“You know what I mean. Once a relationship reaches a certain point, you start thinking about the future.”
“I don’t know. Flynn and I aren’t like you and Richie. We just started dating a few weeks ago.”
I smiled. Spike and Flynn Tipton had been together for six months. At the start of their relationship, he’d described it as a much-needed fling or a breath of fresh air following his breakup with Sam, the morning-show anchor.It’s just a one-night stand,he used to say back then.Okay, maybe a three- or four-night stand.Five. Six,tops.
Spike was like me. He could stay in a relationship forever—just so long as no one made him define it or make sacrifices for it, and he had to think of it only from day to day to day. “You understand how I feel,” I said, “don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
“For what it’s worth, I understand how Richie feels, too.”
“Jesus, would it kill you to take sides?”
Spike laughed. I laughed, too. I drank more wine. He poured himself another glass. I was starting to get a little tipsy—that wonderful stage in drinking where the stress lifts and nothing really matters as much as you thought it did and so you may as well enjoy yourself.
Rosie stretched in her sleep and yawned. I was pretty sure she was at that exact same stage, no alcohol needed. “Maybe Rosie is my one true soulmate,” I said. But Spike didn’t seem to hear me.
“You are going to sit down with Richie and discuss this,” he said. “You’re going to hear each other out and come up with a compromise.”
“Is that supposed to be a question?” I said. “Because it didn’t sound like one.”
“It wasn’t,” Spike said. And then my phone rang. “Speak of the devil,” Spike said. Indeed, it had to be Richie. Who else would be calling me at eleven p.m.?
It wasn’t Richie. On the screen, I saw an unfamiliar number with a Boston area code. I tapped the green dot and put the call on speaker. “Hello?”
“Sunny Randall?” The caller sounded young and female and breathless. I looked at Spike. He shrugged. “Is, uh…is this you?” she said.
“Yes, this is Sunny,” I said. “Who is this?”
“Elspeth. From Gonzo?”
“Oh, Elspeth. Hi. Thank you so much for returning my—”
“I’m outside right now.”
“Okay. Why are you outside?”
“I mean, I googled your address and I’m pretty sure I’m right outside your apartment. Is it all right if we talk, like…in person?”
Spike’s eyebrows shot up.
I walked over to my street-facing window and pushed the curtains aside.
Elspeth Wasserman was standing directly below my apartment. She was the only person on the street. But even if she hadn’t been, there would have been no mistaking her in that all-white outfit, that winter-white coat, silver baubles dangling from her wrists as she grasped the phone. Elspeth’s hair was a mess and she was breathing hard, her slim body doubled over,as though she’d run all the way here from the Gonzo offices. Had she?
I wanted to ask Elspeth that. I also wanted to ask her if it had really been that easy to find out where I lived, but she seemed too emotional to answer either of those questions. So instead I just said, “Sure,” and buzzed her up.
Twenty-One
I was glad Spike had brought three bottles of wine. I’d thought it a little excessive when he’d first shown up, but seeing as Elspeth had downed two glasses before she was even able to speak, it now seemed like good planning.
We were all sitting at my kitchen table, with Rosie beneath it, reacquainting herself with her soup bone. I’d introduced Elspeth to Spike, but she kept giving him scared sidelong glances—as if he was an undercover cop or a bodyguard I’d hired for the sole purpose of keeping her in line.
She poured herself another glass. I placed my hand on her arm. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” I said.
Elspeth swallowed her wine, then set it down on the table. A tear spilled down her cheek. “Trevor,” she said. “I…I knew him. I liked him.”
