Chapter Seven
I barely acknowledged Ravi as I rushed past him and into my office like a blur.
“Nice to see you too, El,” he called after me.
Doubling back, I peeked my head out of the doorframe. “Sorry, Rav, you know, when inspiration strikes.”
He shooed me away with his free hand and sipped from his coffee mug. “Say no more.”
I kicked my shoes off, powered up my laptop, and clicked open a new Word document.
Like a boxer preparing for a fight, I cracked my knuckles, shook out my fingers, and took a deep breath, rolling my neck with a satisfying pop, ready to type out a revised script for today’s show, using the fodder from brunch to add in some hilarious material.
And like a wrecking ball, out spun a full demolition of all the clichés of love and marriage, not to mention ridiculously over-the-top romantic gestures, like meeting a holiday hookup under the Eiffel Tower at Christmas, for good measure.
I was on fire!
I broke each thought into a new segment, as if they and my emotions were an open spigot pouring onto the page.
Dozens of controversial questions I knew would light up the switchboard brighter than a fireworks display on the Fourth of July came flying out of my fingers.
Today’s show was going to be epic. Spice.
Snark. And the kind of straightforward candor I was known for.
Not to mention giving my agent and the suits at Sirius exactly what I was sure they were looking for.
I saved it on my desktop as Defcon1.docx and chuckled to myself before shooting this latest draft over to Ravi. As I snapped the laptop closed, my phone vibrated beside it on the desk. I turned it over and just about fell out of my chair when I saw a text from Leo.
Leo, who was apparently a saved contact in my phone. A saved contact complete with a photo of us lip-locked under the Arc de Triomphe. I guessed we’d ventured over there at some point when we’d reconnected in Paris?
But if it had really happened, then why couldn’t I remember any of it?
When I closed my eyes, the images were there, like a dream, hazy around the edges.
Sepia-toned photographs from an old-timey camera.
Leo and I, hand in hand, walking along the Seine.
Sipping café au laits in charming Parisian cafés.
Us rummaging through knickknacks at an antique market in Le Marais.
An icy shiver zipped up my spine. I had met Leo in Paris, or at least some version of me had.
A record scratch that didn’t just interrupt the song but changed it entirely.
It seemed that, as planned, six months after we stood together in the Athens airport saying our goodbyes, we reunited, and apparently, all the sparks were still there?
Despite my reservations, my doubts, my career . . . I’d actually taken a chance on love?
No. I hadn’t. I know I hadn’t.
I’d called it off a few weeks before I was supposed to leave for Charles de Gaulle Airport.
As much as I may have thought a fun tryst in Paris would be momentarily exciting, to meet Leo there would have indicated I was interested in more between us, and I wasn’t.
I couldn’t be. So I decided it was better to just end it before either of us pictured it going somewhere it never should.
But then how was he here?! And why?!
The weathered face of the tarot reader from last night flashed through my mind again, and I almost laughed at how ridiculous it all was.
But on the other hand, Leo had appeared in my bed out of nowhere.
So what did that mean? It was actually magic?
A love spell? A plot twist straight out of a Disney movie?
Was I supposed to expect talking armoires next?
Dancing candelabras? The idea that her spell had actually worked was completely bonkers.
But if it wasn’t that . . . then how did any of this make sense?
I needed answers or for her to reverse it or whatever she needed to do to put my life and my sanity back in working order. Before opening the text from Leo, I googled the number for Rooftop Reds and sat back in my chair as the phone rang.
“Rooftop Reds,” a woman on the other end cooed.
“Yeah, hi, I’m Elliot West and I was the speaker at your event last night. I was wondering—”
“Speaker? Last night? We didn’t have a speaker at our event last night.”
“Of course you did. It was me.”
“No. No, we didn’t. Are you sure you’re calling the right place, hon?”
“The Galentine’s Day thing?”
“We held a Galentine’s Day event here, yes,” she replied with her voice going up on the word yes like she was trying to be polite though certain I was mistaken.
“Then I don’t underst—” Right. Of course.
In this multiverse version of my life, I wasn’t the headliner at Rooftop Reds last evening.
Instead, I’d apparently fallen asleep last night with my head in Leo’s lap while we watched The White Lotus.
