“I’d raise my eyebrows, but I just had some Botox.” Poppy pointed to her forehead, which didn’t move. “Trust that I’m impressed.”
When Whisked Away came out, Sophie’s publicist, editor, and agent had all encouraged her to build up her social-media presence. The more followers she had, the more book sales they could bring in. Which meant she had to try her best to curate an exciting and bookish life, like an author you might want to be friends with. Even though she was squarely an introvert, part of the game was putting herself on display. So she’d posted selfies wearing bright pink lipstick in bookshops, lined up her to-be-read list in her apartment, written quippy captions, and done Ask Me Anythings on her Instagram stories. She wasn’t famous, like Nina, but she had fans.
Still, she had a sinking suspicion this was not what her team had in mind when they suggested she try to grow her social following.
“Are you really going to meet up with your exes?” Nina sipped from her cappuccino. “As someone who made the mistake of meeting up with an ex to hash things out, it doesn’t always end well.”
“I don’t want to see them either, really, but maybe I’ll learn something about myself. I mean, it’s weird that I’ve had a few long-term relationships but never said I love you. And I do want to find someone.” Sophie fanned herself, feeling intensely warm from the overhead sun plus all the attention.
Poppy suddenly gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. Still, she managed to talk through the hand wall. “Carla. Heart doctor slash heartbreaker. You won’t see her, right?”
Sophie stabbed a piece of burrata with her fork and took a bite before answering. “Carla did text me.”
Poppy gripped the sides of the table dramatically. “No! That gorgeous temptress. What does she want?”
When it came to Sophie’s relationship with Carla, her ex had the upper hand in several ways. For example, Sophie still followed Carla on Instagram, but Carla didn’t follow her back. And Sophie had, on a handful of occasions, reached out to try to reconcile. She’d sent Carla a Happy Birthday text, then tried calling her after she’d had a gummy-bear edible and was feeling sad. Carla never responded—another move that gave her the prime position of the ex who was better off. So to see Carla finally reach out after something completely humiliating had happened was an unfortunate plot twist in the novel of Sophie’s life.
“Carla said she saw the video.” Sophie dabbed her lip with a napkin.
“Ugh.” Poppy’s beaded bracelets had ridden up her arm, and she smoothed them back down toward her hands. “Of course she did. I think all exes have radar that beeps anytime we fuck up. Not that you fucked up. Just, ya know, had a moment. You know what I mean.”
“I do.” Though, Sophie was sure an embarrassed flush crept across her cheeks.
“Do you still have feelings for her?” Nina asked.
Sophie pursed her lips. “I mean, I don’t know? Carla has always been my catnip.”
“Yes.” Poppy raised her glass of celery juice in acknowledgment.
“Or kryptonite? I never really read comic books, but she always makes me—”
“Not yourself,” Poppy cut her off.
“Right.” Sophie did know that Carla brought out a different side of her—some of that great, and some of it less so. But still, she’d almost loved Carla. They had history, and Sophie thought she’d be a good ex to talk to, especially if there was still a connection between them. She wouldn’t know for sure until they saw each other again.
Sophie put the phone back in her dress pocket and exhaled sharply. She knew what she had to do.
Nina was right: there would be another book. Sophie would make their mom proud. She wouldn’t be a one-hit wonder, and she wasn’t going to let her writer’s block get the best of her. She was a fighter, and self-sufficient, the way their mother had taught them to be. She’d worked hard to get to where she was, so she was going to do everything she could to save her career and find a happily-ever-after she could write about, even if it meant putting herself out there way more than she liked.
“I’ll be right back.” Sophie pushed her chair out and stood from the table.
She walked through the restaurant and wove around the tables. She overheard hints of conversations—“She’s a Pisces rising with a Capricorn moon? You better run”—and took a moment to eye a massive, framed painting of bananas covered in the Louis Vuitton logo. Eventually she found the bathrooms and locked herself in a stall.
She leaned a shoulder against the wall and took out her phone. Loud background music played through the speakers as she went into her texts and typed in Carla’s name. She stared at the message from her: Saw the video... Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. She’d never been given closure with Carla. So maybe talking to her could finally help Sophie understand what had happened with their relationship. And, whatever—Carla had already seen her at her lowest because she’d watched the viral video—there wasn’t much else to lose.
Sophie shook the lingering apprehension out of her shoulders, then typed back, Yeah, about that video... Can we talk? and hit Send.
So what if Carla never responded? At least Sophie would know that she’d tried. And if Carla did want to talk, then maybe Sophie could turn it into a new book idea, or something.
Sophie unlocked the bathroom door and pushed it open just as her phone pinged with a text. When she glanced down at the screen, she stopped abruptly in her tracks.
Carla: That would be good.
When Nina dropped her back off at home, Sophie felt motivated for the first time in a long time. She had a mission, a potential way out of her writer’s-block fog, and she also had a bag filled to the brim with cinnamon-sugar bagels—Dash’s favorite treat, according to Poppy. She wanted to properly apologize for the previous morning’s...disaster. Vomit fest? Whatever, she planned to make things right.
Sophie avoided the fallen purple petals from the overhead jacaranda trees as she walked across the pavers of her lawn that led to Dash’s 1920s Spanish-style house. When she got to his door, she rolled back her shoulders and rang the bell. For some reason, a little jitter of nerves fluttered through her at the idea of seeing him again. Or maybe she’d had one too many coffee refills at breakfast. So she took a breath in, put on a smile, and told herself to relax.
And she did relax, sort of, because Dash didn’t immediately answer. She waited, and waited some more. She stood outside for what seemed like a few solid minutes, then checked her phone. It was noon, practically lunchtime. The sun had fully come out, and the air had turned into the dry desert heat she actively avoided by staying inside. But maybe Dash wasn’t home, though his car was in the driveway...