Chapter 7
Being with Ryan, alone, in an establishment designed to soften people’s sharp edges, is maybe not the best idea.
Not when my senses have been heightened by alcohol.
Not so soon after I was draped over his body in an enclosed space.
Not when I’ve envisioned him using that body in unspeakable ways while pleasuring myself.
Not when I as good as outed my attraction to him to Maral and Shanthi, and they clearly left us here together as an ill-conceived setup.
Not when I just found out he doesn’t have a girlfriend.
Yet here we are.
I can do this—I can remain professional and friendly.
Professionally friendly. Friendlyly professional.
So what if he looks like that? So what if his scent is packed with pheromones specifically calibrated to make my belly feel heavy with want?
So what if I keep wondering what it would take to crack the ice that confines him and see just how unrestrained he can get…
I’m just hard up. But I’ve got my little friend back at the hotel, and as soon as we’re back there, I’ll take matters into my own hands.
Alone.
Even if I imagine I’m not.
He’s talking—he’s midsentence, in fact. Get in the game, Ana.
“Hrm?” I ask, real professional-like.
“I said, we sold out of all the books Meredith had shipped to the conference.”
“Excellent,” I say, eating a sesame stick from the bar mix on the table. It’s probably crawling with microorganisms, but the sustenance may help sober me up.
“Maybe we should hire Maral as a consultant.”
“No doubt she’d kill it. I saw a book on climate change in your spring catalog—she’d be an ace at placing that.”
“Right,” he says, “she’s an environmental engineer.”
I nod, licking salt off my bottom lip. Ryan looks away quickly, zeroing in on his beer glass.
“Does she work the kind of long hours you do?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nobody works the hours I do. Except maybe book publicists.”
“Ha.”
“I’m serious, actually. Meredith and Alison are the quickest email responders I’ve ever met.”
He nods. “There’s a saying: It’s PR, not ER. But I don’t think it’s gotten through to the people who do it.”
“Have you ever considered a less demanding job? You know, to give you more time for your other pursuits. I believe something about the multiverse, and a love story?”
He pins me with his eyes. “I’m kind of…tethered to Woodsworth at the moment.”
“Why?”
“Various commitments,” he says vaguely.
I recall his saying that this job meets his greatest needs. “So what is writing for you if not your greatest need?”
He thinks about it. “Writing is…who I am.”
“Existential,” I say.
“It taps into the part of me that feels the most real,” he qualifies. “There are no airs, no expectations or restrictions. I don’t feel hemmed in—I can just be myself. It’s the only thing I do that’s just for me.”
“You’re not published yet,” I say. “Once it’s out there, it’s for everyone else.”
“True. Although who knows if I’ll ever cross that bridge.”
“You will,” I say, somehow sure of it, and am rewarded with another of his smiles. Breathe, I remind myself. “So being your true self isn’t your greatest need?”
He sighs. “Is it anyone’s? Most of us live in service of others. Your podcast is evidence of that—how many of your guests talk about the pressure of familial duty versus their own desires?”
“How many podcast episodes have we had?” Because basically every single guest I’ve interviewed has touched on this to some extent.
“Three hundred and thirty-seven,” he says immediately. “And, spoiler, the theme runs through every single one.”
My head snaps back at the exact figure. “How do you know that?”
“I told you I’ve listened to your podcast.”
“You didn’t tell me you’ve listened to every episode.” In a million years, I wouldn’t have guessed…Thank goodness Maral’s not here to hear this and gleefully hold me to my camping promise.
“It’s very relatable,” he says simply, sipping his beer.
I’m trying to make sense of this. Trying to slow my mind enough to snatch one of its million thoughts and questions.
My confusion must be evident because he asks, “What?”
“I just…” I trail off. “I’m trying to figure you out.”
He’s still for a beat. “I’m a mystery wrapped in an enigma.”
“You are, though.” I lean forward, elbows on the sticky table. “When we first met, I could swear you had zero respect for what I do. Not just because you seemed totally disinterested in my book proposal, but it was like you had a wall up against me in all our interactions.”
He stares at me, unblinking. “I can promise you that was not disinterest.”
