Chapter 23
“And it would be more interactive than typical talk shows. Think Jimmy Fallon, with games and challenges and stuff in addition to the interviews.” Mike Logan, Scope’s blond Gen X exec, is animated on the wall-mounted screen.
“But obviously you’d be bringing your own brand’s spin to it.
We want it to appeal to a diverse viewership, so guests would be people from all communities. ”
Nadia’s nod from across the table prompts me to follow suit. She asks questions about the network’s key demographics, showrunners, timing, and other things I don’t quite register because I’m distracted by the cup of weak coffee before me.
I arrived at the Verity offices just before the meet and greet with Scope was set to begin, and Nadia’s assistant, Quinn, offered me refreshments as they herded us into a boardroom with a sleek virtual conferencing setup.
One sip of the brew and I left the rest untouched.
It wasn’t Quinn’s fault—they weren’t responsible for serving my specific tastes.
But I can’t help remembering that dark roast was served everywhere I went on tour. All because Ryan made sure of it.
I shouldn’t be thinking about coffee right now. I should be focused on this meeting, given how hard I’ve been gunning for it. And yet, my outsides fly on autopilot while my insides tie themselves in knots.
“We’ll stay in touch,” Logan says, wrapping up. “Oh, and our studios are in L.A. I assume you’d be cool to move here—nothing keeping you in New York?”
I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out. The words seem stuck in my throat. As if by divine intervention, a cacophony of cab horns blasts from Madison Avenue below.
Nadia pipes up. “Ana can’t stop talking about moving to L.A. Year-round sunshine—what’s not to love, am I right?”
“Great,” he says. “Looking forward to seeing you in action tonight. Our network head will be tuning in to the livestream too. He’s the one who green-lights new shows, so…no pressure, but y’know.”
I finally find my voice. “I thrive under pressure,” I say, smile immovable.
We end the call and Nadia leads me back to her office, where I roost on a mint-green guest chair across from her incongruously old-fashioned desk.
“I didn’t want to distract you with this while you were on tour, and I know things are a bit fragile now with Maral’s exodus,” she says, “but I’ve been getting tons of interest from publishers sniffing about a potential second book. It went into overdrive when you hit the NYT.”
My instinctive response at the prospect of writing again is excitement.
Ever since the talk with Maral yesterday, I’ve been brimming with ideas for a follow-up.
Maybe as a way of processing the host of new thoughts and feelings she stoked in me.
I can’t help but feel like writing again will be good for me—help me connect with myself in a way I never really have.
“We have an option clause with Woodsworth,” Nadia says, “so they’d get the first look. Laura has shown some of the loudest interest. I know you’ve had a good experience with her, but would you rather I shop your proposal to other publishers given the whole Ryan situation?”
“What do you mean—are they soured on me after the photo?”
“Not at all. I mean more the conflict-of-interest bit. Aren’t you guys a thing now?”
I swallow hard, shake my head once. It’s all I can manage.
She frowns sympathetically. “Damn shame. Wouldn’t have taken Grant for a commitment-phobe, but he is a male from New York, so.” She rolls her eyes and sighs, like, c’est la vie.
“He got another job, anyway,” I croak.
“Seriously?” she asks, suitably shocked.
I nod. “He’s leaving Woodsworth.”
She shakes her head. “Everyone’s flying the coop,” she says.
“But hell, that’s handy, isn’t it? Out of your life and out of your mind.
All the better to unstick that stickiness if we do sign with them.
Shall we book a meeting?” She opens her laptop.
“Another book and a show. Think of the tie-in opportunities.”
When I open the door for Maral later that afternoon for our usual pre-event glow-up routine, tears spring immediately to my eyes.
Seeing her on the threshold calls to mind that this is one of the last times we’ll do this together.
She’s moving next month, and we only have a handful of events before then.
“This is your fault,” I say, pointing to my blubbering face. “Both for leaving and for telling me to feel my feelings.”
She winces. “Think of the endogenous opioids?”
A laugh warbles out as I step aside to usher her in.
She wraps her arms around my neck. “The flowers were beautiful. You didn’t have to do that.”
I squeeze her tight. “I should have done it right away.”
A strand of her hair sticks to my wet face as she pulls back. “How did the meeting go with Scope?” she asks.
