Chapter 7
Scarlett
Two days later, I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch in my therapist’s office, the decorative throw pillow in my lap the only barrier against whatever awful, emotional work she’s going to make me do after telling her exactly what happened in that meeting.
Dianne—as she’s insisted I call her for the past several years, ever since Trina dragged me in here to see her—stopped writing on her notepad about halfway into my story. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was engrossed in it.
“So you’re going to be working with Ryan on a book that they believe will be another bestseller after walking away from both him and a deal that could have resulted in multiple other bestsellers and completely cutting him and writing out of your life?”
Huh. Maybe she was engrossed in my story.
“That’s about the gist of it,” I say drily. “When you say it like that, it sounds like I’m making a huge mistake.”
“Do you feel like you’re making a mistake?”
A grumble starts low in my throat. “I don’t feel like being therapist-ized today.”
She laughs. “I’m not, I swear. I’m trying to point out that mistakes are often a matter of perception. If you perceive this as a mistake, then it likely is, and vice versa. If you think you’re not doing the right thing for your book—and, more importantly, for you—then you’ll never be able to get past that to a place where you are happy with your decision.”
I wrinkle my nose and pull at a loose thread on the pillow in my lap. “That actually makes sense.”
“Don’t act so surprised,” she responds quickly. One of the things I love about Dianne is that she’s not all gentle and kind with me. She’ll put me in my place when I need it. And I often need it.
“It feels like it should feel like a mistake,” I say eventually. It’s the only way I can describe what’s going through my head. “Working with Ryan is the right thing for this book. I feel it in my bones. But my brain disagrees. It’s still connecting him with everything that happened outside of the last book.”
“He is connected to more than work for you,” Dianne says gently. I don’t miss how she says “work” and not “books.” This has always been her subtle reminder to me that writing is a job, and it doesn’t have to infiltrate my entire life. Clearly, she’s not a writer. “Have you had a chance to talk to him personally? Have you opened up about your—”
“No,” I interrupt her before she can go any further. “There wasn’t time. We negotiated, set up a few initial deadlines, and they were off to another meeting.” I don’t mention that I flew out of there before Ryan could even say goodbye. “Besides, this is about the book. Not me. It’s not personal this time.”
Dianne tilts her head to the side. “Isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Art is intensely personal. Your art, especially. Are you really going to tell me that you have grown a sudden ability to completely divorce the past from the present? The personal from the art? Because if so, that’s wonderful news.” She doesn’t sound like she believes me.
I truly consider her question for a moment. She’s gotten to the heart of what has been bothering me about this for the past two days. Can I separate and compartmentalize enough to make this book into the best version of itself? In the end, that’s what really matters.
“I don’t think it’s about completely divorcing myself from anything,” I finally say. “It’s about moving on. Accepting what happened and coming to a place where I can work again. Working with him…I don’t know. It feels like it might be healing in a way.” I’m tempted to tip my voice upward at the end like a question, but I force myself not to. It’s not a question. This is going to be good, for the book and for me.
It has to be.
Dianne’s answering smile is wide and genuine. “Oh, Scarlett. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come. I hope you’re proud of it, too.”
“I am.” I smile back.
After a moment, she gets serious again. “Lucky for you, we’re out of time, so I can’t bug you about talking to him about what happened five years ago, but I think you should. Soon.”
I stand quickly, not wanting to go any further with that for now. I came a long way today. Let’s not ruin it.
“Maybe next time.” Even I can hear how uncommitted I am to that.
She laughs again. “Definitely next time.”
There’s only one thing that I can ever do after therapy, and that is watch baking competitions. Since my holiday baking marathon was so rudely interrupted last time, I’m itching to get back to it. I change into my pajamas, toss my hair up into a bun, make myself some tea because coffee this late in the day would be bad for my circadian rhythms, and snuggle in.
No sooner do I start the first episode of a new season than there is a knock at the door.
“Dammit, Trina,” I curse loudly as I stand to answer it. Probably loud enough for her to hear me through the thin door. “You scheduled that appointment and texted me no less than eight times to make sure I went. You should know—”
I’m cut short when I pull the door open, because it’s not Trina standing there. It’s Ryan.
He’s more casual today in dark jeans and a forest-green hoodie, but his hair is still done. There’s a portfolio tucked under one arm, a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, and a question in his gaze that I can’t quite decipher.
“I’m not Trina.” His voice is laced with humor, though he doesn’t let his face show it.
“I can see that.”
His eyes flick over my shoulder, and then he gives a little half smile when he sees what’s on the television. “You still love baking shows.”
“Some things never change,” I singsong in a desperate attempt to break some of the tension Ryan his decidedly brought with him.
That backfires, because his gaze slides over me as if he remembers every curve and dip and surface of my body. “Some things never do,” he says softly as his eyes meet mine again.
It doesn’t take much to remind me what I loved about Ryan all those years ago. In fact, I was reminded of it throughout my entire time at the Anastasios offices while he sat across from me, larger than life and overtaking my senses. He’s still so confident. So unabashedly emotional. If I had to venture a guess, he’s probably still so damn good at what he does, turning raw words into sentences that leap off the page.
Some things never change, indeed.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “And how did you get my address?”
Five years ago, in a fit of rage or depression or whatever you want to call it, I packed up a duffel bag and ran. After wandering for about a year, I had a service pack up everything that was important to me—which wasn’t much—from my condo in Roger’s Park and put it up for sale. That was when I came back to Chicago to move into this tiny apartment in the South Loop. It took me six months before I could call Trina again to tell her I was alive. I made her promise never to tell Ryan, swore her to secrecy. It took another two months of her building up my trust before I even gave her my new address. I never gave it to Ryan. Never called him. Never texted. I still go out of my way to avoid driving near his old place.