A shiver courses through me. I think back, trying to identify whether I could have misread his behavior that completely. Whether that was just Ryan being Ryan—serious, reserved, pensive.
He releases a breath. “It’s true that I hadn’t listened to more than a couple episodes of So Proud of You before our first meeting.
But they were so good, and then I met you—” His eyes do that thing again—blazing momentarily before he regains his composure.
He pulls his pint glass close to his chest. “I kept listening because it compelled me. I read your manuscript for the same reason.”
My heart skips a beat, then several more. “You didn’t think I was a trite internet personality.”
His eyelids drift shut for just a moment before his gaze finds mine again. “Ana, my opinion of you could not be further from that. You are…a force. In the best possible way. Which is why I thought you should include more of yourself in the book.”
The floor seems to open up beneath me, my fingertips gripping at the edge of a cliff. “Your media hits made it seem like you were phoning it in.”
He grimaces. “I wasn’t. Your message is important, and it’s one that deserves to be spread far and wide.
That’s what I was trying to do—reach outlets that may not otherwise have covered your book.
Like Talon—I thought, with its circulation being what it is, that tapping Daniel would help broaden your book’s reach.
We were friendly in college and he’d written glowing pieces about a couple of authors I’d pitched him before, and I was sure he’d be as taken with So Proud of You as I am.
It seemed like a slam dunk. I had no idea he’d spin his piece that way…
I felt absolutely sick when I read what he wrote.
” He shakes his head. “Needless to say, I haven’t been in touch with him since—well, other than the scathing email I sent telling him exactly what I thought of him after his article was published.
” He meets my eyes. “I’m sorry about how that went down.
And that a lot of the other hits missed their mark.
I wish I could control how every outlet covered your book, but that’s free media for you.
It was shit luck, but I swear I just wanted to get your book in front of more readers. ”
The air has left my body. And not just because I didn’t think Ryan could talk that much all at once. I make a conscious effort to inhale. “And then I went and had you fired,” I say faintly.
His brow draws down. “Well, fired is not the word I’d choose. I still have my job.”
“But I had you taken off my book.” I cringe inwardly and maybe a little outwardly.
“You had every right,” he says.
I sigh. “If it helps, your hits were not the only misses. The bad reviews didn’t exactly stop after you stepped off the campaign.”
“I know it can hurt to read bad reviews,” he says.
And I’m surprised at how comforting it is to hear those words said aloud.
“Like you said, once it’s out there, it’s everyone else’s, and everyone’s a critic, especially these days.
” He sips his beer. “But look at the response you had tonight—you couldn’t take a step in that conference center without being stopped by someone raving about how you changed their life.
That’s got to feel good. Screw the bad press.
Only four days in the market and your book is already a success story. ”
Tonight did feel good. Right now feels pretty good too.
I raise my glass and he clinks his against it. “I guess I don’t have to fall back on being a doctor just yet.”
“Sorry to Mrs. Movilian,” he says.
A smile tugs at my lips. “You can tell her that in person when we hit Boston.”
“I look forward to it,” he says.
The image of Ryan meeting my mother is comical in its incongruity.
Like Mr. Darcy meeting Lucille Bluth. I think she’d like him—her only hang-up would be that he’s odar.
Not Armenian. When you come from people whose population was half wiped off the face of the earth by genocide, who have been persecuted, killed, and chased from their land for generations, many consider it dire to keep the pure lineage alive by any means necessary—namely by making sure your kids procreate with other Armenians.
Not that I’m procreating with anybody, let alone Ryan.
My parents never forbade me from dating non-Armenians.
They liked Nathan, the only serious boyfriend I ever had, and his ancestry was as British as it gets, evident in his blond, blue-eyed, fair and freckled looks.
We met in med school, where he was on his way to becoming a doctor, like me.
He sang music into my grandchild-hungry parents’ ears about wanting a big family one day and settling in Boston near both our families.
He talked a big game…but turns out that’s all it was: talk.
Because the minute things got real—the minute he saw the side of me I know now to never bare again—he was gone.
You can’t win ’em all.
Which is why I don’t even try anymore. If you don’t open your heart, it can’t be hurt.
It’s so much easier and more gratifying to have all the fun and sex without the heartache of commitment. It’s made life a lot simpler.