“Really?” His gaze slid from my outstretched hand to my eyes. “For how long? Until…what? My ma says something you don’t like? I expect too much? No, no. I should have listened to you when you said you didn’t want me enough to change. At least in that you were honest.”
I pressed my lips together. I didn’t trust myself to speak without crying, and I couldn’t cry. We were about to walk the red carpet at a mega event. We would be photographed over and over. If I cried, then it would interfere with the image we’d been building for him. So instead I closed my eyes as he continued.
“I was mad, crazy, thinking we were suited. I see clearly now that you’re always going to be too afraid to do anything meaningful that isn’t anonymous. Your job—cleaning up arseholes’ images? That’s shite work. It’s dishonest, and it’s beneath you. But what you do on your blog is meaningful. The charities that benefit, the way you raise awareness about things that matter? That’s meaningful. But you’re too much of a fucking coward to take credit, to take the good that you deserve. I’m not going to waste my time trying to convince you of what you deserve. That’s a losing battle. And I won’t be with a coward.”
My heart didn’t shatter. It cracked. Then it just hung out there, all crumbling and ruined. He was right. I was a coward, and I didn’t know how not to be. He was also right; I didn’t know how to deserve him. I didn’t know where to start.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. We arrived, and he helped me out of the car. He gave me the prescribed kisses, perfectly timed, very passionate, entirely for the benefit of the cameras.
We didn’t speak again. Instead, I did what I knew was expected. I smiled.
What I wanted to do was the opposite. I wanted to frown. I wanted to cry and scream and push him around. I wanted to demand that he not give up on us, on me. As the evening wore on, I felt my smile grow more and more false until it slipped completely from my face.
***
He put me in the limo and muttered something about taking a taxi just before shutting the door.
Given our departing Ireland on two different flights, leaving in separate cars from the premiere, and my waning smile over the course of the evening, I knew someone would remark on the strained air between us. The ideal image of his I’d been working so hard to maintain would be tarnished.
Strangely, while I sat in the back of the limo watching but not seeing the lights of New York fly by my window, I couldn’t muster up enough professionalism to give two shits about his ideal image.
When I arrived home, I stomped into the lobby, feeling oddly furious. With the fury came an unexpected bravery, and I realized belatedly that, on the ride to the event, I shouldn’t have felt hope.
I should have been angry.
I should have pushed him. I should have yelled at him for lying to me and forced him to work things out between us.
I should have demanded it, for us, for myself.
Instead, I’d conceded because I didn’t want to mess up his goddamn ideal image. In doing so, I’d proved him right.
By the time I entered my apartment, I was so beyond pissed, I was in a rage.
I thought about taking a taxi to his apartment, banging on his door, demanding that he open up and kiss me for real. I played the scene over and over in my head. I’d race up the stairs in my evening gown, scream at him to open the door, be a complete lunatic….
Yeah, maybe not so much.
I wanted to demand what I deserved, but I wasn’t magically going to become loud where before I’d always been quiet. I couldn’t change overnight. Not only that, but being a lunatic at 2:00 a.m. would prove nothing in the long run.
I needed to prove—to Ronan and to myself—that I was invested, that I could and would be brave.
And it needed to be something big. And I had to do it soon, like right now. Right this minute.
I spun around my living room, my eyes searching for something, anything—a sign, a clue, a message from above. The fury was quickly giving way to frustrated despair.
But then my phone chimed, alerting me that someone had just messaged The Socialmedialite. It was WriteALoveSong.
I scanned her message which, strangely enough, had a snapshot of Ronan and me at the premiere from earlier in the evening.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Are you back in town yet? I know you don’t do the gossip stuff, but it looks like that rugby guy you like might be calling it quits with his girl. He looks pissed, and she looks petrified.
Quite suddenly, I knew what I had to do, and I found I had the bravery—or stupidity—to actually do it. Before I could lose my nerve, I responded.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: What if I told you that I’m Annie Catrel? What if I told you that I’m crazy in love with Ronan Fitzpatrick? What if I told you he already knows I’m The Socialmedialite, but I freaked out when I found out he knew, and, petrified, I left him in Ireland? And now he’s shut me out?
I hit send then waited, pacing my apartment. WriteALongSong, for better or for worse, was my closest friend. All my earlier reasons for not reaching out to her felt stupid. I suddenly wanted to know her, and I wanted her to know Annie. I was tired of hiding. I wanted a real relationship—with Ronan, with WriteALoveSong, with the world. I wanted to trust. My phone chimed almost immediately with her response.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Haha, funny.
I growled my frustration as I messaged her back.
@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I’m serious. I’m Annie Catrel. I work at Davidson & Croft. I graduated from Wharton School of Business. I’m still wearing the irritating formal dress from earlier, and it itches like hell. I AM HER! And I need your help. I need your help as my friend. What am I supposed to do? I love him. I want to fight for him. How do I fight for him? Tell me what to do.
Five minutes passed, and she didn’t respond. And then five became ten, then twenty. I was staring at my phone, willing her to message me back. I was concentrating so hard that when my phone rang I jumped.
I blinked at the screen and saw that the number was reserved; nevertheless, I quickly swiped my thumb across the screen and answered.
“Hello?”
I heard someone shift in a chair or on a couch before a male voice asked, “Annie?”
I hesitated, frowning at the air in front of me, but then answered, “Uh, yes. Who is this?”
“Annie who is also The Socialmedialite?”
I tensed as the deafening sound of blood rushed between my ears, and I demanded, “Who is this?”
“It’s WriteALoveSong.”
Um…what?
“I…what?”
He cleared his throat, and I heard him shift again in the chair. “I’m WriteALoveSong.”
I blinked at the air in front of me and blurted, “Oh my God! You’re a man!”
He chuckled, “Yes. I’m a man.”
“I thought you were a woman.”
“I figured you did.”
“But-but-but you’re a man.”
“Yes.”
A smile laden with incredulity tugged on my lips, and I shook my head. “I-I can’t believe—I can’t believe I’m talking to you. How did you get my number?”
“I looked up Annie Catrel; she—I mean, you—have an unlisted number, which is smart. But I have a friend who can get me any number I need, listed or unlisted.”
“Well, that’s handy.”
“Yes, it can be.”
We were silent for a long moment, and my heart was acting all wonky, my internal temperature rising then falling. Somehow I needed to get Ronan’s attention, convince him that I was all in. I needed my friend’s help—I needed WriteALoveSong’s help—and so I’d trusted that she would want to help.
But she was a he…and I didn’t know if that changed everything.
Ronan had been so right. The physical—for better or for worse—mattered. It was part of the person, and it was diluted, changed by the barrier of online interactions. I’d known WriteALoveSong for over two years, but…did I really? Obviously not.
I inhaled, intent on apologizing for bothering him with my girl drama, but he spoke before I could. “Annie, we’re friends, right?”