I need you to say that again,” Jess says, cupping her warm mug of tea and tucking her feet under the blanket. “I want you to hear how insane it sounds.”
“I admit I have feelings for him,” I repeat robotically, pacing my living room floor. “We proceed to have the best sex of my entire lifetime. For hours. Twice. Then he tells me his marriage ended because he cheated. So I bolted.”
“Yes, but specifically the next part.”
“The part where I went and sat on the floor in an empty hotel ballroom for an hour?”
She nods, and then lifts her coffee to her lips to take a sip, letting my words ricochet off my silent living room walls. I did do this. I left Connor naked in my hotel bed while I bolted downstairs and hid in a dark ballroom for an hour, my mind spinning wildly out of control.
I sent up the bestie bat signal at five this morning and told Jess she had to come over as soon as she landed from Costa Rica and as soon as I got home from the Sunday post-wedding brunch. But given how much stuff there was to pack into cars, how many people there were to pay, and how many family members there were needing rides to the airport, it’s now nearly ten o’clock at night. I feel panicky and nauseated, but I’m not sure if it’s regret, resignation, or sheer exhaustion from a lack of sleep.
“He was trying to talk it out with you,” she says over the steaming top of her mug.
I don’t need reminding. Every regrettable, overreactive moment of my meltdown is imprinted in my brain like a bad, drunken tattoo.
I reach the end of my living room and turn to pace in the other direction, for the five hundredth time. “I know he was. And I know this all happened like eight years ago, and he was upset, and he’s older and wiser, but the fact that he decided to not just end his marriage but explode it…”
“Fizzy, we are all dumb when we’re young. I mean, you must see the parallels here: I got pregnant because Alec and I had unprotected sex in a bathroom at a party. Connor messed up, but then he stepped up. He went to therapy; he moved here to be present. Juno barely sees Alec once a year.”
An ache passes through me, and I stop my pacing to wince over at her. “Shit. I know. I’m a dick for venting about this to you.”
“No, come on, I’m the exact right person to vent to. Being hurt, being betrayed? It does weird things to us. I know this is your button and nobody would blame you for how you reacted.”
I resume my stride, turning to walk to the other end of the room, feeling her eyes on me.
“But we have to believe that the people we care about are conscious, accountable people,” she continues. “The fact that he told you, that he’s really done the work to grow… I mean, most men aren’t that evolved at thirty-three, let’s be honest.”
I groan, turning and heading the other direction again. “I know.”
“If you were the same person you were at twenty-four, you’d have a different guy every week and wouldn’t even be considering finding a soulmate, on a show or otherwise.”
“Not every week.”
“Stop pacing and tell me what happened next.”
I stop abruptly, collapsing onto the other end of the couch. “Once I got my shit together, I told myself that if he was still in the room when I got back upstairs, I would apologize and talk it out.”
She straightens. “And?”
“He wasn’t.” Jess deflates. “He’d left while I was gone. And maybe that’s a good thing,” I say, “because the other half of the deal I made with myself was that if he wasn’t there waiting for me, it was a sign that this Connor thing was doomed, and to move on.”
“You don’t believe in signs.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Remember the time that black cat was sitting on the hood of your car when you walked out of Twiggs and barely two seconds after you put it in your car, you got that horrible New York Times review?”
“I really don’t like this turn in the conversation.”
“You then took the doomsday cat home with you, and called me to complain, all shocked and outraged that this stray, feral harbinger of doom shredded your curtains within, what, thirty minutes?”
“I think,” I say, putting a single finger up as if to test the direction of the wind. “Yes, I think it’s time I find a new best friend.”
She laughs. “Should I even ask about Isaac? You said you saw a possible future there.”
“You know I don’t do love triangles!” I look up at the ceiling. “It’s like she doesn’t know me at all.”
She reaches across the expanse of couch, pulling me toward her and into her arms. “Connor did something dumb when he was in his twenties. Fizz, you of anyone should understand that.”
She doesn’t mean it as a dig. She’s paying homage to my battle scars, my medals of honor for adventure, my backlist of sexual exploration. And I went through this exact thought process, too, when I sat there on the floor in the dark. First, there was my indignation, my bright, hot panic that the person I had big heart and pants feelings for was a cheater. But then my blood cooled and the other things he said echoed a little louder: That it was the worst thing he’s ever done. That he’s done a lot of work on himself, gone to therapy. That Nat has forgiven him.
But even if I could view his past with some perspective, my fight-or-flight moment left me feeling unsteady, remorseful, and anxious. How are the heroines in my books so sure of themselves and the person they fall in love with? How does anyone really know what and who they want? It’s all such a risk. Who chooses to fling their heart out into the blackness of uncertainty, blindly hoping someone catches it?
“The thing is,” I say into her shoulder, “I signed a contract saying I wouldn’t date during this show. They’re paying me a lot of money to do this. And this isn’t just a little lie. I could be in breach of contract if I’m caught with him. Like, actual Big Legal Trouble. He could lose his job. I haven’t finished a book in more than a year, I’m avoiding my agent’s phone calls like I’m hiding from the mob, and I’m starting to feel like I can’t even do dating right. But last night in the hotel room, I didn’t care about any of that because I just wanted to be with him.”
