I laugh at the name she christened my dog with, totally without my permission. Nobody calls him that but Jessie. “He’s great. We took a long walk around Bryant Park today, so he’scrashed out on the couch.”
“You’d think a dog that small would hate the streets of Manhattan. It’s gotta just be a sea of legs for him.”
“I know, right? Nope, he loves it here.”
We both sip, and my martini is deliciously strong. We decide to order some food to keep us from becoming schnockered too quickly.
“So,” Jessie says, and draws the word out. “How long are you staying down here?”
“In the city? I don’t know. A few weeks, probs. Maybe a month. Maybe more.” I shrug. Kinda playing it fast and loose lately, but I don’t say that.
She nods, finishes off her lemon drop, and signals the bartender. Once she’s ordered her chocolate martini, she returns her focus to me. “I’ll be back in two weeks. Riker wants to meet up again.” John Riker is Jessie’s agent. He’s based out of Manhattan and works for a very large, very well-known agency. Jessie is a big deal. You’d never know it talking to her because she’s so normal and down-to-earth, but she’s pretty huge in the field of horror lit. Not Stephen King huge, but she’s not far off. She’s in New York City quite often.
“That’s great,” I say. “New project?” I lift my glass in salute.
“Who knows with him,” she says with a soft laugh. Riker drives her a little nuts sometimes. “But I’d like to get together with you again.”
“Absolutely. Just let me know when.”
“I have someone I want you to meet.”
Ah, there it is. I stifle a sigh because I know she means well.
“I don’t know, Jess…”
Jessie grabs my forearm. “No, she’s great. I promise. She works with Riker, and I’ve known her for quite a while. I’ve actually been kind of scoping her out for you since, well”—she lifts one shoulder—“since Italy.”
Italy has become the code name for Marina. We never say her name. It started as “Heard from Italy?” And it’s moved on to “Fuck Italy. Italy sucks.” Jessie has even offered to put “Italy” in one of her books and then kill her off in spectacularly horrifying fashion. I declined.
“I don’t suppose anything’s changed.” It’s Jessie’s way of asking if I’ve heard from Marina.
I haven’t. At all. I’ve been back in the States for four months. For a while, I texted her every day. Then it tapered to every week. I called. I left messages. I might as well have been shouting into the void. I heard nothing but the echo of my own voice. “No.” I say it quietly and try to hide the little wave of shame that washes over me. I was going to delete her contact information from my phone to help curb the temptation to reach out. I told Jessie I was going to. I didn’t. In fact, I sent a text last week. But I don’t tell her that.
“You’ve gotta get back out there, Lil,” Jessie says, and her voice has a firmer tone to it than usual, probably thanks to the alcohol. “You deserve someone who adores you.Adores you. Treats you like a queen. And you certainly deserve better than someone who ghosts you like a teenager instead of having an adult conversation.” I love how irritated she is for me, and she’s not wrong. Marina’s way of going about…whatever it was she hoped to accomplish…was mean and hurtful, and if I dwell too long on how I’m still hanging on with the tips of my fingers instead of simply letting go, that shame will well up again and swamp me like it has so many times in the past sixteen weeks.
“I know.” I nod and gaze into my glass. “I know.” And I do. But knowing and accepting are two very different things, it turns out.
“I assume there’s been nothing?”
I shake my head.
“Ugh. Fuck that bitch.”
I can’t help but laugh, even as some small part of me wants to defend Marina, because Jessie never was a person to mince words. She blurts. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been in some kind of group or public situation and whatever inappropriate comment was rolling around in my head came right out of Jessie’s mouth.
“At least tell me something like,we’ll see.Then I can pretend you’re thinking about it. I’ll call you when I’m back in two weeks and we can talk about it then.”
I’m quiet for a moment, but finally say, “We’ll see.” It’s partly just to steer Jessie off the topic, but it’s also because there’s a little smidgen of me thatdoesthinkWe’ll see. Maybe. Possibly. Who knows?A very little smidgen. Like, microscopic.
“That’s my girl,” Jessie says, and pulls me halfway off my stool in an awkward one-armed hug.
“That was such a guy hug,” I tease her, and that makes her bark out a loud laugh that has a couple other bar patrons looking our way.
My time with Jessie is always well spent. We settle back into our visit, sharing food and drinks and stories. It’s nice to have a friend who does what I do and gets all the inner workings and ins and outs of publishing. Jessie’s people are working on a movie deal for her. Mine are looking into another Netflix series. If Harlan Coben can do it, why can’t I?
The whole time we’re chatting, though, there’s a face hovering in the back of my mind. A smiling one with a tender smile and kind, gentle eyes, all framed by waves of soft, dark hair. I don’t want to think about why it’s been so hard to simply let her go, how I’ve been hanging on to her in my head and in my heart four times longer than I spent with her. It makes no sense to me, but it also makes all the sense.
Jessie’s talking, and I spin my ring on my finger, noticing how much easier it is to do. I’ve lost weight recently. Turns outI don’t like to eat when I’m sad. Or when somebody I’m in love with ghosts me.