Page 82 of Business or Pleasure

“Oh, I completely agree with you,” Ethan says, nodding in this horribly condescending way. “I’m just wondering what it is you’ve done that’s worth putting in a book. All the character research you did for The Nocturnals? Scintillating.”

The whole table seems to grow uncomfortable, most people staring down at their food or taking sips of their drinks. Ethan’s full-on season one Caleb right now. On my leg, Finn’s grip tightens, not to a painful degree, but enough for me to notice.

Hallie throws him a glare. “Don’t be a dick, Ethan. When was the last time you did research for any of your big-car-go-boom movies?”

“For the last one that was number one at the box office opening weekend? Or hmm, let’s see, the one before that—you know, I think that was number one, too.” Ethan gestures for a server to refill his glass.

“It’s not all about money,” I say, with more sharpness than I intend.

“No, I guess it isn’t.” Ethan’s eyes flick back to Finn. “I suppose some of us do it just for the love of acting, right? Guess you’d have to.”

Bree coughs loudly into her elbow. “So, uh, anyone have any plans for Thanksgiving?”

It doesn’t escape my notice that Finn is quiet the rest of dinner.

“We should really do this more often,” Juliana says at the end, as sleeves are shoved back into coats and scarves are wrapped around necks. “I can’t believe it’s been so long.”

Finn digs his hands into his pockets. “Definitely,” he says. “See you all in December.”

chapter

twenty-two

NEW YORK CITY

Finn remains quiet on the subway back to the hotel, and the trio of twentysomething girls who recognize him must be able to tell that he’s deep in his head because all they do is whisper and point at him in the most subtle way they can. He’s too busy staring down at his shoelaces to notice.

When we get up to our floor after he shrugs off my suggestion for late-night drinks or dessert, I follow him to his room. Without questioning it, he lets us both inside, and there’s something so natural about the gesture, it freezes me in place. For a split second, I get a glimpse of a different kind of life. An alternate universe.

We’re a couple returning home from dinner, and something’s happened to upset my boyfriend. All I want is to pour a couple glasses of wine and cozy up on a couch together, let him tell me what’s wrong so we can work through it together. We’d stay up late talking, and he’d surprise himself by laughing, and we’d realize we could figure it out. We might turn on Netflix or we might drink more wine or we might sleepily unbutton our clothes and let our bodies snap together. Or we might doze off right there on the couch, my legs in his lap, his head on top of mine.

The vision startles me, if only because it seems so real.

That alternate universe doesn’t care about logic. Even if Finn felt the same way, he’s said it himself more than once: he’s only dated within Hollywood. There’s an intrinsic incompatibility in our lives. He lives on the road; I live at Noemie’s. We’re at vastly different income levels. I have no idea what I’ll be doing a few months from now, while he’ll be starting to promote his book and his nonprofit.

The guy I’d been friends with for years only wanted to sleep with me and move on. Finn’s known me just a couple months—I have no idea whether that’s long enough to deem someone worthy of a relationship, or how I can hope to get there with anyone else. Wyatt screwed with all my timelines, snipped the edges of my confidence.

While I’d love to think Finn and I will remain friends after this, I can’t imagine him calling me up just to talk. Grabbing a bite to eat the next time he’s in Seattle. I know there’s more to us than the book and the lessons, but without those things to anchor our relationship, I can’t accept that cozying-on-a-couch visual as anything but what it is: a fantasy.

I shut the door to his room, shoving it all out of my mind.

He kicks off one shoe halfheartedly before sitting down on the bed, balancing his elbows on his knees. When he finally glances up at me, his eyes heavy, I’m not at all expecting what he says.

“I’m sorry.”

I unbutton my jacket, take a seat next to him. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

He runs a hand down his face, and maybe it’s the shitty hotel room lighting, but those early signs of age are more apparent than they usually are. The creases around his mouth, between his brows. On his forehead, when his hair is less artistically styled. I have to fight the urge to trace them, because if I started, I have a feeling I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’d need to run my fingertips across every mark and line and freckle on his body, and even then, I wouldn’t be satisfied.

“For being a mopey sack of shit for the past hour? Yeah, I do. And for that dinner... not being what either of us expected,” he says. “Embarrassing, for you to find out that I’m hardly accomplished enough to be publishing a memoir.”

“Well that’s just false.” I tap his knee with mine. “And Ethan’s a scumbag.”

“I hate that I’ve never been able to stand up to him. Thank you—for what you said. Really.”

“I wasn’t saying anything that isn’t true.”

“Still. That meant a lot to me.” More warmth creeps into his voice. “They’re not all bad. Some of them are good people. Good friends.”

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