She hums, listening.
“I’ve never felt that—that insatiable thing, you know? I want to be near him every second. If I eat something delicious, I want him there to take a bite. If I see something beautiful, I want to turn to him and point it out. If I hear something hilarious, I immediately want to call him and tell him everything.”
“Oh, honey.”
“But if it got out or I couldn’t fake it well enough, it would mess up his life, and mine.” I swallow as the hardest one bubbles to the surface. “I know that and still none of it mattered.”
“We do crazy things when we fall for someone, Fizz.”
“Yeah, but you know the only thing that scared me enough to get me to leave that room?”
“What?”
“That even if by some miracle everything goes right, I could still get hurt.”
She sighs into my hair.
“And if Connor hurt me, I don’t know whether I’d be able to write another love story.”
I wait for the joke. One of us needs to make it; the moment is too heavy.
I guess you weren’t kidding about his magical dong.
It’s right there for the taking.
But Jess says the last thing I expect: “That’s how you know he’s the one, Fizz.”
I fall asleep and Jess must have carefully extracted herself because it isn’t her moving out from under my head that wakes me, it’s me falling off the couch and landing in a pile on the floor.
I don’t immediately move because I want to hold on to the dream I was having, cling to it for just a few minutes longer. Connor’s arms were just here, banded around me on the couch. I was so warm, so content. We were breathing together, doing nothing but talking and laughing and falling into easy silence. While my body slowly wakes up, the remnants of a bone-deep sense of connection and intimacy lingers until the fog of sleep clears and it hits me what I just dreamed: Connor and I were living together.
That’s how you know he’s the one.
I’ve never wanted to live with anyone. Is Jess right? Is that what this is? This sense of being known, being loved, being safe in the quietest moments with him? But why does that feeling of safety and connection have to come intertwined with the outright terror of giving over to the powerlessness of it all, of putting my heart and well-being in Connor’s hands?
I think about what it would feel like to never touch him again, and a raw stab of pain spears me. His hands, his lips, his laugh, his weight, his deep melodic voice, his steady gaze, yes—okay—his magnificent… presence. I want to dig my fingernails into the floorboards at the idea of giving that up.
It’s midnight, but urgency floods my veins as I reach for my phone on the coffee table. There are no missed calls from him, no messages. I push on, not letting myself wonder what that might mean.
Are you up? I text him. I hope so because I’m on my way over.
I don’t wait for a response. I don’t stop to think. I shove my phone into my purse, stuff my feet into my shoes on the way out, and don’t even bother to lock my front door.
Outside his place, I climb out of my car and look up at his dark porch, dark windows.
I’m here, I text.
Nothing.
I call but it rings, and rings, finally going to voicemail.
This is when I have a brief internal meltdown. It’s Sunday night. I think Stevie’s at Nat’s because Connor came to the wedding with me, but what if he picked her up today? I don’t want to wake her with a Romance Heroine Banging on the Door move, but if his phone is on silent I could pace out here at the curb until morning and he’d never know I was here. How do people in books and movies make their big-feelings confessions when there are potentially kids fast asleep in the house!
I tilt my face to the sky, groaning. Real life is so much harder!
There’s nothing to do but text again. Hi. Yes, I really did drive over here at midnight. Please tell me you’re up.
Finally, after I stare menacingly at my phone for a good thirty seconds, three dots appear. My heart leaps into my throat.
Just saw these. I’m up.
His porch light goes on as I jog up his walkway. Connor opens the door, leaning a shoulder in the doorframe. Does he know how good he is at this? No one leans like him: with patient confidence, one hand tucked into a pocket, one foot crossed over the other.
He has my favorite soft hair falling over his forehead, a gray crewneck sweatshirt, faded and worn jeans, and bare feet. But most of all, it’s just him, the whole package: the solid mass of his body and his kind eyes and full mouth and the sharp line of his nose. Our eyes meet, and even with the carefully guarded wariness I see there, I think it would take an approaching semi truck to get me to look away.
Connor gives me a quiet “Hey” before he steps back, letting me in.
“Hey,” I say when he turns to face me, shutting the door behind us. The air between us warps with heat. I want to sink to my knees and worship him. I have never in my life felt such attraction or such devotion.
“I’m glad you were up,” I say, breathless—I hope from excitement and not the jog up eight steps to his porch.
“Sorry, I had my phone on silent.”
“It’s okay.” I can’t catch my breath. Bending, I put my hands on my knees, sucking in air. “Sorry, I think I’m just nervous.” I straighten, finally getting my bearings. I’ve written this scene a thousand times but, wow, it is way scarier to live it. “I have two things I want to say,” I tell him.
“Okay.” He swallows, lifting his chin. “Let’s go sit.”
An excellent plan: apologies first, confessions second, sex third.
I lead us into the living room and sit in the middle of the couch, patting the space beside me. He eyes it for a beat before sitting, but it’s hard to miss the way it feels like he’s trying to keep as much distance between us as he can.
