Halfway through the second drink, Beth clears her throat. “Sage has been calling. A lot.”
I exhale slowly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She nods immediately. “I know. I just… I hope it’s not weird. She’s my friend. But you’re my boss. And I knew you first. I’m loyal to you.”
I look at her then, really look. “You don’t have to stop being friends with her because we broke up.”
Relief flashes across her face.
“Just—” I pause. “Keep my life private. What I’m worried about. Don’t tell her anything.”
“Of course,” she says quickly. “Of course.”
We stand side by side at the window, glasses in hand, staring down at the city like it might answer something.
After a moment, I ask, “How are you holding up?”
Beth shrugs, a practiced motion. “Honestly? Numb. I was alone all summer anyway. Turns out he was cheating, so… it kind of feels the same. Just without the hot sex and the obligatory phone calls.”
She winces, then smirks. “It’s fine. I’m twenty-three. I wasn’t expecting a ring.”
That hits closer than she knows.
“I broke up with my girlfriend at twenty-three,” I tell her. “Mary. She wanted one. Needed one. I wasn’t ready. Smartest thing I ever did—financially, at least.”
Beth snorts. Then the dam breaks.
“I can’t do this anymore, Ethan. The cover charges alone—forty, sixty bucks a night. Then the drinks. And if someone buys me a round, I have to buy one back. Two hundred dollars laterand that’s before outfits, makeup, eating out. At least we sleep on the boat, but still. I can’t save anything. I’m drowning.”
I nod. “I know.”
She looks at me, surprised.
“I can’t do a lot of things anymore either,” I admit quietly. “Not the way I used to.”
I lift my glass slightly. “We’ll figure it out. Old Beth. Old Ethan.”
She smiles then. Real this time.
Below us, New York keeps shining, merciless and beautiful, like it doesn’t care who survives the week.
And for the first time all summer, I don’t either.
The BlackBerry won’t stop buzzing.
Not ringing. Not chiming. Just that sharp, insistent vibration against the nightstand — short bursts every few minutes, like a pulse that won’t settle.
I don’t have to look to know who it’s from.
New email.
New email.
New email.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling of the hotel room, the faint hum of Manhattan traffic seeping through the glass. The device lights up again, that little red notification blinking like it’s demanding something from me.
I finally glance.
