Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“I don’t care about being a household name.”
She lets out a laugh. “Archer said you’d say exactly that. And that I should tell you that it’s not about eyeballs. It’s about minds. Lots of them. Ready to be blown away by star stuff. But hold on—let me check my notes, because he told me to say something else… He said it would help you stay sharp on the cosmos?”
I laugh a little, because it’s the exact same awkward phrase I’d used in my failed attempt to flirt with Christian all that time ago. My laughter feels a little raw, however, because it’s uncomfortable to realize just how well Simon Archer knows me. How well he listens. How much he sees, even when I don’t see it myself.
Because listening to Alyssa talk about all these possibilities? Assuming she’s not blowing smoke?
They light something inside of me that the prospect of tenure at Stanford doesn’t.
That the prospect of tenure never did.
“I need some time to think all this over,” I say. Because it’s not like my whole personality has been a sham. I’m still rational at my core.
“Of course. Of course. Just… promise me I get first shot at putting my hat in the ring to be your agent.”
“Absolutely,” I agree, because I like Alyssa, even if I don’t particularly love the fact that she and Archer sleep together whenever it suits them.
Realizing that I haven’t expressed even a modicum of interest in whatever’s going on with Alyssa, I try to remember my manners and reciprocate conversationally. “How have things been with you? You and Archer do anything fun for his birthday?”
There’s a long pause. “His birthday. You mean back in December?”
“No.” My regard for her slips just slightly for not knowing his birthday. However casual they are, that seems like it should be on her radar. “It was just last week. April 10.”
An Aries.
Alyssa lets out a little laugh. “Sorry, babe, but I am one hundred percent sure it’s December 2. I’m positive, because the year before last he had to go get his license renewed and was grumpy about it.”
“Archer’s grumpy about everything,” I say distractedly, even as my brain tries to sort this out. “Why in the world would he lie to me about his birthday?”
“Not a clue,” she says breezily. “He and I stayed friendly after we broke up—I mean, the guy let me use his house for New Year’s Eve, for god’s sake. But we don’t chat as much as we used to.”
“You…” I’m too stunned to say anything else. Here’s the curveball my horoscope promised.
“You broke up?” I manage. “When?”
“Oh gosh. Forever ago,” she says, distracted, and I hear someone else trying to get her attention.
“When?” I press, and the instincts that have been crackling all day are on full alert now, screaming at me that this detail is important. Crucial.
She seems to sense my urgency, because I feel her attention snap back to me fully.
“Okay, well, let me think,” Alyssa says. “It must have been back in late August, maybe early September? I can’t remember exactly. He just said he needed to end our arrangement because something had changed for him. He never would tell me what.”
And there it is. My seismic shift.
That something that had changed for Archer?
It was me.
TAURUS SEASON
A common thread in the astrology community is the idea that the universe has our back. All we have to do is listen to the signs.
I’ve never quite bought it. Never quite let myself believe that there are mysterious energies at work, guiding us. Helping us.
But on my mad dash from JFK to Manhattan to try to catch the tail end of Archer’s big night at the art gallery? I start to become a believer.
The wait for my Uber is one minute. The rainstorm that’s been causing all the flight delays lets up the second I step out of the airport. Traffic back into the city is almost comically nonexistent. And we make every single light.
The universe does indeed seem to have my back.
Right until the final moment.
When it’s just not enough.
Daphne is sitting on the steps of the SoHo gallery. She’d been tickled to learn from her connections in the art community that Archer had specifically requested that she receive an invitation. She’d accepted before things turned sour between Archer and myself, but I’m still glad that she went.
That at least someone was there for him. Supporting him.
I can see from her face and the dark building that I’m too late.
My eyes immediately flood with tears and I swipe at them, suddenly furious at the universe. At myself. “I wanted… I so wanted. Now he won’t know…”
“Oh, sweetie, it’ll still mean a lot that you tried,” Daphne says, coming toward me, dressed in a stunning orange halter dress. She pulls me in for a long hug.