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“Great job, Daphne.” Rita, the executive producer of the evening news show I worked for, patted me lightly on the back as she breezed out of the studio. “Follow me to my office.”
I snailed behind her, passing my new colleagues in the hallway. Rita entered her office, grabbed her handbag from a hook at the back of her door, and tossed her phone into it.
“We’re all going to get some drinks down at the Dead Rabbit. You in?”
“I wish I could,” I said on autopilot, smiling politely. “I have plans.”
“Yeah?” Rita dug in her bag for a cigarette, already making her way out of the place. She ran everywhere, making me do the same. Gretchen used to do it too. Storm places. “What’re you up to?”
“Huh?” I asked.
“You said you have plans. What are they?” We both stopped by the revolving door in the main entrance. I blinked, caught off guard. The truth was, I had no plans whatsoever. It was just the thought of having to pretend to have fun—even among genuinely nice people—that I didn’t care for. I rather enjoyed spending my time in my flat, scrolling through professional photography pages on Instagram. I couldn’t stop thinking about the prisons tour. About the magic of capturing something and giving it your own spin, rather than simply reporting about it.
“I . . . am . . . knitting . . . ,” I said slowly, avoiding any questions about my new hobby.
Rita arched an eyebrow. “Sounds ... thrilling. You a big knitter?”
“Yeah,” I heard myself say. “Huge knitter. My entire flat is basically yarn.”
Her expression was doubtful, but she nodded. “Okay. But you should join us next week. It’s Monique’s birthday. The weatherwoman?”
I’d met Monique. She was gorgeous and nice and abnormally passionate about the subject of precipitation.
“Of course,” I mumbled.
“Although even before that, we’re going to pull two all-nighters together.” Rita laughed, taking out her phone and ordering an Uber. “We have all those Valentine’s Day pieces to work on, remember? Which reminds me, can you make it here at seven in the morning tomorrow, not nine?”
I glanced at my watch. It was 11:45 at night. I appreciated a good work ethic, but I’d almost forgotten how demanding working the news—even the local news—was.
“Sure,” I said absently. “I’ll be here.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow then! Or, technically.” She jutted her lower lip out, thinking. “Today, in fifteen minutes.”
I poured myself out to the street. The weather was bitter cold, the sky pitch black. Christmas had come and gone, and I spent it alone in my flat, too skint to buy a ticket to England. Touching Riggs’s moneywasn’t an option. He’d given me something priceless, and demanding anything more would be greedy. He’d taught me how to love.
As I made my way down to the subway, tucked inside my black peacoat, I marveled at how absolutely dreadful life had been in recent months. I lived on autopilot, working, meeting up with friends, and going to the gym. The highlight of my week was usually FaceTiming Kieran. He was now in a steady relationship with Shelby. I’d even met her once on a video call, and she’d confirmed my suspicion that she wouldn’t have been taken with him had he mooned her. 1–0 to team logic.
I thought about Riggs every single minute of the day. I had no idea where he was or what he did these days. Time seemed to run like water. I’d received my visa, started working, and got steady paychecks, and BJ was still calling me every now and then to test the water. Spoiler alert: I still wanted him to drown.
I’d received everything I wanted—BJ’s undivided attention, a job as a news producer, and my precious visa ... and I couldn’t be more miserable.
I trudged the streets of Manhattan, passing by bundled-up couples and loved-up tourists. Everybody seemed to be paired off. Bowing my head to avoid the influx of young lovers, I stared at my shoes and picked up the pace. I was almost at the subway when I collided with another body. Anotherhardbody.
My first thought wasRiggs. He was here.
“Whoa. You okay?” a raspy male voice chuckled. I looked up. It wasn’t Riggs. Just a fairly attractive young man with dimples and wearing running gear.
No, I am not okay. I’m in love, and miserable, and want cake. Loads of cake.
“What are you doing jogging in the middle of the night?” I grumbled. “I could’ve gotten hurt!”
“I have to run at night. I work shifts at the hospital and have a weird schedule.” He was running in place and seemed friendly, despite my almost biting his head off for simply existing. “Why didn’tyoulook where you were going?”
“Because,” I gritted out, “I’m sick and tired of watching everyone in this city so in love and intimate and ... and ... and gross!” I flung my hands in the air. “Seriously, you Americans have no decency. Get a room, all of you.”
“Hey, I’m not being intimate and in love with anyone.” He put his hands up.
“Right,” I said sourly. “Sorry. I’m a bit prickly. Well, have a nice jog.”
