Chapter 15 #2
I left Ryan to call his boss and weather the fallout in private.
I offered to face Woodsworth with him. To tell his employer that there’s nothing untoward here, that I’m totally complicit—the instigator, in fact.
But he said there was no chance he was going to put me in that position, then kissed the back of my hand before leading me to the door.
My heart is still living in my throat.
I know just how important his job at Woodsworth is for his entire family, given that the company bankrolls a large portion of his sister’s significant tuition.
If he gets fired for breaching the first rule of publicist–author relations—thou shalt not bed thy client—it is going to be a nightmare for them financially. The guilt may well eat me alive.
Shanthi, for her part, has shown zero opinion on this whole thing. She just denounced gossip-hungry trolls—dropping F-bombs galore—when she and Maral gathered in my room and has since focused her attention on giving me only non-negative updates.
Somehow, I have not lost any followers—in fact, I’ve gained some. People scouring my posts for Easter eggs about my sexual proclivities, I imagine. Gawpers gonna gawp.
I’m considering turning off my phone entirely when a name I recognize fills the screen.
“Nadia,” I say as I pick up.
“Ana, my god,” she says. “Are you okay?”
I feel a sting in my nose at the concern in her husky tone—a telltale sign I’m about to tear up, which only adds to the absurdity of this whole morning. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t look at any of that vile shit.”
Easier said, etc. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Hell, who is anyone else to judge? God knows if they were hotel-hopping across the country with that daddy, they wouldn’t be able to resist him, either.”
A watery laugh escapes me. As if just any woman in Ryan’s proximity would be powerless against his sexuality.
As if he and I came together simply because I was near him.
It’s impossible to imagine that Ryan and I could ever not have connected, whether we were in proximity or not.
How could attraction that potent, sex that good, be possible and just never materialize?
“I just wish everyone was so understanding,” Nadia adds ominously.
A cavern opens in my belly. I’ve seen a lot of unsympathetic people spouting off this morning, but it sounds like she’s referring to something specific. “What happened?” I ask.
Maral’s face is grave as she perches beside me on the edge of the bed. I put the phone on speaker.
“I’m here too,” Mar says. “So’s Shanthi.”
“Hi, girls,” Nadia says, all friendly. “Listen, this is not the level of setback you think it is—”
“Just tell me,” I say a little too stridently.
“Craig Waters has postponed the meeting tomorrow.”
The cavern in my stomach fills with scorpions, and I fold in half.
“Postponed,” I say, as if testing the word in my mouth.
We’re in L.A. for only one full day—we have to leave Saturday to make it to Boston for the next event.
We can come back, though. After the tour wraps, I can fly back out. No problemo. “Till when?”
She hesitates for only a beat, which is an age in Nadia time. “Indefinitely,” she says.
Fuck.
“So it’s not postponed, it’s canceled,” I say, tone petulant.
“Postponed was the word they used. It’s possible they’ll be willing to pick the conversation back up again when this blows over.”
How long will that take, though? And by the time this blows over, who’s to say that Waters won’t have moved on to some shiny new potential host? Hollywood is fickle, and I’m under no illusions that my glitter won’t wear off quickly. If it isn’t permanently tarnished already.
Kill me.
Nadia sighs. “They’re concerned about their image—they want to project wholesomeness.”
“I can be wholesome,” I say.
“They follow your socials—they’ve seen the tags. They’re not interested in any kind of sexual controversy.”
The scorpions have run amok, lesioning my insides. I melt back onto the bed, throwing an arm over my eyes.
The worst part is: I get it. As someone whose whole career is predicated on being seen online, I understand the outsized role image plays in public perception.
It’s the entirety of the role. And as someone who pinned her dreams on a network television show, in Los goddamn Angeles of all places, I should have known what an important role my image would play in achieving that dream.
I’m not embarrassed about having a sex life, but having one with Ryan was always going to be objectionable.
I knew that. I thought about the risk to his job, thought we’d be in the clear so long as nobody found out (womp).
But it was shortsighted not to think about the risk to my own future if it were to get out.
A future that’s feeling more and more like a mirage, hazy and indistinct, fading away on the horizon.
Fantasies that have taken shape in my mind since I formulated the talk show plan begin to dissolve.
Revealing the news to Mom by showing up on her doorstep with moving boxes.
