CHAPTER 52 (1)

“You’re not going back to New York for your ex,” Timothy states from behind me as I throw my makeup and toiletries into the tiny suitcase on my bed. “It’s work,” I insist. “I’ve been here a week, and even though I told my collaborators what’s going on, they need assurances. Especially Ian, because he’s central to the funding of this entire venture.” The past two days, we’ve been hanging out around the house and the studio. I think he’s worried about me since Sophia fell into the pool, waiting for me to fall apart. I won’t, but I like having an excuse to spend time with him. Once I’ve got my essentials into my bag, I zip the thing closed and drop onto the bed. Timothy crosses to the edge of the bed, leaning over to stare down at me with broody eyes. “I don’t trust him. He’s an asshole.” “Ian?” I laugh. “How do you know?” “Jacob—” “Jacob told you?” I shift up on my elbows. “When did you talk to Jacob about me?” I think he’s going to deny it, but he only tugs on his hair. “In LA. I hate that someone hurt you.” My chest twinges. “You’re a grown man now. You going to beat him up for me?” “If you want.” The earnestness in his voice makes me ache. I shut my eyes, not against him, but against the feelings. I can’t have them. Not because I don’t think he feels something too, but because giving into them is dangerous. I nearly lost myself when I had to let Timothy go the last time. It would break me if I had to do it again. I feel him shift over me, the bed denting under his weight. I blink my eyes open to see him hovering inches away, studying me from under his thick, dark lashes. Every nerve in me tingles with anticipation. Not only between my thighs, but everywhere. “I need to get to the airport,” I say, my voice breathy. Neither of us moves. The past few days with him, the familiarity creeps in everywhere—the inside jokes, the teasing. He’ll smile or say something so classic deadpan Timothy that I have to remind myself we’re not dating. Sometimes, I’m not sure I want to remind myself we’re not dating. He always made me feel things no other guy could, but now he’s making me feel things I didn’t know I was capable of. Physically. Emotionally. And that’s the problem. I care about Timothy more than I should, more than it’s safe to care. But I shove that aside because even if he feels it too, I can’t give in. We’re ships passing, him and me. Even if we can find common ground, how long can it last—a day? A week? The only thing we have in common is that neither of us belongs here, and neither of us can stay. Even if we could, we’ve never been able to stay together for an extended period of time without spinning out. Timothy won’t let me in—truly, deeply let me in—to see his hurt. I can’t be with someone who’d choose to bear his wounds alone. “You can leave after you kiss me,” he says. My fingers find his forearms, digging in. His firm lips are inches away. I want them on me. “No,” I whisper. “Because if I kiss you, I can’t pretend we’re friends right now.” “As opposed to what?” We stare each other down. That I never stopped loving you. That I’m falling for you again. Timothy shifts back, his face unreadable. I get out from beneath him before I change my mind. “When’d you get the ink on your hand?” I ask over my shoulder as I grab the hair dryer I nearly forgot from my bathroom. “In between shows on tour. I wanted to cover up something ugly with something beautiful.” When I return from the bathroom, he’s reclined on the bed. I tuck the dryer in the front pocket of my bag before straightening. “You’re beautiful, Timothy. You will always be beautiful.” I reach for his scarred hand and lift it to my lips. His skin is rough and warm, and I want more of him—all of him. “Whatever’s between us now…” I take a long breath. “It can’t stop me from going to New York. And neither can you.” He pulls his hand back and rises from the bed, his clothes tugging across the strong, deliberate lines of his body. “I know. I’ll take your bag down to the car.” After my flight arrives at La Guardia, I stop by my apartment to drop my things and change. It feels strange to be back after only a week away. It’s my space, filled with things Andie and I love, but suddenly I’m noticing what isn’t here—big, bright windows everywhere letting in natural light, the sound of Sophia’s feet thudding on the carpet as she tears into a room or out of it. Andie texted to say she’s working all weekend, hustling out some gigs with a new agent, and might not be back tonight. In my tiny room, I change into a fitted red dress that ends partway down my thighs. The neck is a V, and I open my jewelry box to search for a chain to