She’d offered to come, but I thought it would be better to appear as we mean to go on, should Scope want to move forward.
Since Mar won’t be a part of the show, it wouldn’t be right to present ourselves as a team.
“Good,” I say. “Our visions are aligned, and they sound more than passingly interested. The head of the network will be watching tonight. He’s the final decision-maker. ”
“You’re gonna kill it,” she says.
I nod, but it feels mechanical.
We talk about tonight, bounce around ideas about the podcast and how we’ll manage the transition from duo hosts to solo, and I walk her through the four pages of ideas I’ve already jotted down for a second book.
When I give a seven-minute monologue about some of the potential new content I’m toying with including, she beams at me.
“I haven’t seen you this excited about something in a while. ”
She’s right. I’m a pretty excitable person, but this hits different, deeper. I can’t wait to start writing.
She recounts her parents’ reactions when she told them about Boston this morning—they were understandably unhappy about her not moving to L.A., but that was tempered by their delight that she’ll be working as an engineer at last, and living close to her aunt, at least at first.
It’s getting harder to envision myself in L.A. An image that only a short while ago seemed so crystal clear in my mind is becoming hazy, undefined. Maybe because Maral’s been removed from it.
It occurs to me that nothing’s logistically stopping me from moving back to Boston too.
What is home if not with family? The people you love?
I could find a new brand manager, hire a producer, continue the podcast solo, write my next book, do speaking events.
Figure out some way to deal with Mom’s passive-aggression every day…
find a padded, soundproofed room to stifle my screams.
My shoulders droop.
Even if Boston didn’t sit so heavy in my memories, it’s a skin I’ve shed and that won’t fit anymore. I don’t want it to.
I can’t deny that the strongest call of all emanates from the center of this bustling island. Yet staying alone in New York feels…disgraceful. Like a selfish deed, a choice I can’t justify in any familiar terms.
What do you want?
The question has been plaguing me since Maral raised it.
My fingers itching to pick up my phone, to contact Ryan, beg him to give me another chance.
But the fear of putting myself out there—of rupturing the thick membrane around my heart and leaving it exposed—keeps winning out.
I don’t know how to overcome it. I wish there was some resource that could guide me.
It may be time to look into therapy. (Long past time, but who’s counting.)
As though reading my mind, Maral asks if I’ve heard from Ryan. After I fill her in on what happened on the steps outside the Bryant Park library, she whistles, low and slow. It sounds like a bomb dropping. But the surprise I expected to see on her face is markedly absent.
“What’s with this lack of reaction?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I mean…I knew he was all in.”
She did. And I just threw it away. “He told me how he felt, and I turned him down.”
Her shoulders rise to her ears. “That doesn’t mean you’re out of the game.”
“He said he can’t be around me anymore.”
“Only if you don’t want a relationship with him. Pretty sure he’d be all up in you if you do.” She applies setting powder to her forehead, the bridge of her nose. “Have you been with anyone else since we got home?”
“No.” I sent Jacob a kind but firm brush-off this morning.
It felt wrong to lead him on, to make him think I’d be DTF anytime soon when the prospect of being with someone, anyone, other than Ryan feels wrong on a cellular level.
Unimaginable. Not when I can still feel his touch electrifying my skin, despite having gone over a week without it now.
I wonder if it will ever fade. I wonder if I want it to.
“Then what are you worried about?” she says.
I bite my lip so fresh tears won’t streak my makeup. “I think…that part of me is broken.”
She rolls her eyes. “I thought the elderly were supposed to be wise.” She hands me a tissue.
“You’re not broken—you’re recovering. You’ve just been burying shit for so long that your recovery is protracted.
There’s not a person on this earth who works harder than you.
So work on yourself. Open yourself up, invite him in.
Let yourself be happy.” She watches me to see if her words are resonating.
First things first, I need to get this waterworks situation under control. Because the death grip my teeth have on my lip is not damming the tears. I cannot get up in front of thousands of people, under unforgiving lighting, with puffy eyes. Unacceptable.
As I reapply concealer, Maral excuses herself, tapping on her phone as she leaves the bathroom. She comes back a few minutes later and says she needs some privacy. “I had a burrito for lunch,” she says.
“I don’t know why you insist on doing that to yourself,” I say. “Or to me.”
“They need to stop being so delicious.”