“So I know you said your ex was nice, but he seemed strange, if you ask me.”
I sit back down, distracting myself from laughing by looking for our waitress as he takes his seat across from me.
“He did seem a little off,” I agree. “He was probably intimidated by you.”
Ryan eats up my answer as he resumes the game and reaches for one of the last available blocks. “I’m happy I could help. Now, aren’t you glad you went over?”
“I am glad,” I answer truthfully. “I’m really, really glad.”
Something in my voice makes him look at me longer than he should as he pulls out his block. The tower topples with a deafening crash, scattering all over the table and onto the floor, drawing the eyes and cheers of everyone around us.
I sit back in my chair with a satisfied smirk. “Jenga.”
5
After leaving The Wharf, we head back in the direction of Ryan’s hotel. We move down 41st Street at a leisurely pace, and I take a deep breath in as I catch the scent of hot falafels from a nearby cart.
“Do you like being back in New York?” I ask, looking straight ahead.
“I do. I always liked it here.”
“That’s probably because New Yorkers are so cool.”
“Are you referring to yourself?”
“No, but it’s nice to know that when you think of cool New York people you instinctively think of me.”
Ryan looks over at me with an unreadable gaze. “You know, in some ways you’re just as I remember you in college, but in other ways, you’re completely different.”
“How so?”
“You’re more confident. You were so shy back then.”
“I’m still shy,” I assure him.
“You don’t seem like it.”
“I’m better at hiding it now.”
Ryan stays quiet long enough that I look up and catch him staring. He gives me a small smile and turns forward.
“How’s the writing going these days?” he asks. “You working on your next masterpiece?”
“My next masterpiece,” I repeat, knowing I’ve only written one workable chapter in an entire year—and also knowing that I only wrote that one chapter because of him. “The novel I’m focusing on now is still in development.”
“Exactly how many books have you written?”
“Seven in the past five years.”
“A classic underachiever.”
“Writing dominated my life for a long time,” I say. “My first five novels were a historical romance series and my last two were contemporaries. The contemporaries didn’t go over well.”
“Why do you think that is? Did you not like writing them?”
“No, I did. It felt refreshing to try something new but I guess my readers weren’t into it. It seems I’m better off in the past—in 19th-century England, to be specific.”
“You always were an old soul.” Ryan pauses before speaking again, a boyish grin appearing on his face. “What’s it like when you write the dirty parts?”
“Really?” I ask. “How old are you?”
“I’m just curious about your creative process.”
We move a little closer together as the sidewalk grows more crowded. Portable tables with vendors selling knockoff bags and NYC souvenirs line the pavement. “You can be honest,” he goes on. “Do you laugh or do you get all serious? Do you dim the lights? Get a few candles going?”
“Don’t belittle romance novels, okay? Romance is arguably the most popular and profitable genre of fiction in America. Everyone loves a love story.”
“Love stories?” Ryan asks incredulously. “No offense, Sullivan, but I’ve read your books and love is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of the most memorable excerpts. If I had a dollar for every time you used the words tender bud to describe a freshly exposed nipple, I’d be a rich man.”
“Oh, please. You’re focusing on one aspect. And big deal, romance novels get racy at points. So what? Men used to have dirty magazines stashed away for years and the sky’s the limit on what kind of circus-level porn people can watch on the internet now. That’s exponentially worse than reading beautiful romantic stories about true love.”
“Granted, and maybe romance novels wouldn’t be so bad if everyone knew what was really going on in them. At least it’s common knowledge that guys indulge in erotic—” he searches for the right word “—collections.”
“Ha,” I say.
“But you act so innocent reading those books. People would be stunned if they knew the truth. When I stole your book in college, I was scandalized.”
“Were you? Were you scandalized, Ryan?”
“Yes, I was.”
I give him a disapproving grin and turn to look forward. “How’s your family?”
Ryan’s sly smile slowly falls away. “They’re fine. My sister, Sophie, is almost done with her doctorate in psychology, so she’s trying to figure out where she’ll start her practice.”
“That’s exciting. And how are your parents?”
“They’re all right.” He starts to walk faster as he glances across the street. “They’re divorced now.”
“Really?” I almost lose my footing and Ryan nods. “When did that happen?”
“About a month after we broke up.”
Our casual tone is instantly torched. I only met his parents a few times, but they always seemed happy. Well-matched. From the way Ryan spoke, I knew his family was close. He talked about his parents and sister all the time.
“Why did they get divorced?” I ask, the tenor in my voice dropping.
“They told us they fell out of love.” Ryan’s eyes pan back to mine for less than a second, but they seem somehow dimmer. “It didn’t really make sense at the time. They were high school sweethearts. People looked at them and thought they had it all. I thought they did. And then it was gone, like it was never there to begin with.”
“Were you angry?” I ask as we stop at a crosswalk.
“I was real angry. I was young, I had just lost my girlfriend and then my family imploded for what seemed like no good reason. I didn’t buy their excuse.”
I shift my weight from one foot to another. “Was it an excuse? You don’t think falling out of love is a valid reason for