“I’m sorry about the way I left,” I say immediately. I’m even more desperate to get this out of the way now given his strained body language. Connor is tall and muscular, of course, but always carries himself like someone in a much smaller frame. I’ve never been more aware of his size before.
Well, now and when he was actually lying on top of me with his giant—
Focus, Fizzy. “I freaked out,” I say, regrouping. “You saw it, you called it. Infidelity is a hard limit for me.”
There’s only one lamp on, behind him, and it leaves his expression in shadow. “I know.”
“But I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed and taken a minute to figure out what I want to say, and it’s this: I feel awful for Natalia. But also for the anonymous woman who didn’t realize she was part of a young guy’s kamikaze mission. Who probably thought she was just having the luckiest night of her life.”
“I think about her a lot.”
My heart melts a little. “That woman was me once, and not only did it break part of my heart, but I had to reckon with being another woman’s heartbreak, too.”
He could tell me, For what it’s worth, she didn’t know I was married, but he doesn’t. And even if it’s true, I appreciate that he isn’t trying to defend himself. He just listens, absorbing this.
“I’m sorry I reacted that way,” I say.
Connor nods. “I’m really not that guy anymore. I’m nearly a decade older, Fizzy. Infidelity is a hard limit for both of us.”
“I know. I wish I hadn’t run off like that. I’m sorry I left after what we’d just done. After what we’d just said.” I take another deep breath. “I spent a lot of time by myself downstairs, thinking.”
Connor hums, an unspoken Go on, then.
“At first I was panicking,” I say, my anxiety ratcheting higher with his silence. In any other situation, even patient, measured Connor would say something to lighten the mood, to make this easier for me, but he’s being so still, like he’s bracing himself for something. “But then I let myself process what you’d said, and I realized something. About my feelings for you.”
His eyes are on the floor and I stare at his amazing face, giving myself a few beats to calm down. Getting these words out feels like fitting my whole body through a straw. I’ve never said this next part. “I’ve been fickle my whole life,” I admit. “I’ve never been someone who could close her eyes and visualize what it would be like to be with one person forever. I thought I was doing more of the same when I bolted today, but—”
“Fizzy—”
“No, let me get this out.”
“I don’t think—”
“I promise I’m not gonna be a jerk again.”
“No, no, it’s not th—”
“I realized something important tonight.”
“Fizzy, listen—”
I know how this exchange would be written in a transcript. Overlapping, it would say. The staccato of words coming out one after the other, crowding the space, drowning us in bursts of noise. I laugh, shoving past the way he doesn’t want to hear what I’m going to say.
So I blurt it out, loud enough to drown out his protest: “I’m in love with you.”
And it’s a beat before I realize my words barreled right over his: “I can’t do this.”
Everything falls nuclear-winter-level silent. The stillness in the room is absolute. And then the sound of him carefully clearing his throat feels deafening.
“Oh God,” I say, laughing awkwardly, but inside I’m shriveling up in humiliation. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
His gaze is soft but steady. “I’m sorry.”
“If this is about the show,” I quickly say, “we can go back to our original plan. We can be secret if we need to.” Desperation rises in me the longer I face this stiff, cold version of Connor. “I’m not going to let anyone get in the way of this if you’re willing to try. What I said in the hotel about being crazy about you? I meant it. I’m all in. We can sneak around. I’m very small; I can be stealthy. In fact, my high school guidance counselor gave me two career paths: romance author or secret agent.”
I expect a grin but I don’t even get a flicker of a reaction. Instead, he breaks his gaze away and turns it toward the dark fireplace. With his profile illuminated, I see how tired he looks. His chiseled cheekbones seem gaunt, and I realize that it’s because there’s no smile in his eyes.
Dread falls like a weight in my stomach. Of course. I broke this. The way I left the hotel room, the way I revealed my fickle, impulsive side… was the exact wrong way to handle Connor. I knew he was guarded, knew he entered into things only after cautious deliberation. Knew he was trusting me with something he probably hasn’t told many people, and I smashed that laboriously constructed trust with the mighty Fizzy hammer.
“I fucked up, didn’t I?” I say quietly. “Leaving you last night blew the whole thing up.”
He inhales deeply and slowly. “I told you from the start,” he says to his lap, “that I didn’t want something if it was only sex.”
“I know.”
When he turns his eyes up to me, the distance in his gaze sends a chill down my arms.
“What we shared felt much deeper than sex, Felicity, but at the first sign of trouble you fled. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours feeling angry and hurt and incredibly stupid for trusting you. It makes it very hard for me to believe you now.”
Mortification isn’t a swift punch to the gut; it is a slow seeping of ice-cold water into my veins. I can’t imagine what Connor thinks about me right now—I wonder if he’s regretting putting the Heroes’ hearts in my hands, let alone putting his own precious heart there. I agreed to do this show in the middle of my worst and deepest writer’s block, and I justified it by saying I was doing it for the audience. And now I’m telling him to date me in secret, putting his job and his life here in jeopardy after I fled the hotel room like a panicked idiot the first time he confessed that he might not be a perfect human. It was supposed to be us against the world, and I blew it all up.
I have never in my life felt like such a profound failure.
