paw of wishes. You’d never see the cost until it had already been paid. Until it couldn’t be undone.