Chapter 17
Katie
I met Danny at a sushi bar in Bryant Park after work, blotting my just-glossed lips as I walked through the sleek door—black
oak, a slit for a window, and everything on the other side of it dark, smooth, and clean.
“Hey,” he said as I collapsed onto the stool next to him. He kissed me, then ordered us a round of sake.
“Hey,” I said.
“You look . . .”
“Insane? Like an extra from a Beyoncé video? Like a vaguely skanky circus performer?”
Danny tilted his head. “I was going to say cute.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry, I’ve been spending too much time with Tyler. He thinks my clothes are ridiculous.”
Danny took a long sip of his drink. “Well, I think Tyler is ridiculous.”
I nodded in agreement, then proceeded to tell him about the entire storage closet debacle, start to finish, as piece after
piece of fish—red, orange, pink, white—appeared and disappeared before us. I kept waiting for him to crack a smile, offer
a laugh, or ask a follow-up question, but instead, he cleared his throat and tightened his grip on my knee.
“Can we,” he said, “maybe talk about anything other than Tyler?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Sorry, just venting. Work stuff.”
“Yeah, well, the guy’s a total loser. And dying to fuck you.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s that. He’s just—”
“Of course it’s that.” Danny pushed his hand a little higher up my thigh. “I mean, look at you. What else could it be?”
Tyler texted me a few minutes after midnight, just when I was about to fall asleep.
I’m really sorry about earlier, he wrote.
I rolled over and curled my body around my phone. That’s okay. I actually thought it was kind of cute.
Yeah? he wrote.
Yeah, I wrote.
His text bubble came and went, came and went. I scrunched my nose and closed my eyes. When I opened them, this: As your friend, though, Katie, I have to say, you’ve got the absolute worst taste in men.
I laughed out loud. Danny stirred, pulling me into him, muttering about real estate transfer laws. I carefully slid his bare
arms off me and replied, Tell me about it.
The car ride to Meredith’s the following morning was mostly business.
We talked through the outline, compared notes on a few books from our Hamptons-inspired required reading list, and stayed quiet as the Long Island Expressway whirled through Melville and Dix Hills, north stars of our hometown.
Tyler looked slightly more presentable today: a short-sleeved gray henley and a pair of faded blue jeans.
He’d also brought me a cup of coffee from his model-swarmed coffee shop, which, he assured me when pressed, he’d only poisoned a little.
By the time Fowler Street was dissolving into that same private drive—ocean air, sky-high hedges, and the incessant sound
of leaves being blown around—everything was dripping in perfect morning light. We continued on and on until, finally, whoosh, the gates to Meredith’s estate swung open.
She was waiting for us, cat in one hand, a bundle of hydrangeas in the other, their just-picked stems still covered in earth.
She waved Maurice off as we hopped out of the back seat, smoothing out our clothes as the low, brilliant sun beamed in our
eyes. We took off our sunglasses anyway.
“Meredith, hi,” I said, squinting. “Thanks again for having us. I—”
“The outline, please.”
“Oh, it’s . . . it’s on my computer,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow. Tyler put his hands in his pockets. I swallowed.
“I need to feel it,” she said. “Paper. Ink.”
“We, uh—We can print it,” Tyler said. “Can we use your printer?”
“I don’t have a printer,” she said.
We stood there, mouths slightly open.
“Um, okay,” Tyler said. There was a little sweat on his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “We’ll go print
it, then. We can find somewhere. Is there a FedEx around here?”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t know,” she said, and then she stepped inside her house and, without another word, slammed the
door.
“What the fuck?” Tyler said, very quietly. His hands were on his head, and he was walking around in these little semicircles, stammering. “I mean, I—”
“We just have to print it,” I said to nobody in particular. “We have to print it. We’ll find a FedEx, like you said. It’ll
be fine. We’ll print it, and we’ll come back here, and everything will be fine.”
Tyler nodded, then yanked his phone out of his pocket. “Fuck! I have no fucking signal! Do you? Check your phone! Do you?”
I reached into my tote. “I, um—No. Wow, no. I don’t.”
“Fuck!” Tyler said, and this time, louder. Loud enough that Meredith, if she was still close to the door, could’ve heard him.
“Did you pay attention on the way over? Do you know how to get into town? Do you know where we are?”
I stared at him. “No? I don’t know. I mean, did you? I didn’t think we’d be abandoned here, you know? I wasn’t exactly leaving a trail of breadcrumbs from the back of a fucking
chauffeured Range Rover. Just knock on the door, okay? Tell her we have no service, that we—”
“I’m not knocking on the door! You knock on the door! You’re the favorite. You’re the one who got drunk with her! You’re the
one who made fun of me all fucking brunch so she’d like you! You’re the one who—”
“Oh, come on! Are you serious right now? Of course I’m the favorite! You didn’t even try! You’re the one that took a job writing
a romance novel who’s never even watched The Notebook! Who doesn’t even believe in love! Who the fuck says that, by the way? At, like, a meeting with their boss? With the bestselling
romance novelist of all time? Why would—”
“Katie,” he said.
“No! I’m serious! You act like this industry is a joke—like it’s just smut, like it doesn’t matter! It does matter! Love makes
people happy! It makes the world go around! People read this stuff when they’re sad, when they’re horny, when they’re dying,
when their lives are falling apart, when they’re too scared to—”
“Katie,” he said again.
“You don’t get it, do you? How good it feels to believe in something! To believe your person is out there! That one day, everything
is going to finally make sense, finally fall into place! To hang on to something like that, despite your fear, despite how
lonely you are, despite how many times you’ve been hurt, despite—”
“The cat, Katie. The cat.”
I looked up. My pulse pounded between my ears. Pinot sat on the bottom step of Meredith’s front porch, one paw on what appeared
to be a picnic basket. His blue eyes, piercing. We walked toward him very slowly. Gravel crunched under our feet.
Tyler kneeled down, flipped open the wicker lid, and peeled back a layer of blue and white gingham. “What the . . . ?”
I joined him, my heart rate calming, my bare knees numb against the warm rocks. Fresh-baked French rolls and lobster salad
with chives and a blackberry crostata. Two sets of silverware, real plates, linen napkins. A bottle of white wine. A bottle
of sparkling water. An envelope with our names on it. I picked it up.
“I don’t—This wasn’t . . . Did she open the door? Did she hear us?”
“Open it,” Tyler said. “Just open it.”
I nodded. It was cardstock. Heavy. Once again, cream with navy piping.
There’s nothing like the Hamptons on a Tuesday in late June. The sun, hot. The beaches, empty. The riffraff, stuck in the city. Wander around, enjoy lunch, and get your bearings. I have a feeling you’re going to need them.
Yours,
M.B.
Tyler turned to me as I flipped over the note. On its back, a hand-drawn map of Southampton: ponds and pastry shops and Meredith’s private drive, all there in deep blue ink.
“Who the fuck is this woman?” he said.
The cat meowed, then swished away. My heart was racing again.
“I honestly have no clue.”