Chapter Thirty-Five
The door creaked open with a familiar groan as I stepped into my apartment, suitcase wheels thunking softly against the hardwood and Pickles in her carrier in hand.
Everything smelled faintly of old takeout and stale coffee, like it had been waiting patiently for me to come back and resume my regularly scheduled life.
But it didn’t feel the same.
I dropped my bag, took two steps in, and froze. Something was off. Not messy or ransacked or changed exactly, but off in the way a dream starts to dissolve the second you wake up.
The picture frames on my bedside table were the first to catch my eye.
The Polaroid of Marin and me at Coney Island was back in its old spot.
The one of Leo, windswept and laughing, gone.
I turned slowly toward my nightstand. Empty.
The photo of the two of us under the Eiffel Tower, the one where he was kissing my cheek while I wore that ridiculous beret, vanished, as if it had never existed.
In its place was nothing but a thin layer of dust.
Scooping Pickles out of her carrier, I sat on the edge of my bed and raked her soft fur under my fingers as I stared at the bare tabletop and felt a hollowness expand inside my chest. Not panic, not grief.
Just . . . silence. Like the echo of something beautiful that had already slipped through my fingers.
Maybe Leo really was never here.
Or maybe the harder truth was that he had been, and it had meant something. Something that changed me in ways I hadn’t been ready for. I used to pride myself on not needing anyone. I was sharp, self-sufficient, and unshakable.
But now? Now there was a Leo-shaped ache I couldn’t explain away, and I didn’t know what to do with it other than try to get on with my day, let alone my life.
Setting Pickles back in her cage, I gave her some carrot sticks I found in my fridge drawer and started to unpack my suitcase, sorting my clothes into two piles: one for the wash, the other for the dry cleaners.
I put away my toiletries, lining them up on the shelf like I always did.
The fridge was nearly empty, so I made a quick list on my Notes app of what I’d need to grab later.
Then I pulled my laptop from my carry-on and set it on the kitchen table.
I still hadn’t made any real progress on the next episode of Love Is a Four-Letter Word.
So between that and how I’d left things with Ravi before I flew to Belize, where he told me in no uncertain terms I needed to figure out what I actually wanted, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to going into the studio later.
I inhaled sharply and set my fingers down on the keyboard.
C’mon, Elliot, a rant on the disasters of destination weddings, this is the type of hot take you can write in your sleep.
Only, the words weren’t coming. Every time I tried to string together a sentence about the overpriced nonsense or the inevitable family drama that comes with that many days trapped in endless group texts and the forced fun of daily excursions, my thoughts kept drifting back to zip-lining with Keith and how he coached me through my fear when I nearly backed out.
Then to Dad and me reeling in that monster mahi-mahi.
I thought about how Matty consoled me after the fight with Mom, no questions asked. Then the mah-jongg game on the beach, where Mom and I mended fences between shuffles. Most of all, I thought about the wonderful day I spent with Leo exploring Belize, just the two of us.
And I couldn’t help but wonder if these kinds of destination weddings weren’t actually just a messy, imperfect way to foster the sort of connection that only happens when you’re away from real life for a few days. A kind of trauma bonding that brought people together despite themselves.
But that wasn’t the brand of revelation my listeners expected, not from me.
It wasn’t a punchy take that ‘love-cynic Elliot West’ was known for.
And so I reached down deep into the pit of misanthropy and did my best to pull up all the sarcasm and righteous indignation I could muster, spewing it onto the page like one long unfiltered exhalation.
I wasn’t sure if it was muscle memory or just plain desperation, but eventually the words took shape well enough for me to email them off to Ravi and hope they passed for something close to acceptable.
Pushing open the studio door, I half expected to find Ravi hunched over the soundboard, clutching one of his usual snarky mugs. Instead, he held a glossy white one that read Thank You for Being Awesome in a sunshiny-yellow script.
“Hey, how was the wedding?” he asked brightly as I stepped inside, the unexpected warmth in his tone catching me off guard.
“Good. It was . . . surprisingly good.”
“Glad to hear it!”