wear with it. My gaze lands on one in particular, and my stomach knots. It’s still there, curled into one of the compartments, the rings preserved in time like the rose. My fingers itch, and I think how easy it would be to slip it over my head. In the end, I can’t decide on another necklace, so I go without one. Ian wanted to meet at my apartment, but I told him we’d meet at a restaurant. I should’ve known something was up when he gave me the location. It’s the hottest place in town, inside a shiny, recently reopened Midtown hotel. It’s glass and minimalist elegance. The sky-high ceilings and white space scream money, as they’re meant to. Ian’s waiting at a prime table when I arrive. My ex is the opposite of Timothy, though I never realized it until now. He’s quick with a smile, the life of a party, grew up with everything handed to him. His father’s in real estate; his mother in the arts. He did a combination of things, running galleries, but his real interest is in performance arts. Ian wears a suit like a skin, as if he fell out of bed and slid effortlessly into the tailored wool. “Emily. You look gorgeous,” Ian says easily as I cross to him. I smooth a hand down my dress. The nude open-toe heels were the perfect addition for a business dinner somewhere fancy. I put the outfit on feeling as if I was going into a negotiation, but the way he’s looking at me, he’s not thinking of fighting. Ian steps close, hands resting on my bare arms. I turn my cheek so his kiss lands there, and I step out of his arms smoothly as the waiter holds my chair. “Thank you for booking the restaurant. I’m glad we have an opportunity to talk business.” “Thank you for coming. Let’s order first.” He gets steak, and I order salmon. Once the waiter disappears, Ian grins. “Tell me what you’ve been up to with your family in Dallas. I hope I didn’t drag you away.” A glass of wine appears without my ordering it, and I take a sip, grateful. “My family is fine, thank you. I hope yours is too.” “You know my mom. It’s the middle of fundraising season, so she’s in her element.” I smile tightly. “The show’s nearly completed. As you know, I’m working on the lyrics for the last couple of songs. Honestly, I hoped it’d come faster. But they’re the most important.” Ian’s smile doesn’t waver. “Emily, I know we planned to more formally discuss my involvement in funding after the reading next month.” The event is a tradition, taking place at Ian’s apartment, involving half a dozen actors plus the writing team and a host of prospective funders from Manhattan’s elite circles. “But I think we can move sooner.” My heart kicks in my chest. “Really? You never sign on to a project until all the pieces are in place and you have a chance to discuss it with people you trust.” “But this is your project.” He lifts his glass in a toast. “If I commit first, getting the rest of the funders lined up will be simple. We can get this where it needs to be. Together.” Suspicion crawls up my spine. “What exactly does that mean?” “It means we’ll meet every few days while you’re finishing the book. In New York, obviously. I’d like to be on top of my investment.” “With Miranda.” Ian hesitates. “I don’t see the need to use her unnecessarily.“ There it is. I shift in my seat as he continues. “I know how shows are developed. I’m experienced, and you’re talented. Together, we make a good team.” I shiver as I feel his leg brush mine under the table. Our meals come, and he digs in immediately, but I can’t. “We’re not getting back together, Ian.” He stops chewing halfway through a bite, brows lifting on his handsome face. After he swallows, he plasters on a smile I’ve seen a thousand times. “You’re getting emotional. Reading something into this that isn’t there.” “I didn’t read into the part where I walked in on you fucking an eighteen-year-old actress on your couch.” When I rise, he’s out of his seat too, reaching for me. “Hey. Come on.” His hand grips my arm. I stare at that hand until he releases me. “This isn’t about me,” he bites out. “It’s about him.” “I’m not seeing anyone.” Except as I say the words, they don’t feel entirely true. “Maybe you never touched another man while we were together. But you held back. It’s my job to see the beauty in things. That’s what attracted me to you. On stage, you’re this wild thing. Full of emotion and passion, unrestrained. But you were never that woman with me.” I’m shaking my head, but he continues. “At first I thought I wasn’t doing the right things to bring it out of you.” He cocks his head, studying me in a way I can’t deny him. “But that was a lie. Which meant you were saving it for something else. Someone else.”