Page 98 of Business or Pleasure

“Then why does it sound like this is something you’re trying to talk yourself into?”

“Because it’s fucking hard, okay?” Tears sting the corners of my eyes, unbidden, and I swipe them away as quickly as I can. I didn’t expect the conversation to spiral like this, but I also hadn’t realized just how many unanswered questions exist between us. “I don’t know how to take two huge gambles at once. My career, whatever it turns out to be, and this relationship—”

“You think our relationship is a gamble?”

“I just—I’m still trying to figure out who I am.” I’m reaching into the most vulnerable space now, letting him see what I sometimes refuse to show myself. “And you’ve had it figured out for so long.”

“What other people think of me, maybe. But not who I really am.” As his face softens, he cracks a smile. “In fact, I think we wrote a whole book about that.”

I don’t laugh. “That’s the whole point.”

Because he is someone worthy of a memoir, and in my lowest moments, sometimes I feel like a blank page.

I don’t want to squeeze myself into the nooks and crannies of someone else’s life. Have I been so wrapped up in the fantasy of him that I’ve forgotten how difficult this relationship will be? The past few days, we’ve just been playing house. Pretending that this is our real life, the same way we’ve been pretending the whole trip. Because now when I picture my relationship with Finn, I can see myself flying to LA every other weekend, feeling guilty if he paid for the flight and putting myself on a budget if not, the two of us arguing about what to watch that night or which new vegetarian restaurant to try. I can see him at benefits and events for his nonprofit, taking the occasional role in a holiday movie with a menorah hiding in the background. I’ll be the nameless person on his arm at premieres and events. The supportive girlfriend.

I can fit into his life, sure. I can be in that relationship.

But what about him fitting into mine?

“I admire you so much,” I whisper, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “I just wish I felt the same way about myself.” Slowly, I stand up, retrieve my bag from the hallway. “And I think I need a little time to figure that out.”

Finn gets to his feet, looking torn between going after me and giving me space. “You could stay,” he says. This time, he doesn’t sound at all like he did when he begged Meg Lawson not to leave him. His chin is wobbling, eyes wide and glassy. “We can keep talking about it. Please, Chandler. We could figure it out together.”

If he really could categorize every expression my face makes, then he’d know I’m serious. Terrified of what might happen if I leave this house but serious nonetheless.

I shake my head, adamant now. “I’m sorry. I think I have to do it alone.”

And with trembling footsteps, I head for the door.

chapter

twenty-seven

LOS ANGELES, CA

In the backseat of an Uber, I try my best to act like I haven’t made the single stupidest decision of my life. This translates into some truly terrible small talk. “Some traffic, huh?” I ask the driver, who just rolls her eyes.

I end up at the hotel the publisher originally booked for me, since they obviously weren’t planning on me shacking up with Finn. It’s in downtown LA, a gritty section of the city with none of the charm of Los Feliz. And then, because it’s my go-to coping mechanism, I call Noemie.

She listens as I explain everything, recounting some of my argument with Finn almost word for word. And when I’m done, splayed on the too-firm bed with too-soft pillows, she tells me exactly what I don’t want to hear.

“I hate to say it,” she starts. “But I’m kind of on Finn’s side here.”

I choke out a laugh. “I’m... not sure how to react to that.”

Her sigh crackles through the phone. “You haven’t prioritized your writing in so long. Are you sure you even want it anymore?”

“Yes. Of course I do.” More than almost anything. Not even to be published, but to have the satisfaction of completing my book, typing THE END and giving my characters the resolution they deserve. Anything that happened afterward would be icing.

It isn’t that I disagree with her—not necessarily. I just hoped there was an easier solution here, one that didn’t end with anyone heartbroken and my career left up to chance. I place a hand on my chest, rising and falling with the quickening of my breaths. The anxiety crawls up my throat, tightens my lungs.

I don’t know how to explain that it’s possible to want something without actively trying to get it. Although maybe she understands—after all, I did it with Wyatt for so many years. Even then, I convinced myself I was happy with what we were, because anything else would have required changing the status quo. It would have meant taking a risk, that thing I’ve avoided for so, so long.

“If you take this job,” Noemie continues, “then nothing changes. You know how that story goes. And you can get a little codependent on your work.”

“Pot, kettle.”

A sigh. “I know, I know. But if you think about it, as stressful as your jobs have been sometimes, they’ve been comfortable. It’s not one hundred percent what you want, but it’s less scary than cutting ties and trying something new.”

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