He’s watching me closely, as though gauging my sincerity （or perhaps just guarding against a rogue right hook）。 Whatever he sees on my face prompts him to take a step toward me, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Please don’t.” If you touch me, I’ll lose my nerve.
I can’t identify the emotion behind his eyes—uncertainty? regret?—but I force myself to hold his gaze so he knows that I’m serious, that I’m not changing my mind. I want you to leave—and it’s this lie, out of all the others I’ve told, that finally breaks me.
I spin around, turning my back to him and pressing my knuckles into the corners of my eyes in a desperate attempt to stave off the tears. Do not let him see you cry. Wait until he’s gone to fall apart. And I do exactly that, waiting until I hear the door open and swing shut behind me before I let out a sob and crumple onto the bed.
I lay there for a while, just letting myself cry and wallow in my hurt feelings. I can hardly wrap my head around how quickly this situation soured, how swiftly things went from the highest high to the lowest low. I can hear my phone going berserk in the bathroom, which only intensifies my distress. The thought of dealing with the prying questions and inevitable gossip on top of this heartbreak is almost too much to bear. I want to crawl under these covers, pull the sheets over my head and never come out. I want to hide from the world, disappear from my own life, and transplant into someone else’s like I’m in witness protection. I feel trapped; hunted. And because I’m part of this industry, I know exactly how this will play out: The press will circle me like vultures until they go in for the kill, picking my life apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left worth saving. Until I’m as dead inside as I am out.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the buzzing finally stops, but it’s short-lived; it immediately starts up again. And as much as I want to shut the world out and pretend this isn’t happening, I need to face the music sometime （or at least call an Uber so I can escape this godforsaken hotel room）。 I heave myself off the bed and stumble over to the bathroom, and when I see who’s calling—Christine—I’m suddenly desperate to hear her voice.
“Hey,” I shudder out, trying to get my emotions under control.
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” she yells, and I have to hold the phone away from my head so as to not shatter my eardrum. “I’ve spent half the night trying to find you!”
“I was with Jack.” Just saying his name aloud triggers a fresh round of tears and I have to take a couple of deep breaths before continuing. “I had my phone off. I know you’re probably wondering what’s going on, but I don’t think I can talk about it without bawling.”
There’s a beat of silence. “So you talked to Mom and Dad, then? They said they couldn’t reach you.”
“Mom and Dad? No,” I say, confused, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. “I haven’t talked to anyone. Why?”
There’s another pause. “Is Jack there with you now?”
“No. Christine, tell me what’s going on.”
She exhales. “Sorry, I’m just confused. You sound upset, so I assumed you heard about Gran.”
My heart stops. “What about Gran?” Please God, no.
“She wasn’t answering her phone, so Dad went over there and she was acting funny. Confused and slurring her words, couldn’t get out of bed. They think she had a stroke.”
I barely make it to the toilet before I retch.
Chapter 18
The next few weeks are a top-to-bottom life upheaval—for both Gran and me.
Upon checking her into the hospital, doctors determined that Gran had, in fact, suffered a mild stroke, and while the left side of her body was not quite paralyzed, she was experiencing substantial weakness that would permanently affect her mobility unless she underwent aggressive physical therapy. Surprising absolutely no one, Gran flat-out refused to convalesce anywhere but her own home, which meant she needed round-the-clock, live-in care （which—you guessed it—she also rejected, insisting that she “didn’t want strangers in her house”？）。 As an alternative, doctors suggested a family member temporarily move in to oversee Gran’s rehab needs—a job I quickly volunteered for.
It was an obvious solution. With both of my siblings busy raising families of their own and the physical demands of her care a lot for my sixty-something parents to take on, this was one circumstance where my youth and perpetual singledom could actually come in handy. I may not be adding any branches to the family tree, but this was a way in which I could positively contribute. Besides, I found myself with an abundance of free time ever since giving my notice at Siren. What better way to spend it than with Gran?
While my grateful parents lauded my selfless sacrifice, the truth is that the situation suited me perfectly. I wanted to go into hiding, and holing up at my grandmother’s 1970s ranch in Connecticut is about as off-the-grid as it gets. Breaking my lease proved surprisingly simple; in fact, think I did Nat a favor—it gave her an excuse to move in with Gabriel without shouldering the guilt of abandoning me. It’s about as much lemonade as I can make out of a situation with a serious dearth of lemons.
All I knew was, I needed to get out of New York. Everything I previously found romantic about the city now triggered heartache: the leaf-strewn paths of Central Park, the cozy couples huddled together at crowded sidewalk restaurants, the rows of stately brownstones, even the frenetic energy of Times Square. Every landmark was tainted, haunted by the ghost of him. Around every corner was a memory that stopped me in my tracks, stealing my breath and my peace, relentlessly reminding me of everything I’d lost.
It was like a nuclear bomb went off in the hotel room that morning, blowing up every area of my life at once. As I’d feared, the Page Six piece proved to be just the tip of the tabloid iceberg. In the weeks following the gala, a slew of additional news outlets picked up the story, the tale of another Brawler mogul behaving badly apparently too juicy to pass up. While I didn’t escape unscathed—I probably deleted a hundred “request for comment” voice mails and emails in the days following the dustup—my no-name status in the media world clearly worked in my favor. I faded from the headlines fairly quickly, all things considered, while Jack bore the brunt of the bad press—though true to form, he never addressed the controversy in any sort of official statement.
Much worse than the sleazy gossip columnists digging for dirt on my personal life, though, is the fact that I haven’t heard from Jack since he walked out the door of that hotel room.
It’s strange. I think a part of me expected a cooling-off period, maybe even a couple of days of radio silence, or at least until he had a chance to take control of our （admittedly chaotic） situation. But I also assumed that once the shock wore off and he had a chance to calm down, he’d show up with his tail between his legs and apologize for reacting the way he did, for berating and accusing me, for leaving me to fend for myself when I needed his protection the most.
Boy, was I wrong.
It’s been weeks and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. Despite the way we left things, I’m stunned by his indifference, that he could cast me aside like yesterday’s mail, then carry on like I never existed. Like none of it ever happened. How could he spend the night making love to me, confessing his feelings in a way I know was heartfelt and true, then walk away without looking back?