Chapter Ten
Yes, I was wildly attracted to him. That was never the problem.
And yes, we’d had a magical night, dancing until dawn.
My raccoon eyes and throbbing feet were proof of that!
But I wasn’t ready for a sexual kind of intimacy yet.
What had happened between us in Greece had been spontaneous, a whirlwind caught up in sun-soaked days and wine-drenched nights, where reality, regardless of what we said, felt a million miles away.
But this? This was different. Waking up next to him this morning, with two months of my life missing and my heart teetering between confusion and curiosity .
. . I needed to catch up to the version of me that had lived those days before I could even consider anything physical happening between us.
The version of me that apparently trusted this man enough to invite him to move in, and sleep next to me, and build a life I wasn’t even sure I was ready for.
So I left Leo a note saying I had to be at the studio early, and for the first time, maybe ever, beat Ravi into work.
He tapped lightly on the door, this time clutching his And Yet Despite That Look on My Face You Are Still Talking mug. “My, my, Elliot West, as I live and breathe,” Ravi teased in a dramatic Southern drawl, fanning himself with his hand.
“Stop, it’s not like I’m always late.”
Mom was always late. I was just more, let’s say, “strategic” about my arrival times.
“Well, we don’t refer to it as Elliot Standard Time around here for nothing.”
Leo had used that exact expression yesterday: Elliot Standard Time.
He’d dropped it so casually, like he was already in on the joke my friends never let me live down.
Like he was a part of my inner circle. But if that were true, then why hadn’t it occurred to me that Ravi, or any of my friends for that matter, might be able to help me piece together the last two months of missing memories?
“Ha. True. Good one. Elliot Standard Time. Yesterday, Leo ribbed me about that too. You like him, right? I mean, as far as, um, boyfriends go?” I shot a glance up at Ravi and paused, waiting for him to throw out a clue . . . any clue at all.
Ravi eyed me quizzically. “Leo?” He took a deliberate sip of his coffee and shrugged. “Well, sure, I had my concerns at first, of course. But overall he seems like a good dude.”
I ran my hand through my hair and feigned coolness (probably doing a terrible job), plopping my elbows onto the desk and resting my chin in my hands. “Huh . . . really? Concerns? Interesting? Like, um, what kind of concerns?”
His face contorted like he was holding back something he wasn’t sure he should say. “I guess not really so much about him as it is about you.”
I pulled back and sat up a bit straighter, now on high alert. “About me? What does that mean?”
He scooted some papers aside on the desk and rested his hip against it, settling in.
“Meaning, you’ve built your brand on the idea that love is an illusion, so when you returned from your trip to Paris and announced to the office you’d fallen head over heels, I admit I was worried.
Worried for the Sirius deal, for your book offer, for your brand, all of it.
It felt like overnight, you might unravel everything we’ve worked so damn hard for.
And for a guy of all things?! It was like a kung-pow kick of irony straight to the gut. ”
Dread settled in my chest, a slow, tightening vise. “But it hasn’t, um, changed me or any of that . . . has it?”
Now Ravi was looking at me like I’d really gone off the rails, his squinted eyes so narrow I could barely see his irises.
“No . . . Thankfully, you’ve been as cynical as ever.
But should I be concerned? Are you having some kind of amnesiac episode or a stroke or something?
Why are you acting like this is all headline news? ”
Relief washed over me. Thank God, I hadn’t done anything to jeopardize my career. I hadn’t let myself get swept away, hadn’t made any rash decisions that could undermine everything I’d worked for.
But the spell? Had it rewritten my past or just inserted Leo into my present? Had it somehow made me choose to meet him in Paris back in December, setting everything in motion? Or had it instead just dropped him into my life now and stitched together a false history to make it all feel real?
The truth was I had no freakin’ idea, and trying to untangle the complexities of multiverse theory was giving me a migraine, not to mention a full-blown existential crisis.
“Amnesia? Um . . . I don’t think so. I’m okay, just tired from last night.”
“Oh, right, Valentine’s Day. Do me a favor and go for the jugular today, regardless of how swoony your evening with your new beau may have been.
Keep reminding yourself about all the needless spending.
All those crusty boxes of overpriced chocolates.
All the public PDA. You have years of stories and material.
You can’t let a guy you’ve known for a few months soften your edge. ”
I couldn’t even believe we were having this conversation. “You’re worried about me waxing poetic?” I said, shuffling my notes, “I’m primed and ready for this postgame V-day takedown. Trust.”
