Chapter 3
Maral, with her single weekender slung over a shoulder, helps me wheel my three swollen suitcases to the bag check.
Shanthi texted us this morning that she was going to get to the airport early, try to use the Wi-Fi for some last-minute launch posts, and meet us at the gate.
Now I wonder if she just wanted to get out of porter duty.
Usually my speaking events are one-offs and we’re only away for a night or two at the most. We used to do day trips in the early days too, but Maral has stopped booking those as a humble protest against air travel.
If it were up to her, we’d take a cross-country train for this tour, preferably electric.
But that would mean being stuck for even longer with harbinger of doom Ryan Grant. Hard pass.
And as much as I’m feeling sorry for myself over losing her and being stuck with a tour publicist whose commitment to my book is questionable at best, I am so, so happy for her.
She got a better, more fulfilling job. One that recognizes her value, that will allow her to live life on her own terms. She wanted it.
She strove for it. She earned it. She’s a fucking boss and deserves every good thing.
After we clear security, I pull up UrbanStems on my phone and place an order to be delivered to her at the office, the nicest arrangement they have, and scroll through the card options for a combo apology/congratulations one. They make those, right?
My phone blips with a message from Nadia: Have a TV update—is now a good time?
I gasp, tugging on Maral’s sleeve, showing her the screen. “Oh my god.”
I dial Nadia and put the call on speakerphone—I know it’s obnoxious in a public place, but dreams are coming true here, people, so just deal with it.
“We have interest,” Nadia says by way of answering.
My legs have a mind of their own, making me jump up and down in the middle of the airport concourse. “Who?” I ask.
“Craig Waters. Based in L.A. His daughter’s a fan of the podcast, and he thinks you’d make a great host for a talk show he’s producing.”
Somehow I stop myself from screaming at full volume. It’s happening—it’s all coming together.
Mom’s voice looms, as it tends to do, at the edges of my consciousness. Her response when I told her I was leaving my residency to focus on the podcast full-time rooted itself in my mind.
If you were on television, that would be one thing. Like Oprah, or Drew Barrymore. But dropping out of medicine to, what, talk to people through their phones?
When the podcast took off, I talked to Nadia about the possibility of parlaying it into a TV show.
Specifically in L.A., where Mom’s expressed interest in moving to since Maral’s parents relocated there a few years ago.
Nadia’s been casually scouting in Hollywood for me, with nothing really solid to show for it yet.
But finally, with the podcast’s fifth year charting in the top ten and buzz building for my book, my name is recognizable enough that she got a bite.
I’ve already envisioned the whole thing: I’ve got a roster of ideas for episodes, guests, themed shows, and special events.
In my mind the set is artfully decorated with lemon-yellow chairs on a blue stage, plants and bookshelves in the background, maybe a skyline.
(Maral insists it has to be L.A., but my mind’s eye can only picture NYC for some reason.
That is the skyline, after all.) I’ll buy a house a tight twenty-minute drive from the studio, with a nanny suite—or pool house—for Mom, and a neighboring property for Mar.
Close to her parents’ place in Glendale.
We’ll find Mar a house with lots of trees on the property to combat the smog, maybe install solar panels on the roof.
California’s way ahead on energy-efficient housing—she’ll love it. I’ll love it. We’ll all love it.
Finally, I can start to repair the giant crater that was blown into our world six years ago, fill it with my family’s contentment once and for all, seal it up. Every last one of us, happy. I’ll make sure of it.
“So what are the next steps?” I ask Nadia.
“We secure a meeting with Waters and his team. I’ll aim for next Friday, when you’re in L.A., so you can meet in person.”
“What can I do?” I ask, restless energy vibrating through me.
“Go on your book tour and sparkle like you naturally do. I know Shanthi will be sharing clips from events and interviews on your socials—Waters follows you, so he’ll be inundated with proof of your charisma.
” Her husky laugh is tinny through the speaker.
“Leave the rest to me—I’ll update you as soon as I have more to share. ”
I exhale. “Okay.” Leave it to her—cool. I can do that. It may be wholly foreign to me, but I can leave all my hopes and dreams in the hands of someone else. Easy peasy, tummy queasy.
After we hang up, Maral hits a Hudson News for some granola bars since we’ll be flying through lunch and our short-haul flight to Chicago won’t serve any food.