It’s not that I didn’t want to see him again. I did…and looking at him now, I remember even more clearly the way his body felt against mine, the way his lips brushed against my skin, the way his words sounded as he whispered them into my ear. But I was too afraid. If he had been angry with me or if I had ruined his career, I never would have forgiven myself. And so it just became easier to stay away for good. I convinced myself it was for the best.
But as his dark eyes search mine with a mixture of sadness and concern, I can see that he might have missed me almost as much as I missed him. And I don’t know what to do with that information.
He clears his throat, breaking us out of whatever tense moment we were sharing. He lifts the portfolio from under his arm. “I have notes for you. And your address is on the contract.”
Of course it is. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. But I certainly never thought Ryan would just show up at my apartment.
“That doesn’t exactly explain why you’re here,” I say over the noise from my television. “You could have sent the initial notes through Trina.”
“Do you want me to send my notes through Trina? That’s not typically how I work, but—”
“No,” I cut him off. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s not how I work, either.”
He idly fidgets with the gold ring he wears on his right middle finger. It was a gift from his late father, who passed away when Ryan was in high school. I hadn’t noticed it the other day, but he never took that ring off when we were together. He left it on while cooking, jogging, in the shower, while he slept. While we slept. While he made love to me, the edge of it scraping against the skin of my hip as he pressed his long fingers into it…
“Can I come in?” From the timbre of his voice, it sounds like his thoughts went somewhere similar.
“Um…” I look down at my purple satin pajamas, the one luxury I cannot live without. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“It’s a better idea than me standing in the hallway.”
He has a point. I open the door wider, and he walks inside. “Let me go put on something more appropriate.”
“I’ve seen you in less.” He smirks again as the door snicks shut behind him.
I gape at him. “Ryan,” I whisper.
He shakes his head quickly. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be funny.”
Blinking, I huff lightly. “It was. But maybe…too soon?”
“Fair.”
We stand awkwardly just inside my door, unable to move or talk or look anywhere but at each other. All the while, I’m acutely aware of my rumpled pajamas, my unshaven legs, my messy hair, the face I scrubbed clean after therapy. Not that it matters what I look like to him. Not anymore.
Ryan is the first to break the silence. “It’s good to see you.” From the way he says it, I can tell he means it. It actually eases some of my self-consciousness.
“I’m sorry how all that went down the other day.” I smile a little. “I’d say it wasn’t my idea, but I went along with it. I should have told Trina—”
“No,” he cuts me off. “It was a brilliant move on her part.”
“Because you never would have read it if you knew it was me who wrote it?” I guess.
“Casey likely wouldn’t have,” he admits. His brown eyes pin me to the spot. “But I would. I’ll read anything you write from now until the end of time.”
“Even if I have another mental breakdown?” It’s my turn to try to be funny, but it falls flat.
“Even then,” he says with a marked intensity. “I never meant to be your enemy, Scarlett.”
A lump rises in my throat. I try to swallow it away, but it’s too thick. “I know. I’m sorry. I can’t… I don’t want to talk about this.” I shake my head to clear it, trying desperately to find safer ground. “You said you had notes?”
Ryan regards me for a moment longer, then takes a few steps further inside to lay the portfolio on my kitchen table. Doing so brings him close enough to me that I can smell the almond and vanilla notes of his cologne. It threatens to pull me back under memories of him, but he speaks before I can go too far down.
“Just a few developmental notes at this point. Some suggestions about moving some scenes and a few to add for clarity. Nothing huge, but I thought you might want to get started.”
“You printed it out?” I ask.
“I always work in print for the first round,” he responds.
“Only for the books you really like,” I counter.
He pins me with those eyes again, and I can hardly breathe. “Yes,” he says simply. Then he adds, “I told you I loved it.”
That’s not what he said, and he knows it, but I’m not going to bring it up if he isn’t.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He takes a few steps toward the door. “Wouldn’t want to get between you and your baking show.”
“Hey, Ryan?” I say to his back. “Thanks.”
He stops, then turns slowly around. “For what?”
“For asking what I wanted. No one…” I hug my arms around my torso and pinch the satin fabric between my fingers. “No one did that all those years ago, and I wish someone had. I don’t know if things would have turned out differently, but…maybe.”
The hurt that flashes over his expression is unmistakable. I didn’t mean to hurt him or imply that he should have been the one to ask, though he certainly could have. It would have meant a lot if he had asked before steamrolling ahead with a million-dollar deal that was going to demand more from me than I was already giving when I had nothing left to give. But he wasn’t alone in that, and in his defense, who doesn’t want a million dollars to write books?
“You’re absolutely right,” he says. “I’m sorry for the part I played in what happened.”
The truth is that wasn’t all of it. Maybe it’s Dianne’s suggestion I talk to him about it or the way his kind eyes have been drinking me in like I’m an oasis in the middle of the desert, but the rest is on the tip of my tongue. I almost unload all of it right then and there.
But he says, “I hope you can eventually accept my apology and that we can put the past behind us, where it belongs.”
Of course. Moving on. That’s the ultimate goal, right? To let bygones be bygones. What good would dredging it up do? It would only hurt him, and my goal isn’t to break him like I was broken. I wouldn’t even wish that on the villains of my stories.
“Yes,” I say with forced cheerfulness. “Apology accepted. We’re good, Ryan.”
He looks at me for a little longer, some emotion in his eyes I can’t quite name. Then, with a curt nod, he turns and leaves.
Almost immediately after the door shuts behind him, I look at the portfolio he left on the table. I glance between that and the elimination round of my holiday baking show. Ultimately, I turn the television off and dive into Ryan’s notes.
I give myself over to the words. I always do.