Chapter 3
TEAGAN
He stares like I’ve announced I want to fly to Mars for vacation, camp out and eat Skittles on the red planet, then hop an interplanetary jet home.
“Don’t be silly, King.”
I cross my arms, holding my ground. “It’s not silly. I want to. Also, hello? I need to. The King Family Foundation and all.” My voice goes steely, as it sometimes does when I say that name, when I remember all that legacy encompasses.
“I know,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. “But I would never ask you for a donation. That’s just wrong.”
“It’s not wrong. It’s literally what I do.” I give a little foot stomp for emphasis.
He sets a hand on my arm, a tender sort of touch that surprises me. He’s been touchier than usual tonight. Maybe I have too. “You’d be doing me a favor by bidding on me. I want to win for pride and for the cause,” he says. “But no way am I asking you to pay for the date. That’s not fair.”
“North, here’s the deal. Assuming I get board approval for the donation, I’m splitting the price tag with you.
That’s just how it’s going to be. I want to pay for it.
I want you to hit that goal, and I want our date to be covered on social media because that’ll raise the profile of the foundation, as well as awareness of the work we’re doing for companion dogs.
So, that’s my offer.” I tap my toe, a move that’s not terribly foreboding in pink Chuck Taylors, but so it goes. “What say you?”
He lets out a long stream of air, rubs a hand across his chin, then says, “You are ferocious in every single battle, King.”
“Yes, and there is no zombie-laughter mulligan here.”
“All right. Let’s do this.”
“Let’s do it,” I echo, then I nod to the stage, where Bryn and Logan are crooning “Hooked on a Feeling.” So perfect for the two of them. It’s their theme song, those lovebirds. “I think this calls for a song. And you get to pick which one,” I say, tapping his shoulder.
“I won, so I picked the favor,” he points out.
“I’m feeling generous. Pick the song too, North.”
“If you insist.”
His eyes sparkle with a glint that says he has something up his sleeve. We head to the stage, and when Bryn and Logan finish, Ransom scrolls through the song options on the screen, winks at me as he selects one, then hands me the mic.
When I see the screen, I crack up. Quickly, though, I school my expression, draw a settling breath, and launch into “The Boy Is Mine,” giving it my all.
He joins in, and we ham it up, strutting across the stage. I’m having a blast, like I usually do with Ransom.
Here and now, sure. But also because we’re plotting something fun.
Something big.
Something good.
And then we’ll go on a date.
And that’ll be fun too.
But when I look at the crowd, my joy in the moment fizzles out, leaving me flat. It seems like everyone here is coupled up, arms draped around each other, heads resting on shoulders, kisses brushing cheeks. My heart aches at the sight.
I once wanted that.
I once had that.
But that kind of love cuts deep.
I wish it didn’t. But, oh hell, does it ever.
Once, I’d felt those overwhelming, chest-flooding emotions, and the one I’d loved abandoned me when I needed him the most.
The chorus of the song comes in, and my throat catches. I swallow down the sadness and loss, shoving away this flood of emotion.
Then I glance at Ransom and go back to laughing, having a good time.
Yes, I’m the good-time girl.
He’s the good-time guy.
That is who we are.
That is who we will always be.
At the end of the evening, as everyone shuffles off—hand in hand, arm in arm, lips ready to lock—I head outside with Ransom, telling him I’m going to wait for my Lyft.
“I’ll wait with you,” he says, with a softness in his eyes that I see every now and then.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to, Teagan,” he insists. “I want to make sure you get home safely.”
“You have to protect your top bidder before the auction,” I tease.
He tilts his head, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, that’s it. No other reason.”
I nudge him, keeping up the joke because humor is safer than being serious with him. “Don’t worry. Just set me up with a bodyguard and around-the-clock protection, and I’ll be fine.”
“Good to know. Because my other alternative was to do that whole Han Solo encase-you-in-carbonite routine.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “That’s so 1981.”
The Lyft arrives, and I slide inside, click the seat belt, and glance out the window. Ransom’s eyes lock with mine, and for a fleeting second—okay, for maybe ten fleeting seconds—after he says my name and wishes me good night, I can kind of see why our friends are always trying to hook us up.
He’s gorgeous, single, funny, and talented, and he doesn’t want to be serious.
I don’t do serious either.
Maybe they all figure we’re perfect clowns together. That we’d be perfectly unserious together.
Maybe they’re right, because he’s a lot like me.
But what would happen if two people who didn’t want to be serious got together? They’d crash into each other for a hot, fiery moment in time. Then they’d repel each other.
We’d become that annoying couple who dated once and then hated each other.
We’d become the bruise in our group of friends, the brown hole in the apple that you try to avoid.
I won’t do that to my friends. I love them too much. They have been my family since my family has been gone.
That’s why I email Nancy in the cab on the way home, extending my donation request to include the companion dog organization, and I go home alone—as I’ve done for years.
The next morning, Nancy emails me back to tell me the board for my parents’ foundation approved a bid for the companion dog charity.
Then I read the amount she’s nominated.
My jaw drops.
There’s no way anyone else will be taking Ransom home.
I get out of bed and head to the kitchen, stopping at a framed photo of my family on the way, a shot of the four of us from more than twenty years ago.
Back when my family was a foursome.
The least I can do is carry on their wishes, to take all this money they earned and give most of it away.
And maybe, just maybe, along the way, I’ll have a Sunday Funday–type date with the most interesting man I know. But that’ll be all. Because there’s nothing more brewing between us.
There shouldn’t be anything else brewing but the coffee I’m starting in the kitchen.
With the coffee maker gurgling, I grab my phone and send a morning hello to Bryn, ready to give her a piece of my mind, even if it’s a playful one.
Teagan: You are such a troublemaker.
Bryn: Moi?
Teagan: Don’t act so innocent.
Bryn: Ha. As if I’m innocent of anything.
Teagan: Exactly.
Bryn: But what is this trouble you speak of, my friend?
Teagan: I know that you and Fitz and Logan and Summer and Oliver engineered this whole auction date thing with Ransom.
Bryn: Hmm. That’s quite an allegation. Any evidence to prove your accusation?
I roll my eyes at her reply, laughing as I take down a coffee mug. Then I write back.
Teagan: It’s adorable that you think I didn’t immediately know you were the puppeteer in all of this. Hey, how about Teagan bids on Ransom? Gee, won’t that be perfect? So you. So very you.
Bryn: But did you see me working the strings?
Teagan: I did. Right along with Fitz. You two, I swear.
Bryn: Fine. What can I say? We can both see what’s RIGHT IN FRONT OF US!!
Teagan: What’s in front of you is a dreamscape. You live in some friendship fantasia.
Bryn: Stop ruining my cupid dreams.
Teagan: My dream is for all of us to have brunch on Sunday, no weirdness on the menu.
Bryn: Fine. Fine. We’ll do brunch.
Teagan: And to keep doing brunch. I like brunch. I like our crew. I like the status quo.
Bryn: Message received—don’t rock the boat. Sourpuss.
Teagan: Aww, I love you too.
Bryn: Love you more.
I pour some coffee, take a sip, and check my Tinder profile. Scroll, scroll, scroll.
Nobody catches my interest.
Nobody looks like someone I’d want to commit to grabbing a latte with, let alone spend an evening with.
Leaving the phone on the counter, I take my mug and move to the living room window, gazing out at the tree-lined block on the Upper East Side.
My home. My parents’ home before it was mine.
And outside of this home are all my friends that make this city, this life, these times work for me.
Bryn, Ransom, Logan, Fitz, Dean, Summer, Oliver. The whole crew.
An auction is an auction is an auction.
That is all.
And everything will be fine.