Page 20 of Love Felt Like This

Finch chuckled.

“What?” I ask. “I’m not a liar.”

The phone vibrated once more, shifting its position across the table, like a stalker trudging one step closer to me.

Unknown number: How about this week?

Dinner.

With Griffin Harvey.

I could have asked, How did you get this number? but instead, I texted back: No.

“No?” Finch gawked.

“What’s the point? I’m going home.” I twirled noodles around my chopsticks, but from the corner of my eye, I could still see the open text and the three bubbles indicating a pending response. I locked the phone, and the screen went black.

“You’re asking that question too much,” Finch said.

“What question?”

Little wrinkles above Finch’s lip pinched. “ ‘What’s the point?’ I’m tired of hearing that from you. That’s a quitter’s attitude, and you, dear girl, are not a quitter.”

“C’mon, there is no point,” I pleaded. “I can try to pitch to Starlet and Connection, but what they’re asking for…they didn’t budge on an extension or moving to next year…”

“So?”

“It’s too tight. I’m done. Finished. I’m moving home to figure out my life, and that’s that. Curtain drop, baby.”

“If a curtain dropped onstage, you’d keep performing.”

“Yeah, because it’s hilarious to have a puppet be scared of the dark.”

“I’m serious, Bev. At least hear him out. You can make it. We’ll make it work.”

I exhaled, setting aside my chopsticks. “Okay…if this is real, then what the heck is Griffin Harvey trying to pull here, anyway? What if this is some weird…thing?” I ask. “Some PR stunt?”

He tilts his head to the side in pity. “Oh, Bev…”

“I’m just saying…” But the words fade off. I don’t want to be in the public eye again. My breakup with Beau was bad enough. I’ve finally gotten lost in the mix, unimportant and forgotten, swallowed up by the internet and pop culture.

Thank God.

Finch straightened his crooked posture and tilted that dimpled chin in the air.

“If this is real,” he said, “then you’re going to dinner with Griffin Harvey.”

“My flight is tomorrow.”

“I’ll book you a new one.”

“I’m all packed.”

“Who cares?”

“Finch…”

I rested my elbows on the table, and my chopsticks rolled off its surface, clattering to the floor. I bent to pick them up, but Finch whipped his shaking hand out to stop me. It’s the fastest that man has moved in ten years.