“You know what? I must be mixing up my calendar. Sorry. Anyway, if you could just give me the contact information for the tarot reader you hired as one of the entertainers? I’d love to book a private reading. ”
“The who?” she huffed, now clearly annoyed with my confounding questions.
“The mystic. The tarot lady. Jet-black hair. A little older. You know, the one shuffling the deck like a card shark?” I joked.
A beat of silence. “We . . . we didn’t have a tarot reader at the event last night either. We were supposed to,” she sighed, “but the company had a double booking and couldn’t get anyone to fill in, so we hired a calligraphist instead.”
“Perhaps there was a last-minute availability with the company, and they sent one that you aren’t aware of? Because I know for a fact there was a tarot reader at your event last night, and I really need to speak with her,” I pressed.
“There’s nobody else to ask. I was the one who checked in all the vendors and entertainers, and no one came to do tarot readings.
Unless maybe it was just an enthusiastic guest who decided to set up her own fun.
You know how those Brooklyn hipsters can be!
” She laughed at her own joke, but when she didn’t hear me join in, she cleared her throat.
“I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I can help you out.
I s’pose I could give you the name of the company we usually use, but they aren’t, like, legit.
They advertise themselves more as comedic entertainment.
They’re not actually psychics. But I have heard about this one lady in Queens who apparently can—”
“No, no. It’s okay. I’m just . . . Never mind. Thanks anyway,” I managed, even though my brain was racing.
Who was the tarot card reader, then?!
I sighed, more confused than ever, the notification of Leo’s unread text still lingering on my screen. I clicked on it and opened the GIF of Colin Firth warbling through the song “Our Last Summer” from Mamma Mia!
Underneath it said:
Leo: I can still recall . . . Happy Valentine’s Day
Was he serious?
Ravi poked his head into my office. “You ready? I need you in the studio in five for a sound check.”
“Ready . . . and maybe a little too keyed up,” I said, trying to shake off the text and the strange conversation about the tarot reader. I slipped my phone back into my pocket, grabbed a fresh printout of today’s show copy, and followed him out the door.
“Great, keyed up is what boosts ratings,” he said with a wink.
I settled into my seat and ran through a series of sound checks with the engineer before Ravi gave me the thirty-second cue. Slipping my headphones over my ears, I tapped the microphone one last time and waited for a final nod from the booth.
Ironically, I’d decided days ago that I’d kick off the show by talking about Commandment Number Seven from my Ten Commandments of Love and Dating: Thou shalt not resurrect an ex. Since Leo had suddenly reappeared in my bed this morning, no topic could’ve felt more on the nose or painfully relevant.
I took a breath, steadied my voice, and with one final nod from Ravi launched into my opening.
“Hey there, loyal listeners. Elliot West here, your favorite voice of reason, coming at you from Midtown Manhattan. Though I know many of you may be celebrating Valentine’s Day today .
. . bleh”—I fake-vomited into my mic—“I think we’ve all spent enough time rooting through the pros and cons, but mostly cons, of such a stupid holiday, and honestly, I don’t want to give it any more of a spotlight than it already gets.
So instead, today we’re talking all about the EX Factor.
You know, that one guy who seemed perfect on paper and had you totally hooked but you knew deep in your bones the spark would fade faster than New Year’s resolutions by January third.
So don’t go anywhere, because we’re going to be tackling the ultimate relationship pitfall and probably the most sacred of all my commandments: Thou shalt not resurrect an ex, today, on Love Is a Four-Letter Word. ”
Ravi turned up the intro music and gave me a thumbs-up before cuing me to jump back in.
“Ladies, it’s time that we’re honest with ourselves.
They’re our exes for a reason, right? Probably because they weren’t just yesterday’s news—they’re the headline nobody wants to read twice.
But in those moments of weakness, we convince ourselves to hit rewind, like a bad reality show on its seventeenth season.
Why do we do it? Is it nostalgia? Loneliness?
Or just plain old hope that this time it’ll be different?
Let’s take our first caller.” I pressed the illuminated button on the board.
“Hi, you’re on the air with Elliot West. What’s your name and where are you calling from? ”
“This is Linda from Montauk.”
“Hey, Linda from Montauk. What’s your take? Why, like clueless moths to a dwindling flame, do we keep getting pulled back to our exes?”