Ravi took a sip of his coffee, nodding thoughtfully before turning on his heels, his sneakers squawking on the linoleum floor as he made his way to the sound room to get ready for the show.
This, ladies and gentlemen, was my Super Bowl.
I could almost hear the Rocky theme echoing in my mind as I took a deep breath, cracked my neck, and rolled my shoulders back.
With one last glance at my notes, I was ready.
I marched from my office into the studio, flopped down onto my seat, and pushed a pair of headphones over my ears.
Leaning into the microphone, I murmured my usual, “Test one, two, test,” until Ravi gave me a thumbs-up.
“You’re on in thirty seconds,” he said. “Knock ’em dead.”
“That’s the plan. Love is a battlefield, and I, my friend, am a mothereffin’ sharpshooter.”
Ravi laughed, leaned into his mic, and let out a dramatic kaboom before cuing up the familiar intro music. The overhead red light flashed three times before turning green, and I was off to the races.
“Good morning, heartbreakers, hopefuls, and anyone currently drowning in post–Valentine’s Day regret,” I purred, my voice sliding into that familiar mix of warmth and wickedness my listeners had come to expect.
“It’s your resident love cynic, Elliot West, here to support you like a sister through the aftermath of Cupid’s latest carnage.
Did you wake up next to Mr. Right . . . or Mr. Just for Last Night?
Did the flowers he bought you yesterday wilt before your first cup of coffee this morning?
Or are you still picking stray glitter from that heartfelt, handmade card that felt more like a Pinterest cry for help?
If so, you’re in the right place. For the next two hours I will do my very best to cure your love hangover on this post–Valentine’s Day morning.
I want to hear from you! Everything from your V-day horror stories to you gloating about your evening with Prince Charming, I want to hear it all.
So hit me up at 1-800-844-5683. That’s 1-800-UGH-Love.
Just be warned, I am armed with sarcasm and amped up on righteous indignation this morning, so don’t expect any mercy. ”
I glanced over at the switchboard, which was already aglow with incoming calls. I pressed down to answer the first in the queue.
“You’re on Love Is a Four-Letter Word with Elliot West. What’s your name and where are you calling from?”
“This is Charlotte calling from Stamford.”
“Hey, Charlotte from Stamford. How was your Valentine’s Day?”
“So, there’s this guy I’ve been sort of seeing these last couple of months.”
“Whoa, I’m going to stop you right there. What do you mean, ‘sort of seeing’?”
“Well, we hang out sometimes, mostly at his house because he’s got all the sports channels. I cut the cord on cable a while ago. Anyway, last night he invited me over.”
“Wait . . . he invited you over for Valentine’s? Or last night he just so happened to invite you over? Those are two very different things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if it’s the first one, you were a priority. If it’s the second, you were an afterthought.”
Charlotte hesitated. “I’m trying to remember . . .”
“Sweetheart, if you don’t remember, it’s because there is nothing to remember.
You were just a last-minute ‘I’m lonely on Valentine’s Day’ backup.
ESPN or not, you need to be the ‘main event’ in his life.
Love Commandment Number Three states: Thou shalt not put all thy eggs in one emotionally unavailable basket, and it sounds to me like you’ve got a whole dozen in there.
The price of eggs these days ain’t cheap, and yours shouldn’t be either. Next caller!”
Ravi coughed to stifle a laugh, but I was in the zone now, the cadence of the show unfolding effortlessly. I clicked over to the next person on the line.
“This is Elliot West, you’re on the air.”
“Hi, Elliot. Longtime listener, first-time caller. So excited to get through! This is Moira from Manhasset.”
“Ooh, I’m lovin’ that alliteration. Whatcha got for me, Moira from Manhasset?”
“Last night, my bestie hosted a Lonely Hearts Club dinner, where each guest brought an ex to set up with someone else.”
“Hmm, ’cause there aren’t a million different ways that could go sideways. But continue . . .”
“It didn’t just go sideways, it went off the rails, into a ditch, and burst into flames!
I drank way too much wine and ended up hooking up with my ex, who I don’t even like or respect, in my bestie’s front hall coat closet, because I was feeling a little bit sad about being single on Valentine’s Day, and now even worse, he won’t stop texting me. ”
“You must have missed my show yesterday. This is why the Seventh Love Commandment clearly states”—I punctuated clear-ly-states with an audible tap of my finger to the desktop—“Thou shalt not resurrect an ex. Bringing back an ex is like reviving Frankenstein’s monster: messy, terrifying, and bound to destroy everything in its path.