Her delight at the prospect of living in L.A.
, of living in the same city as me again.
My delight in finally bringing her happiness, gratification.
Her shouting from the rooftops that her daughter is going to be on television.
Ana was right to choose this path—she’s made it.
Everyone can see she’s made it. There’s no gray area, generational or cultural divide, no doubt whatsoever. She is a success.
Her father would be proud.
I use my sleeve to swipe away the moisture gathering in my eyes, my breathing too loud in my ears.
Thankfully Maral has taken over the conversation with Nadia, wrapping up the call. I mutter a half-hearted thank-you and goodbye, forcing my mind to regain some composure.
Mar hangs up, casting sorrowful eyes on me. “I’m so sorry, Ayn.”
This angel. Here I am, having ruined our mutual future because I couldn’t keep my grabby hands to myself, and she’s apologizing to me. “No, Mar, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I squashed our dream.”
I wrap her in a hug, but she’s stiff for a moment. I don’t blame her—of course she’s mad. But then she relents, putting her arms around me.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I whisper into her hair. “I’ll fix this.”
I feel her shaking her head in the crook of my neck, and she pulls back. “No, you don’t have to fix anything.”
“I do, and I will,” I say firmly. “I’m not giving up. L.A.’s crawling with producers—we’ll find someone else.”
She looks concerned, but doesn’t say anything more.
“Our flight leaves in a few hours,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ll meet you downstairs in time for the airport shuttle.”
Mar hesitates for a moment before rising quietly from the bed. “I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”
Shanthi’s head swivels from me, to her, to me. “Are you sure? Maybe it would be better not to be alone.”
Maral gently cups her elbow, leading her to the door, knowing it’s a losing battle. Knowing I’d rather be alone than have anyone bear witness when I’m in any state other than (jazz hands) Ana Movilian.
After they’ve left, I start packing. Anything to keep me moving, keep me focused on something other than the thing prying at my mind, seeking a fissure so the darkness can get in. Or, worse, out.
But it’s no use. Just as I’m tucking my running shoes into a suitcase, a torrent climbs up my body, unleashing in a whoosh that’s somewhere between an exhale and a sob. I crumple onto the bed, helpless against it, turning to drown the sound in the wrinkled bedding.
Mom. I’m sorry.
I picture her face, beatific in the imagined happiness I’ve been chasing for what feels like my entire life.
The vision waves, scuzzes, her smile morphing into a grimace, a cry.
She’s curled, broken by the weight of all she’s lost throughout her life.
I reach for her, but she changes once more, her delicate features turning masculine, a beard sprouting and nose hooking.
Kind black eyes under bushy brows and a barrel chest that smells like khoung and that I wish so badly I could hug again.
Disappear into. Seek some measure of solace in, even if I can’t let all this darkness out. Even if that’s never been an option.
At the sound of a knock on the door, I sit up too quickly, my head dizzy.
I consider ignoring it, pretty sure it’s Ryan and very sure he cannot see me this way.
“Ana,” he says softly from the other side. “It’s me.”
It’s me. Like there’s only one person who could show up at my door in my bleakest hour and declare himself me. Like there’s only one me for me.
That’s exactly who Ryan has become, isn’t it? The person I most look forward to seeing every day. The person who listens to what I have to say without dismissing it in any way. Who helps me feel less alone. Who takes care of things. Who takes care of me.
Before I even know what my body is doing, it has teleported to the door, opening it wide to reveal his broad form filling the frame. His green eyes magnificent as he assesses me with concern.
“Are you still employed?” I ask, the vibrato in my voice betraying the emotion that’s threatening to burst the dam.
He can tell immediately. His brow furrows further as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him and enveloping me in a hug.
Damn, it feels good. Too good.
I melt into him, telling myself it’ll just be for a moment. Just a moment, until I can organize my heart, and have a conversation like a normal human. His arms feel so solid, unwavering, as they wrap around me. Like if he had the choice, he’d keep me in them forever.
The thought snaps me to, and I pry myself away.
“How did it go?” I ask.
He still looks troubled, but he doesn’t reach for me again. “They won’t pull me mid-tour, but I have a meeting with my boss and HR first thing on Monday when I’m back in New York.”
I breathe, some of my tension easing. “Is it a good sign that they’re keeping you on through the tour?”