I dropped my bag by the door and gave him a confused look. “Rav, you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m great, why?”
“Um, maybe because you were pretty pissed off at me before I left for my trip.”
“I was?”
“Very.”
He shrugged. “I mean, sure, I’d love it if you were ever on time and if you occasionally answered your phone or checked your email, not to mention let me finish a sentence without interrupting.
But those are just my usual Elliot gripes.
I don’t remember there being any full-on explosions before you left. ”
Now, I was genuinely confused. “What about the post–Valentine’s Day show? The on-air Mamma Mia! Immersive inquisition? My appearance on Good Day, Manhattan?!”
“Oh, yes, that’s right, Good Day, Manhattan.”
There it was. I closed my eyes and prepared for another unleashing of his hellfire.
But instead he said, “Yeah, I guess you could’ve plugged Love Is a Four-Letter Word and the upcoming book a little bit harder. The execs would have loved to see a bigger jump in presale numbers, but other than that, you pretty much killed it.”
I squinted, one eye open and waited for more.
Wait, what? I killed it? I was pretty sure after my on-air admission about Leo that Ravi was ready to fillet me alive.
Ever since Leo magically appeared in my life, work had been one long string of screwups.
Ravi had every reason to be furious with me, but he wasn’t? This didn’t make any sense.
Until I remembered that when Leo disappeared, so did everything he’d shaken up in the past few weeks.
He never surprised me with the Mamma Mia!
experience on Valentine’s Day. And because he never surprised me, I was never confronted on air about our date or the fact that I was some kind of lovesick hypocrite.
He never supported me, challenged me, or cherished me. Because that version of us never existed, I never unraveled in real time on Good Day, Manhattan.
None of it happened.
Apparently, the Sirius deal was still solid. The book contract firm. Ravi wasn’t the least bit pissed at me. Everything was exactly as planned. Not meeting Leo in Paris had landed me right where I wanted to be, no loose ends.
And yet, somehow, it all felt . . . off.
Ravi took another sip from his mug. “Had a chance to skim your notes for today’s show.
Looking good. I went to my college roommate’s wedding at a god-awful all-inclusive resort in Cancun last year, and let’s just say, I’m still recovering from the sunburn, the secondhand embarrassment, and the crippling wallop to my credit card. Your take is spot-on.”
“Oh, good. Glad you liked it.”
“A lot. Anyway, I left some copy on your desk if you want to do a quick read-through. New advertiser, HelloFresh. See you in the studio.”
I wandered into my office, picked up the sheet from my desk, and read it aloud:
You’ll get fresh ingredients and easy-to-follow recipes delivered right to your door.
No awkward grocery store run-ins with your ex.
No “dinner for two” pity freezer meals. Just delicious, stress-free cooking designed for people who’ve realized they’re the best company they’ll ever have.
So go ahead and light a candle and toast to the fact that you don’t have to share your fries.
Because the only thing more satisfying than a great meal . . . is getting to eat it alone.
I shook my head and set down the paper. Is this really who I was?
Someone who peddled the idea that solitude was the prize?
That being alone was the ultimate flex? I knew that marriage and the traditional idea of “happily ever after” didn’t necessarily define happiness, but did I really believe that shutting everyone out was the answer either?
Ravi poked his head into my office door. “Ready?”
I nodded, printed the script for today’s show, grabbed the advertiser packet from my desk, and followed him down the hallway to the studio.
The On Air sign glowed red, casting a faint halo in the corner of the booth.
I slid into my usual seat, the one with the scuffed armrest and a lingering trace of coffee soaked into the padding.
Wrapping my fingers around the microphone, I drew in a breath that didn’t quite reach the bottom of my lungs.
Ravi settled into the sound booth, leaned over to the speaker, and gave his usual spiel.
“Okay, El, system’s all checked. Remember, watch your time with the callers during the first segment.
We’ve got a hard break at ten past for a sponsor mention and commercial.
Okay, live in three . . . two . . . one.
” He held up three fingers before tapping the mic and giving me a quick nod before the light flipped to green.