Page 58 of Business or Pleasure

“Why’d you stop writing?” he asks. “Fiction, I mean.”

A deep breath—because I had a feeling this was coming. “I haven’t stopped, exactly. I’m just on a very long break.” I knot my fingers together, play with the bedspread, fluff my pillow. All while he waits for me to continue. “It’s the same old story, the same reason most people stop doing something they love—it wasn’t practical. Trying to get published would have meant leaving so much up to chance. It made better sense as a hobby, but once I decided to focus on journalism... that hobby sort of faded away.” I shake my head, because I let it go a long time ago. “But that was okay. Because I could do what I loved and still get a steady paycheck.”

Except the paychecks are rarely steady, and I’ve been stuck telling other people’s stories instead of my own for so long.

“Besides,” I continue. “I feel like I know too much about publishing at this point, and it’s all about living at least a year in the future. You’re always looking at the endgame and not the process. It can be easy to forget to enjoy writing.”

As I say it, I realize it’s true. That it used to be a passion, but now it’s simply a job.

His face falls. “You’re not enjoying this?”

“No, no, no,” I rush to say. “This is actually the first time I’ve enjoyed it in a couple years.” When his features soften, that concerning feeling from our night with the vibrator comes back, full force. The way he tucked a finger beneath my chin and kissed me so gently—in that moment, it was almost too easy to forget that what we’re doing isn’t real.

“I can honestly say,” he starts, placing his bowl of soup on the nightstand and fidgeting with the sheets, “that this is the most fun I’ve had on tour in a while.”

“I’m guessing that might have something to do with what’s been happening in our hotel rooms?”

Finn laughs, this open, brassy sound that I’ve come to learn is his true laugh. Not the one he reserves for panels, the one with slightly sharper edges. This one is smoother. Softer. “Sure, I won’t discount that. But I might have been talking about myself when I was saying that I haven’t gotten out much lately. It’s usually me and the hotel and maybe some room service, if I’m feeling adventurous.”

His eyes have started drooping, his words coming out more slurred. The medication is doing its job. “That’s the way it is,” he says with an uncoordinated flick of his hand. “And I know this book might come out and nothing will change, but...”

“It will,” I say firmly, believing not just in the quality of my writing but in the story he has to tell. Because I really, truly do.

“Sometimes I wonder. After all these years, if I’m clinging to relevance just like everyone else. I’m just doing it a slightly different way.” Now he’s sinking back into the pillow, no longer able to hold his head up. “Is anyone even gonna care about that nonprofit? Because... I’m kind of a nobody.”

“That’s just patently untrue. We spent three hours watching nobody defend Oakhurst University. Which has a shockingly high number of student deaths for such a small school.” My attempt at levity earns me a small quirk of his mouth. “Look, I’ve already learned more about OCD than I ever thought I would. You have something important to say, and for a lot of people, this is going to be the first time they read about it. For others, maybe it’ll be the first time someone’s given words to something they’re going through. And maybe that’ll be the push they need to get help—the knowledge that they’re not alone.”

He nods slowly, taking all of this in. “Thank you. For all of this,” he says, reaching to give my arm a haphazard pat, not quite making it. “I mean it. I’d probably be a husk of a human being by now if it weren’t for you.”

The way he says it makes me wonder whether anyone else has taken care of him like this before.

Whether he’s let them.

“Of course,” I say, my throat suddenly dry.

His head lolls to one side of the pillow, and it’s clear those meds are stronger than either of us thought. “Chandler, Chandler, Chandler. I must be hell to work with. I can hardly believe you’re putting up with me.”

“It’s the paycheck, mostly.”

His eyes open wider and he looks at me hard, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place. “I reeeeeally shouldn’t tell you this, but... I know someone who has a crush on you.”

He says this in a singsong, like we’re at fourth grade recess and he’s relaying a message from a friend.

“Ha, ha,” I say. “Well, we don’t have many mutual friends, so—”

“It’s me,” he clarifies, holding up his thumb and forefinger. “Just an itty bitty crush when we first met.”

“I did, too. That’s kind of why I went back to your hotel room.”

His grin deepens, and he wags that finger back and forth. “After that,” he says. “Not just that first time. A little bit in Portland, too, and maybe also Arizona.” A wrinkle of his nose. “I know we’re supposed to be professionals, but maybe... maybe also right now, too.”

I crane my neck to look over at the desk, hoping he won’t notice the way my cheeks are heating up. “How much of that medicine did you take?”

“I’m serious, Chandler Cohen.” He rolls closer to me in bed, his long lashes and freckles and mess of hair. Even with his eyes beginning to droop, he’s still stunning.

“But—but you can’t,” I say, as though simply denying it will make it untrue. You can’t and we’ll rewind to thirty seconds ago, back when our relationship still made sense. Because that wasn’t how this was supposed to work.

It takes every ounce of strength in me to scoot to the edge of the bed, so violently that I nearly fall off. It’s not real. It’s purely chemical, his brain convincing him that he feels something for the person he’s sleeping with. There should have been a warning on those meds: do not mix with oxytocin.

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