Chapter Eleven
“Go on, we’re all listening,” Dina, the relentless caller, prodded, still hanging on the line, as the On Air light blinked tauntingly on the desk.
I took a breath, doing my best to recompose myself, even though sweat was starting to trickle down my armpits.
Calm down, Elliot. This doesn’t have to be a big deal.
All I had to do was downplay everything with a sort of vague indifference, which shouldn’t be too hard, considering that was basically how I felt about Leo anyway.
Vaguely indifferent.
. . . Didn’t I?
I exhaled sharply, letting my shoulders drop.
“Okay, fine, you caught me.” I threw my hands in the air in surrender even though Dina couldn’t see me through the phone line.
Sighing, I began, “I was out on a kind-of date with a guy I met over the summer who, by some strange twist of fate, suddenly reappeared in my life, as if by magic. But that’s a story for another day.
And yes, maybe I was beaming—your words, not mine—but I can assure you, it isn’t that serious.
Sure, Leo’s ridiculously charming and, let’s be honest, very easy on the eyes.
And I have to give him credit for planning such a fun and out-of-the-box evening, knowing how obsessed I am with Mamma Mia!
Not to mention the fact that we met in Greece, so his thoughtfulness was impressive.
But it’s not like I’ve suddenly abandoned all my beliefs just because some guy managed to exceed my expectations for one night.
Even if I did have a good time. Like a surprisingly good time.
I mean . . . well, I’m not sure what that even means.
Except, I guess, maybe, I’d have to admit that Valentine’s Day isn’t always a total scam.
I suppose, with the right person, it can even be sorta nice. ”
As the words fell out of my mouth, I froze and glanced up at Ravi in the sound booth, whose eyes were as wide as saucers. He held up his What the Actual F coffee mug to the glass partition as he shook his head in disbelief.
“Anyway, it’s been great speaking to you, Dina,” I quickly stammered. “Now, let’s take a brief pause to hear from our sponsors.” I queued up the outro music, signaling our commercial break, before Ravi stormed into the studio.
“I . . . I . . .” Ravi stammered, flustered and frantic. “What the hell was that, Elliot?”
“What? What’s wrong?” I blurted defensively, even though I knew very well what he meant.
He held up his fingers to make air quotes. “‘Valentine’s Day isn’t always a total scam. I suppose, with the right person, it can even be sorta nice.’”
“Oh, that?” I waved a dismissive hand at him, despite the fact that my heart was pounding out of my chest. “I don’t know. It just . . . just came out. Anyway, you need to do a better job screening the callers. I don’t appreciate being put on the spot like that.”
I knew I wasn’t being fair. Ravi had been my biggest champion (not to mention one of my closest friends) since we’d met at college in the booth of Brown’s small radio studio.
Curmudgeonly, yes, but also steadfastly supportive.
And talented as hell. He was the one who’d sent tapes of the show to the top talent agencies in NY and LA.
The one who convinced me we could take this thing to the next level, never once wavering in his belief that our show would be a success.
“On the spot? You’re the one who got caught out on a romantic date,” he countered.
“It wasn’t a romantic date. Leo surprised me. I didn’t have any say in our plans.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure you were SOS-ing for a way out the whole time.”
I dramatically dropped my jaw in shock. “Rav, did you just use an ABBA pun?”
“Soooo not the point. Look, you swore this relationship wouldn’t change you or your hard stance on love.”
“I did? Right, I did. It hasn’t and it won’t.”
“It better not. Sirius is”—he pinched his thumb and forefinger together—“this close to making the offer. Everything we’ve worked for is right there and about to pay off. Are you really prepared to throw it all away for what, a charming distraction?”
Before I even opened my mouth to answer, he turned on the heels of his Nike high-tops, returned to the booth to give some sort of instruction to the sound engineer, and then stomped out the studio door toward his office. He never left during a live show. Not to take a break. Not to pee. Never.
Shocked, I looked back down at the switchboard, which was brightly lit up with callers, all of whom were probably ready to pounce on my seemingly sudden change of heart.
Rather than dig myself into a potentially deeper hole, I decided to move away from the dial-in portion of the show and launched into one of my more popular segments: “Ghost Stories,” where listeners emailed in their most brutal ghosting experiences, and I would deliver a hilarious eulogy.
It was perfectly pre-scripted, with no chance of any other unexpected questions derailing my vibe.
About halfway through the segment, my eyes caught a flash of Ravi as he reentered the studio to take his usual seat.
His coloring had readjusted back to his usual shade of caramel, less flushed than he’d been when he stalked out, and I was relieved to see that after a few minutes, he was actually snickering and nodding right along with the bit.
Then he held up his wrist and tapped on his watch, signaling the end of the show.
Normally, we’d head straight into his office for a “postgame” recap, but I already knew his feedback, and since I agreed with all of it, I figured, what was the point?
