I nodded. “Yeah, he is.” And I meant it. Trevor, for all his flaws, had been a dedicated and loyal boyfriend for years.
“And you’re an adjunct writing professor now?” Jase asked.
“More like an underpaid instructor,” I corrected him.
“Well, I know you’re so much more than that.” The look on his face was like the look I remembered from when we were young. Few people in my life were as truly open-hearted as Jase. Though he could be cocky and stubborn, he could also be intensely sincere.
“Those who can’t do . . . you know . . .” I shrugged. “I’m figuring out what to do next. I never really had your writing chops.”
“I doubt that’s true. You’ve always been so hard on yourself.” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. I instinctively gave in to the moment of intimacy, my urge to run dissolving from moment to moment. “Why did you come here, Em? Why are you so torn?”
I looked up at him. “I came here because I would do anything you asked me to.” My voice trembled.
He smiled. “Anything?”
I nodded.
“Then break up with him.”
I withdrew my hand. “You ruined me that night, and you’re ruining me again with this book.”
“I thought I was saving you.”
I started to cry.
“Don’t cry.” He wiped the tears from my face. “You know me, I was trying to be valiant.” He laughed. “Guess my plan didn’t work.”
But it had. He had slain me with his words. I knew what he was trying to do, but so much time had passed. Wasn’t it too late? Why had he waited so long? I had spent seven years with Trevor, almost the same amount of time Jase and I had been friends growing up. I squared my shoulders, collected myself, and sat up.
“Are you sleeping with your agent?” I said out of the blue.
“Are you sleeping with Trevor?”
“Are you?”
“No, Emiline, you’ve been the only woman in my life since I was fifteen.” One side of his mouth turned up. The mood felt lighter.
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“Andrea and I are, hmm, how do you say it?” He looked up and cocked his head like he was thinking. “We’re fucking. Yeah, basically, we’re fucking. Is that okay with you?”
“Do you love her?”
“No.”
“Does she know that?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Why are you being so blasé?”
“I don’t really understand this line of questioning, but if you must know, yes, Andrea and I are colleagues with benefits.”
“That’s unprofessional.”
“We’re grown-ups. She was in an eight-year relationship with some dumbass. She’s not looking for a boyfriend.”
“That’s what you think, but you don’t see how women view you.”
“How do women view me?” he said, taunting me.
I took a sip of wine and rolled my eyes. “I met one of your superfans earlier, and she called you gorgeous and smart and so tuned in to women.”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think of you? Right now, you’re a bit of an enigma to me, but if I were meeting you for the first time, I would say, arrogant, self-aggrandizing, self-absorbed . . .”
“Ouch,” he said, although he didn’t look the least bit wounded. “You really think I’m selfish?”
“I spent years in therapy trying to forget all of the shit we went through. Now you’ve written a book and found success by telling my story to the whole world.” I waved my hand in his direction. “And then you show up looking like this?” I shook my head. “I wish I weren’t so angry with you right now, because I want to hold on to the good memories. Because there were so many good memories.”
“I want to hold you,” he said quickly. “But I can’t because I’m too late.”
“You can’t do this to me after all this time. I have a life now.”
“Don’t be angry with me, Em.” I saw a boyish spark in his eyes as he spoke. “As for the book, read the rest of it if you want. Work it out for yourself—don’t do it for anyone else.” He shook his head then abruptly looked up and called to the server, “Check, please!”
“Already? That’s it? In the book, you made it seem like this was all my doing. But I didn’t turn us in—you did. You’ve been too late for a long time now, Jase, and you only have yourself to blame.”
“Everything I wrote in the book was for a reason. I hoped that you would understand it . . . understand why I changed how that day ended. I hoped writing it from her point of view would help you get inside of Emerson’s head and understand her choices, but it seems like you’re still too resentful.”
“You’re acting as though you wrote it for me,” I said.
“I did,” he said quietly. “Don’t you remember that Vonnegut quote? You’re the one who said it to me. When I was writing the story about the ant family . . .”
I shook my head no, but I did remember.
“Something like, ‘Write for just one person’?”
The waitress brought the bill and Jase handed her a credit card without looking at it.