Instead, what I felt was a quiet, resolute grief, like I’d known all along that this would be the outcome of letting Ezra know that my feelings for him were not entirely platonic. And now that I’d exhausted the last of my what-ifs, the time had come to move on.
I had already tried many other methods of getting over Ezra—ardent denial, immersing myself in work, even physical space. But what I really needed was to quit him cold turkey. No more good-morning texts, no middle-of-the-day calls where we recounted an old misadventure for the hundredth time, no spontaneous meals, no innocent touches that my brain could interpret as something more. Just me, a carton of ice cream, and a fifth rewatch ofLove Actually. Girls’ nights out with my roommate, Dahlia, where I would actually let her play wingwoman like she’d always wanted. Maybe even a dating app, when I felt ready.
A hand settled on my shoulder.
“That certainly seemed tense,” Renata said. “Are you okay?”
I turned. Renata looked down at me, her eyes wide with concern, and mine instantly welled with tears.
When I first met Renata Kovalenko, I’d found her hard to look at without staring. Her beauty was incisive, her features almost inhuman in their perfection, and they’d graced editorial magazinesfor two decades prior to her retirement. Now her presence was as welcome and familiar as my favorite blanket. I remembered what she’d told me when we first met, at Ezra’s hospital bed.You’re ours now, she’d said, squeezing my hand.I will not let you be a stranger.
“It’s nothing,” I said. A tear escaped down my cheek, and I swore under my breath, dabbing it away with the heel of my hand. “All right, fine, it’ssomething, but I’ll be okay, Renata, really.”
Renata’s gaze turned hawkish.
“Did that boy say something to you?” she said. Her voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “I’m telling you, this acting business, it turns good men into suchpigs. All that adulation, it’s not good for their heads. We need to put him back in his place.”
“It’s his birthday party,” I deadpanned.
“He’s thirty,” Renata said. “Old enough to be fully aware that this party is mostly for me.”
I laughed. Renata didn’t, and my heart ached with love for her.
“Seriously, Renata, there’s no need. It’s a bit embarrassing that I’m even weepy in the first place. That’s what I get for mixing Prozac with champagne.” When she didn’t relent, I sighed. “I just need a minute to get myself together.”
Renata glared at me, unblinking, for what felt like a full minute. Then she straightened, smoothing her hands down her dress.
“Okay,” she said. “Your room upstairs is clean. Go. Take the time you need.” She flexed a diminutive bicep, curling her mouth into a snarl. “And if you change your mind, give me the word. I’ll have him thrown out by his underpants.”
“I won’t,” I said. “But thank you.”
“Of course,” she said. Then, squeezing my shoulder, she swept the door open and disappeared into the throng, leaving me to contemplate a future without her.
Chapter Two
Mal
Malcolm Waters had been described in many ways:A dynamic new voice, theNew York Timeshad proclaimed, following the publication of his debut novel,She Blooms at Dusk.Supremely gifted, his photography professor had said.A sweet kid, his mother still liked to say, even though he was thirty-two and very much a man now—Come on, Momma, Jesus. Brimming with talent, and yet completely lacking ambition, his ex-girlfriend, Portia, had said, shortly before permanently ending their tumultuous on-again, off-again decade-long relationship.
An incredible idiot,Kieran of Kieran and Kelechi, programmer power couple and the only friends Mal got in the divorce, typed into the group chat.Seriously. How does one get invited to an Adelman party and NOT PREPARE?
Be nice, babe,Kelechi responded.Mal’s just not used to being a big shot.
In Kieran’s defense, it was true that Mal had not prepared for the Adelman party, which was why he’d shown up at Kieran and Kelechi’s doorstep the day before with all of the formal wear he owned hanging over his shoulder and a stream of questions aboutwhich of his pieces qualified as cocktail or black tie falling off his tongue. And in Mal’s defense, he had not been expecting an invitation. His connection with the Adelmans was tenuous at best; his mother had retired from Knydus a few years ago and, back when his photography studio was still operational, he’d done a few promotional shoots for their associated charity. When he received the email from his literary agent, Amelia, informing him that the Adelmans had requested his address, his first concern was that he was being sued.
Instead, he had received a personalized invitation to Ezra Adelman’s birthday party from the one and only Renata Kovalenko.
Even in his discomfort, Mal could recognize the gravity of this event. The wealthiest and most important people in Chicago, all gathered in the five thousand square feet of the Adelmans’ Gold Coast penthouse. He felt like he’d crawled through a closet to Narnia, and that everyone on the other side wore Dior.
Kelechi: By the way, Mal, your read receipts are on. Put away your phone and go rub elbows. Also, if you do manage to get an audience with THE Renata Kovalenko, please please pretty please get her autograph for me. Thank youuuuuuuuuuu.
I’ll do my best,Mal typed dispassionately. His (Kieran’s) jacket was too tight in the shoulders, and he rolled them back, dropping his head against the sculpted wood walls of the Adelman penthouse atrium. He did not want to rub elbows. If Renata hadn’t personally signed his invitation withBravo on your beautiful novel! Would love to discuss further, xoxo, he probably wouldn’t have come to this party at all. But if he hadn’t, Amelia would track him down and roast him over an open fire. (This was not an exaggeration. She’d told him as much. “With adobo seasoning.”) By Amelia’s calculations, Renata was going to offer to buy film rightstoShe Blooms at Dusk, and, given the newness of her production company and the depth of the Kovalenko-Adelman coffers, the offer was sure to be fuck-everybody-else huge.
As long as he didn’t muck things up.
But one hour in and he’d seen neither hide nor hair of Renata. At some point, exasperated, he’d asked a group of unnaturally gorgeous women whether they’d seen the hostess, and they had tittered among themselves and said with at least an ounce of derision, “Good luck.” Apparently, an audience with Renata was hard to get.
Which was how Mal found himself at the back of the room, nursing a glass of excellent Scotch, texting his friends, and trying to determine how much longer he had to stick around before Amelia would cut him some slack and allow him to make a graceful exit. He could feel his skin beginning to crawl, his discomfort coming through in his jostling legs and the whirlpool forming in his glass. Eventually, after plucking a croquette from a passing waiter’s tray, he stepped away from the wall, crossed the room, and wandered out into the hall. God, when had he become so useless? Not so long ago, he’d taken pride in being able to meld into any group, anywhere, to find familiar ground among Kieran’s rugby friends, in Kelechi’s slam poetry groups. He’d been the king of diffusing tension. When had he lost that ability and become “spineless,” as Portia had once said? Renata Kovalenko might want to make his book into a freaking movie, and he could hardly stand to stick around long enough to start the conversations that could turn that into a reality. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he was fumbling the bag.