We gotta let the dead stay dead. Not to mention, Moira, that you have beautifully illustrated my exact point.
This stupid Hallmark holiday made you feel vulnerable.
Less than. A failure. A random date on a calendar that some greedy corporate goon probably invented to line his pockets or score a date, turning your choice to be single into some sort of personality flaw. No, ma’am! Next caller.”
The phone lines were blowing up. Now I knew how Rocky Balboa must have felt before knocking out Apollo Creed.
I stretched my arms out and cracked my knuckles before pressing the next lit-up phone line.
“You’re on Love Is a Four-Letter Word with Elliot West. What’s your name and where are you calling from? ”
“Is this really Elliot West? Holy shit, I’m such a fan. Oh, shit, can I say shit? Ahh, shit, sorry!”
I couldn’t help but laugh audibly. “Don’t worry. FCC fines only apply if I say it. So tell me, who do I have the pleasure of speaking with on this fine February morning?”
“This is Dina calling from Queens. I can’t believe I got through!”
“Well, believe it, Dina. You’re live. Talk to me, Queens. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, actually, this is kind of funny,” she said, a nervous laugh in her voice. “I saw you last night. When I was out with my girlfriends.”
That caught my attention and a sharp pang of panic jabbed under my ribs. “Oh?”
“At the Mamma Mia! immersive thing,” she added quickly. “It looked like you were on . . . on a date?”
My brain flashed to last night and the swirl of disco lights, the ABBA soundtrack, and the group of older women who’d practically cornered me, wanting to know if I was having a good time.
Sweet mother of Meryl Streep.
I sloughed off my panic and proceeded with caution, my guard already up.
“Oh yeah, so much fun. I’ve had ‘Dancing Queen’ stuck in my head all morning.
For those of you like me who love glitter and wildly enthusiastic choreography, I can’t recommend Mamma Mia!
: The Immersive Experience enough,” I said, leaning into an over-the-top plug for the show in a desperate attempt to change the subject.
“Not very demure, but oh-so-very sequined. So did you gals have a good time?”
“Yeah, I just . . . I was wondering. How can you say all this stuff about love being one long con job when you were out there looking like you were living your very own rom-com?”
My heart dropped into my stomach. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Oh, come on!” Her voice was playful but sharp.
“You were beaming,” she went on, her words coming faster now, like a freight train barreling toward me.
“And dancing. With that gorgeous guy. What is it you always say? That love is a scam? Well, it sure looked like you bought the deluxe package, honey.”
My throat went bone dry as my mind scrambled, grasping for a lifeline.
“Okaaaay, just hold on there a minute,” I said, forcing a laugh that sounded about as natural as a politician’s apology. “About that . . . I can totally explain how it probably looked like we—”
“Explain what? That you’re kind of a hypocrite?” She said it as a joke, but it clearly was not.
Ravi’s eyes shot up to lock with mine, horror-struck and frozen in place, as a noticeable hush fell over the studio.
“I wouldn’t call it hypocrisy,” I started, aiming for calm but hitting somewhere closer to manic. “I mean, yes, I was there. And yes, I may have been . . . enjoying myself, but that doesn’t really mean—”
“‘Enjoying yourself’?” she barked. “Girl, you looked like you were auditioning to be the fifth member of ABBA!”
Jesus. What, did she take notes?
“Look, I . . . It’s complicated, okay? I was doing research . . . for the show . . . a secret segment sort of thing . . .”
“On what? How to fall head over heels while singing ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!’ at the top of your lungs?” The caller’s taunt was a biting, playful jab . . . and she wasn’t relenting.
My pulse pounded in my ears. “It’s not what it looked like,” I blurted, now in a full panic. “I wasn’t—I mean, we were just—”
“We? So there is a ‘we’?”
Oh.
No.
“I didn’t say that!” I practically shouted.
“You kind of did.”
My cheeks burned. “Okay, but—”
“So, Elliot . . .” Her tone went syrupy sweet, the one-two punch of the final knockout. “Care to explain how that fits into your anti-love manifesto?”
A choked noise escaped me. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
The air went dead.
And I was flatlining.