Page 82 of Room for Us
But I’m not living in a movie, unless maybe it’s a dark comedy. That much was made clear when I called him after I landed and it went straight to voicemail. I called another… oh, twenty times. Voicemail voicemail voicemail.
Do I have his home address? Nope. Did I even talk to him before flying across the country? Nope. Because those are things a mentally stable person would do, not someone injected with the well-meaning but toxic cheerleading of her best friend and mother.
Instead of melting down like a toddler, I do a quick Google search for his agent’s name, then the agency’s address. Because that’s not crazy, right?
So here I am, in Manhattan, outside a glass-walled high-rise, with a blaring chorus of humanity and cars around me. I remember the soundtrack well, but it’s still jarring. My need for home—peace, quiet—is intense. I don’t belong here. I never did.
I try his phone one more time. It’s still powered off.
Here goes nothing.
An elevator takes me to the eighteenth floor, where a sleek reception area and polished man await me. Too late, I remember what I look like: frizzy hair, tired eyes, and wrinkled travel clothes.
“Hello, how can I help you?” he asks from behind the glossy desk.
Painfully aware of my appearance, I overcompensate by speaking too loudly. “I’m looking for Zachary Bennett.” I sound wretched and not a little unhinged. The man’s mouth drops open. His eyes dart behind me to the elevator, then to the phone on his desk.
“Forgive me,” I interject before he follows through on impulse and summons security. “I’ve been traveling all day. Jet-lag, you know. Let me start over. I’m Zoey Kemper. Is Mr. Bennett available, please?” This time I sound sane.
His eyes narrow. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t. But I only need a few moments of his time. Seconds, really. Please. I’m a friend of Ethan’s—um, E.M. Hart.”
By the way his expression melts to blankness, I know I’ve lost him even before he says, “Mr. Bennett doesn’t accept unsolicited appointments. You can leave your information with me, as well as the purpose of your visit, and we’ll get back to you.”
Desperation claws up my ribs. “You don’t understand.” I hold up my phone, like somehow the prop will lend validity to my argument. “Ethan isn’t answering his phone. I’m in town for one day, and I really need to reach him. It’s important. Please.”
Lips pursed, he lifts a phone receiver, no doubt to have my ass hauled out of here. My nose stings, warning me of impending tears. I lift a hand before he can feed me another fancy get-lost speech.
“You know what? Never mind. I shouldn’t have come.” Turning, I smack into someone. “Excuse me,” I mumble.
“You know Ethan?”
Looking up, I see an impeccably dressed man in his fifties. He stares down at me with squinting, skeptical eyes.
“Yes,” I say lamely.
Dark eyes scan my attire, my hair, and finally my face. “From where?”
He doesn’t sound judgmental or even disbelieving, but I’m nevertheless immediately reminded of how I felt the entirety of my marriage to Chris. Like I wasn’t good enough, beautiful enough, elegant enough, rich enough, or smart enough to rub elbows with the elite.
My spine stiffens and I snap, “Sun River, Idaho. He came to my inn to write a book.”
The man’s eyebrows lift with surprise. “You’re Zoey?”
Shock makes my tongue thick. “That’s me. How do you know that?”
“I’m Zachary Bennet,” he says matter-of-factly. Straight white teeth blind me as he grins and he grabs my hand, shaking it so hard my arm feels like Jello. “It’s great to meet you.” He frowns suddenly, releasing my hand. “But—why are you here?”
“To see Ethan.” It comes out like a question. “He’s not answering his phone, and I, uh, don’t have his address.”
“Of course he isn’t answering his phone,” he says kindly. “He’s on a plane.”
My stomach sinks. Exhaustion and defeat nearly take me to my knees. “Oh. Well, that makes sense. Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask the rote question not caring about the answer. It doesn’t matter. This impulsive trip was the world’s biggest waste of money and time.
“In a few weeks. He said he needed some time to decompress after finishing the manuscript.” Zachary touches my shoulder, voice sympathetic. “Can I call you a cab?”
“No, thank you.”