(I offered to make her something for the flight before we left my apartment, but she looked at me like I’d offered to skin a rat on a plate, exclaiming, “What have I ever done to you?”) I crane my neck in search of coffee and spot a Starbucks just beyond our gate. I’ll drop my bag and hit it up, stat.
Shanthi sits cross-legged on the floor, her phone charger plugged into an outlet on the pillar she leans against, her thumbs flying over the screen. This is her default setting—lucky for me, because SPOY’s online presence has benefited heartily from her dedication.
She casts a quick glance at my overstuffed carry-on as we approach. “Did you leave anything at home?”
“Only her dignity,” Mar says.
“You can never be too prepared,” I say.
At the edge of my vision, Ryan approaches the gate. For someone whose vibe is so forbidding, his gait is surprisingly graceful. Like me, he doesn’t dress down for travel and has the nerve to look decent, clad in business casual. He’s so buttoned-up, I doubt he even owns a pair of sweats.
Unbidden, my mind conjures an image of Ryan in sweats and, much to my annoyance, it’s not unappealing. Not even a little.
He’s wheeling a compact hard-shelled suitcase and scowling at his phone. “Good morning,” he says when he reaches us, as if the words taste bad in his mouth. He’s clearly no happier to be on this tour than I am that he’s coming.
“You look cheery,” I say. “Looking forward to spending the next two weeks with us, I’m sure.”
Finally, he raises his eyes, and I fight the urge to fidget under his keen appraisal. “Is it that obvious?” he deadpans.
“What’s wrong?” asks Maral, nodding at his phone.
“There’s been a change of plans for tomorrow’s event.”
“Change of plans?” Shanthi asks from the floor.
He seems to notice she’s there for the first time. “Ryan Grant,” he introduces himself.
“This is Shanthi Prasad,” I say, because manners above all, “my content manager.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’ve been impressed with your work—you’ve taken Ana’s socials to significantly greater heights since you started, what was it, a year ago?”
Who is this person, so reticent in his interactions with me, throwing around accolades now like free condoms at a college orientation?
And how does he know when she started? Sure, we did a quick post introducing her as the woman behind the woman when she first took over, but he’d have to follow my accounts—or at least check them—to have seen that.
And I know for a fact that Ryan doesn’t even have a personal social media account (I checked—it’s polite to follow people I meet in a professional capacity).
“Change of plans,” Shanthi repeats, not acknowledging the compliment. Classic Shanthi—even I can’t break through with my litanies of praise.
His cheeks puff out on an exhale. “More like a notice that we’ll have to change our plans.”
“Explain.”
“The dry cleaner that shares a wall with Prologue Bookstore had a fire last night. The smoke damage has affected every business in the building—they have to close the premises for the rest of the week at least.”
Prologue is meant to be hosting tomorrow’s event—a reading and Q and A followed by a signing. We’ve pre-sold over a hundred tickets already, and general admission is being offered at the door. Was going to be offered.
“We’re trying to find a new space,” Ryan says. “Alison is making calls as we speak, and will hopefully have something for us before we board. At the latest, soon after we land.”
Shanthi nods. “I’ll be on standby to spread the word,” she says, seemingly unfazed by the news.
I, however, am fazed as hell. Of course. Ryan steps in as the on-tour publicist and before we even board the first flight, the opening event is compromised? Storm Cloud in full effect. I try to catch Maral’s eye so I can visually scream, See? bad things!, but she’s buried in her own phone.
Ryan finishes typing and pockets his device. “I’m going to grab a coffee before we board. What can I get for everyone?”
Maral’s and Shanthi’s orders were locked and loaded, judging by the speed with which they shoot them out. But I’m too wary of letting this guy ingratiate himself to me.
“Nothing for me,” I say.
Maral pops her head up, finally making eye contact. She knows I’ve been seeking out coffee like Gollum hunts his precious since before we arrived at the airport. She also knows I wouldn’t settle for just any express market swill.
“Are you sure? Starbucks dark roast?” he says, as if he knows exactly what will entice me. “You can smell the sweet smoky goodness from here.”
My mouth waters even as I clock that he’s repeating verbatim words I’ve used to profess my love for its aroma on the podcast. That would mean Ryan has listened to at least one episode, when my bet would’ve been that he’s listened to exactly zero.
But this revelation has nothing on my tenacity. “All coffeed out for today.”
He shrugs and heads toward the kiosk.