Love Is a Four-Letter Word was the one area in my life where my confidence never faltered, and yet I’d let Leo somehow unsettle me.
That couldn’t happen again. Ravi was right. I’d worked too hard, built my brand from the ground up. I’d gone from a college disc jockey to making a real name for myself in the industry, and I wasn’t about to let Mr. Magically Shows Up Out of Nowhere cost me everything.
I grabbed my things quickly, no lingering glances, no unnecessary words. Without a goodbye, I made my way out the door, heading straight to Marin’s place and the familiar comfort of our weekly ladies’ mah-jongg game.
I held the box of cheeses and olives from Murray’s in one hand and lightly knocked on the door before pushing it open with the other, knowing Marin always left it ajar on the afternoons we played.
“Mar, it’s me,” I called into the living room.
“I’m just wiping up the floor from Ethan’s shower so none of you slip and kill yourselves in here,” she called back. “I swear more water ends up out of the tub than in it. Give me one second.”
I set my bag down beside the coatrack, hung my jacket on an empty hook, and wandered over to the snack table where Marin had laid out the best of Trader Joe’s snacks, things like hummus dips, crispy pita chips, and dark-chocolate peanut butter cups.
I added my goodies to the spread before snagging a handful of trail mix and wandering over to the fridge to grab a seltzer.
I made my way back into the living room, and a moment later, Marin stepped out of the bathroom, smoothing her damp hands down her leggings. “Hi, love,” she said, kissing me lightly on the cheek. “Sorry, I’m such a mess.”
Aside from the water marks on her knees, she was immaculate, as always.
“Stella and Jada are on their way,” she said, then added, “Shoot, let me grab the bubbly and OJ from the fridge.”
I sat down at the bridge table and placed a rack in front of each of the four chairs.
Almost without thinking, I began flipping over the tiles and building my wall.
Mah-jongg, once a game I’d dismissed as something only old ladies played, was apparently having a revival among Gen Zers.
Marin had convinced me to sign up for lessons at the 92nd Street Y with her, and I was hooked from the start.
Even though I rarely won, there was something about creating order from chaos, spotting patterns in the unpredictable, that spoke to me.
It was the way the game forced me to stay on guard, watching every move, reading between the lines, always figuring out how to shield myself from what might come next.
I’d been doing that my whole life.
Marin set the drinks down, took the seat beside me, and began stacking a neat row of thirty-eight tiles in front of her. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to listen to the show this morning. It was absolute mayhem around here.”
“Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t one of my best anyway. Actually, ‘not one of my best’ is a bit of an understatement.”
Marin looked up from her tiles, her brows knit with concern. “Why? What happened?”
I was just about to dive in when the door swung open and Stella and Jada walked in.
Marin stood to greet them and took their coats.
“Snacks are up,” she called over her shoulder as she tossed their things on her bed and grabbed a handful of carrots from the counter before settling back into her seat.
Stella slid into the chair beside me and gently covered my hand with hers. “Oh, honey, we heard the show. Are you okay? That caller was a total B. You should’ve just hung up on her.”
“Who’s a total B? What did I miss?” Marin asked, continuing to arrange her tiles.
“I’ll explain later. I just want to try to forget all about it for a little bit.”
Marin gave me a knowing look. “Fine. Consider it deferred, but you’re not off the hook. So . . . how was everyone’s Valentine’s Day?”
Jada huffed and said, “Marcus and I had the most disappointing dinner last night at Pappardelle’s.
Their holiday prix fixe menu? What a joke.
A total rip-off. The options were super limited, and did I really need to pay $100 a head for a small box of off-brand chocolates they handed us at the end with our check?
Ugh, we should’ve just stayed in, ordered takeout, and caught up on The White Lotus. ”
She popped a grape and a cube of cheese in her mouth and looked over at me.
“What about you, El? Sounds like you and Leo had a fabulous time. I remember when Marcus and I were in that new-relationship phase and he felt like he had to go the extra mile, not just make reservations at the restaurant down the block.”
“Oh, that’s right. Mr. Wonderful, as always, knocked it out of the park.” Marin lined up four champagne flutes, expertly removed the foil, and popped the cork without ever breaking eye contact.
I was temporarily stunned. They all knew Leo. Like knew him, knew him. The way my mom and Ravi apparently knew him as some sort of fixture in my life. We’d probably gone out on a handful of double dates, and I’d even venture to guess at this point they very likely knew more about him than I did.
Wait a second . . . They very likely knew more about him than I did.
A light bulb went off. Ravi hadn’t been all that helpful in filling in the missing gaps about Leo, but four women, chatting away over a mah-jongg game, sipping mimosas? That was a whole different story.
And I was fairly certain I’d finally be able to crack The Case of the Reappearing Summer Fling wide open, one ivory tile at a time.