“I don’t know, I don’t think of Cynthia as manipulative. She may be ruthless, but she doesn’t lie.” I wish I didn’t respect her as much as I do; it would make her criticism so much easier to dismiss.
“If that’s how you feel, then I guess the more important question is: Do you think she’s right?”
I gulp. It’s the million-dollar question, but putting my own behavior under the microscope like this is excruciating. “I do assign a lot of my best story ideas to other people.”
Nat flicks a dismissive wrist. “You’re an editor—it’s your job to assign stories. You can’t write every one yourself.”
“What about the fact that I can’t seem to get anywhere on my book? I’ve been talking about it for years now and have nothing to show for it.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to change that. Why don’t you take this righteous anger you’re feeling and use it as motivation? Channel it into your writing and prove her wrong.”
I blow a raspberry. “Right now, I just feel like having a pity party.”
She flashes a palm in solidarity. “Understood. I will stop offering productive solutions to your problems. Vent away.”
“Thank you.” Our waitress returns with the plate of fries Nat ordered and my refreshed drink, which I grab right out of her hand. “You know what I was doing before you got here? Scrolling through old articles to see if I could classify any of my work as ‘risky.’ Spoiler alert: nope.”
“You know, looking at it another way, one could say that you’re ‘risking it all for love.’?” She laces her fingers under her chin and bats her eyelashes theatrically.
“Oh please, we’ve only been on three dates. You can’t be in love with someone you barely know.”
“Speak for yourself! If Gabriel had asked me to marry him on our first date, I would’ve said yes.”
I fake-gag, then throw her a smile to let her know I’m kidding. “But that’s you.”
“Exactly. That’s me. I’m impulsive and reckless. And I have this idiotic butterfly tattoo on my ankle to prove it.” She sticks her leg out in proof. “I go with my gut, and you think things through. Neither is wrong.” She pauses. “Well, this tattoo was definitely wrong,” she mutters.
I sigh and stare down at the table, ripping my soggy cocktail napkin into tiny pieces.
“Cass, tell me the truth about what’s going on with Jack,” she says gently. “You obviously have feelings for him. What really happened last night? No one here is going to judge you.”
I exhale a breath. I purposely only shared vague details of my date-gone-wrong-then-right last night (torching the Engagement Chicken makes for an entertaining anecdote, after all), but if I’m planning to seriously pursue something with Jack, I’ll need to bring Nat into the circle of trust sooner or later—and at this point, I desperately need someone to confide in.
So I confess it all: the attraction I’ve felt building since our first date at the US Open, how different he is than I expected, the crushing guilt of lying to him, and my epiphany about my feelings for him, all culminating in the steamy kitchen hookup I can’t seem to stop replaying in my mind on an endless loop. Just recounting it fogs up the windows of this bar.
Nat’s eyes are wide as cake plates as she leans back in her chair and whistles. “Wooow. I had no idea things had gone this far. I just thought you had some sort of schoolgirl crush!”
It’s such a relief to finally come clean; I didn’t realize how badly I needed to unburden myself. “Last night, in his kitchen? I’m telling you Nat, it was the hottest moment of my entire life. And I don’t mean ‘since Brett,’ or ‘since my college boyfriend’—I mean ever. And all we were doing was kissing! Fully clothed kissing, at that. In fact, I think one of the reasons it was so hot was because—”
“You set his kitchen on fire?” She grins wickedly.
“No.” I ball up what’s left of my napkin and chuck it at her while she snickers. “It was because I knew he wasn’t going to try to take things any further. Who knew delayed gratification was such a turn-on? It’s like the more he respects my boundaries, the more I want to jump his bones. It’s the strangest, most effective form of reverse psychology ever.”
“You’re living a real-life slow burn,” she says cheekily, sipping her wine.
“I am! And the weird thing is, I feel like I know Jack better after three dates than after three months of dates with Brett. How is that even possible?”
“Anything’s possible with the right guy,” she singsongs, her dark eyes twinkling.
I level her with a stern look. “Let’s be clear: Jack Bradford is not the ‘right’ guy. In fact, he’s precisely the wrong man for me to be falling for. Cupid has a twisted sense of humor,” I grumble as I slurp my drink. Stupid Cupid. “It’s not fair.”
“If life were fair, every dress would have pockets.”
I snort, inhaling my drink in the process and setting off a prolonged coughing fit.
She slides me my water and leans forward. “Listen, you’ve been resisting this since the very beginning. I think you need to let go of all these guardrails you’ve put up and allow yourself to explore what an actual relationship with Jack would be like. You need to find out how you truly feel about him without it feeling ‘forbidden’ or off-limits. It’s the only way you’ll know for sure if there’s something real there.”
I consider her words thoughtfully. It’s essentially the same conclusion I’ve already come to, though I don’t think I realized how badly I needed to hear her vote of confidence. Or any vote of confidence, really. My judgment’s been so out of whack lately that I don’t even trust myself to see things clearly anymore.
She’s studying me, the corner of her mouth curved up. “Did you know you smile when you say his name?”
My cheeks heat. “I do?”
“Totally. Your face gets all flushed and dreamy.” I bury said face in my hands, embarrassed. “What? It’s sweet! You like him, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Isn’t there, though? Aren’t I essentially choosing a guy over my career? I don’t want to be known as ‘the girl who didn’t go to Paris.’?”
We exchange matching grimaces, the pain of LC choosing Jason Wahler over a summer internship at French Vogue still fresh.
“And the thing is, Cynthia’s not wrong; I am a little blinded by my attraction to him,” I admit. “After all, he’s still the guy who runs Brawler. That hasn’t changed.”
“But your opinion of him has changed. You said it yourself, he’s nothing like the site, nothing like you thought he’d be. Evolving your position based on new information is a sign of strength, not weakness.”
I huff a laugh. “You’d make an excellent politician.”
“Are we really all that different, though? They’re playing to their audience just like we are. Brawler gives Siren a hard time, and we give it right back. We’re not exactly saints here.” She pops another fry into her mouth. “Come to think of it, a little healthy competition makes for great foreplay.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“Well, I hope foreplay’s enough to satisfy him for a while, because . . .” I trail off, second-guessing that dash of honesty. Nat won’t understand this.