Sam’s words seep through me, and a clash of emotions surges in my chest. I want to finish my book. I need to finish it—but the thought of seeking Ryan out to get it done feels highly twisted on so many toxic levels.
It means being physically near him, which will be a challenge in and of itself because a very real part of me wants to smash a bottle over his head. But then there’s another part of me that’s afraid I won’t be able to shake off the weird, unbreakable pull that he’s had on me since the day we met. The same pull I refused to acknowledge last night that left me feeling shaky and ashamed and like I was somehow betraying my dad all over again.
There must be a way I can see Ryan, get my book done, and make my way through this unscathed. Maybe I won’t have to see him on a consistent basis. Maybe seeing him once was enough and I can ride the ripples of last night all the way to the end of my novel. If I can get enough writing done today, it would prove I only need to be around him once in a while. I can handle sporadic interactions with him if I have to. This can all just be an unfortunate work scenario I have to endure and I will not let him get in my head.
I adjust my position on the couch, sitting up straight as I grip the phone tighter. “I promise you,” I say, my voice mirroring a determination I haven’t heard or felt in a very long time, “I am going to get this novel done.”
“Whatever it takes?” Sam asks.
“Whatever it takes.”
“That’s my girl! Give him hell, Kara.”
The call goes dead and I drop the phone to my side. I rub the inside corners of my eyes before I look back at my laptop, hoping against hope that I get out of this alive.
Ten hours later, my optimism is steadily deteriorating as I fidget around in the back seat of my cab. I know I need to rally. I have to play nice with Ryan, or at least pretend to, for the sake of my book. I spent hours trying to write again this morning, much to no avail. I ended up watching a mind-numbing amount of TikToks, reorganizing my bookcase by color and accomplishing absolutely nothing else.
One of the cruelest parts of all of this is that having a muse is supposed to be a cathartic experience—freeing, even. I imagined myself on an Irish cliff, breathing deep and feeling invigorated, inspired and alive. All I feel now is angry, tired and bloated.
At least we’re meeting at Butter, a Midtown restaurant worth salivating over. I fantasize about their hot rolls and the two types of butter that come with them on a startlingly regular basis.
Trying to hold on to my happy food thoughts, I twist some more in the cab as I adjust the waist of my dark jeans. I’ve paired them up with backless flats and a soft violet top because if I’m going to ride this double-date hot mess express, I’m at least going to be comfy while doing it.
The cab screeches to a stop a minute later and I use my arms to brace myself as I’m all but catapulted into the glass divider.
“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath. The driver hears me but pretends he doesn’t, only acknowledging my existence when I pay him the fare and step out.
Now standing outside the restaurant, I walk through the large glass doors and descend a flight of stairs to enter the dark yet inviting space. Butter has a clubby feel but still seems airy with the ceilings stretching two stories high. A massive backlit forest photo hangs over the main bar that’s lined with wood paneling and metal railings, giving the scene a rustic industrial flair.
I look around the entrance lounge until I spot Cristina, Jason and Ryan standing in a second cozy bar area. Cristina sees me and waves, looking like the stunner she is in a maroon V-neck dress with Jason by her side, dapper and business casual in his typical hedge fund manager attire.
My eyes shift to Ryan next. I’d like to say I’ve gotten used to seeing him in everyday life, but it still feels like I’ve ventured through the looking glass. I’m half expecting a rabbit with a waistcoat and a pocket watch to scurry past as I make my way over to the bar.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
Cristina gives me a big hug and I give Jason a kiss on the cheek. I hesitate as I turn to Ryan, not sure if I should go for a hug, a handshake or an epic stare-down. Taking the initiative, he grips my upper arm and kisses my cheek. It feels bad. And good. I should have gone with the stare-down.
“Have you guys been waiting long?” I ask, stepping back.
“Not at all. We’ve only been here five or ten minutes,” Cristina answers. “I checked us in, so we should be set. You and Ryan relax and I’ll tell them we’re all here.” She gives me a wink before promptly whisking Jason and her drink away towards the hostess.
Ryan exhales a quiet laugh. “Cristina’s subtle.”
“Super subtle. Let’s hope she really is just checking in and not leaving us to have a romantic dinner alone.”
“Would she do that?”
“Absolutely.”
Ryan takes a sip of his beer and places the bottle down onto the bar. “Can I speak honestly, Sullivan?”
I find myself squaring my shoulders. “Sure.”
“I’m sorry if I came off a little...abrasive last night. I know you and I have a lot of history, so for my part, I’m going to try to keep my distance and be civil when we’re together.”
I’m disappointed when I
