It wasn’t as if I was famous, but I was known.
And it was clear very early on that the only reason for that was because people wanted to know about that evening. They didn’t want to know about my writing, or my ideas, or literally anything else about me. They wanted to know if I had fucked Gabe Parker at his house one night in December.
My parents had even asked.
“Should we expect him for Shabbat dinner?” had been my mother’s way of inquiring.
“Does he even know what Shabbat is?” was my father’s.
I had laughed it off the way I laughed off all the other questions. I waited for people to stop caring. I had done my best to rise above it and now I was letting myself get sucked right back in.
I should have said no.
I should say no now.
“I can send him away,” Katie says. “I’d be happy to—hell, I’d even put it on my résumé.” She spreads her hands wide. “Los Angeles–area woman sends Gabe Parker—alone—to Montana without a care.”
“It’s unprofessional,” I say.
“That’s not really what you’re worried about,” she says.
I hate how she’s always right.
“This whole thing is ridiculous,” I say. “What am I hoping will happen? I’m not a starstruck twenty-six-year-old kid anymore.”
“That’s true,” Katie says. “You’ve both changed. You’ve both grown up.”
That seems debatable.
“I don’t know what he wants from me,” I whisper.
“I think you do,” she says. “I even think that you might want the same thing.”
I shake my head because I’m too scared to admit that it’s the truth. Because it feels like my second monkey-paw wish. Hope for one thing and get something completely different.
“Go to Montana,” Katie says.
My phone buzzes. The car is here.
“You don’t have to decide anything else,” Katie says. “Take all the time you need. It’s been ten years. There’s no rush.”
It’s permission to rob the bank. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
I take it.
Because no matter what, I need to know how this story ends.
I lug my overnight bag outside and hand it to the driver. He opens the door and I find Gabe in the backseat.
“Oh,” I say, sliding in next to him.
“Do you mind?” he asks. “I figured it would make things a little easier.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t mind.”
I do. I thought I would have a little more time to brace myself for what was coming next. Thought I’d have the car ride to LAX to prepare.
Still, I remind myself, there’s no rush.
“I told you I’d get you out to Montana,” Gabe says.
“Don’t get cocky,” I say.
His smile droops, but just a little.
It’s uncomfortable here in the backseat. The driver has the radio on, but whatever is playing seems to be drowned out by the incredibly awkward tension between me and Gabe.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I finally say.
He shifts, turning toward me.
“I’m not sure either,” he says. “But what’s the worst that could happen?”
It’s not exactly a statement that inspires confidence in me. I don’t like not knowing. The last time I did something this impulsive, I ended up living in New York for almost eight years.
“I think you’ll like Montana,” Gabe says. “We have seasons.”
“Never heard of them,” I say.
He grins, and I can’t help but do the same. I really like the gray in his hair—some of it sprinkled throughout his beard as well. I like the lines bracketing the corners of his eyes.
“I heard they had those in New York,” he says. “Seasons.”
My smile drops away.
“Yes, well,” I say.
“Is he still there?” he asks as if he doesn’t know the answer. “The Novelist?”
“Jeremy,” I say. “He loves it.”
“You didn’t.”
Since he knows about my newsletter, he can probably gauge how I felt about living in New York.
“I didn’t think you would,” he says.
“You don’t know me that well,” I say.
He shrugs. “You said you didn’t like the city,” he reminds me.
I hate that he remembers our conversations. It makes all of this so much harder. Makes it harder to be angry at him. And I want to be angry at him.
It’s easier than being angry at myself. It’s easier than being scared.
“I didn’t know what I was talking about back then,” I say. “I’d never lived there before.”
“But you knew you didn’t like it.”
“What did I know?” I ask. “I was twenty-six. You don’t know anything at twenty-six. I’m astonished by my own arrogance. Of thinking I knew anything.”
“Isn’t that always the case?” he asks. “Don’t you think you’ll say the same thing ten years from now?”
“Yes,” I say, my hackles up.
“You’re awfully hard on yourself.”
“My past self deserves it. She was foolish and na?ve and stupid. She believed things she should have known better than to believe.”
He doesn’t say anything. We both know what I’m talking about. We both know that I’m talking about him. He’s the mistake. The thing I had believed in.
“My past self was pretty stupid too,” he finally says. “Didn’t know a good thing when he had it.”
“You didn’t have me,” I snap. “You barely knew me.”
“I was talking about my career,” he says.
My face gets hot, and I turn away. I feel guilty and like a fool. I want to go back to my sad, empty apartment. I want to write the fastest, laziest version of this article and send it off to my editor. I want to completely, permanently sever my connection to Gabe Parker. I want to be over it. Over him.
“But not just my career,” he adds. Quietly.
It doesn’t help.
Then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, the radio starts playing the song. The song that Gabe and I danced to that weekend. The one where we’d been smushed together, from our chests to our knees, and Gabe had wrapped his arms around me before dipping me low.
Back then, I’d thought it was the sexiest, most romantic thing that had ever happened to me.