Page 29 of Point of Contention

My heart broke as I unblocked his number and typed out the text, but this was the only way forward. He had to understand. Before I could talk myself out of it, I sent:

I’d like to accept the offer to return to the internship.

As I pressed send, I squeezed my eyes shut. The next text would be even harder to send now that I’d touched him again.

His response came through so quickly I chuckled to myself, picturing him doing a million-and-one things on his cell phone as always.

You’re making the right decision.

He was right. I was making the right decision. I felt that and believed it. But this next part…

I breathed deeply and typed the words I hated myself for typing:

If I come back, I’m only coming back to the internship. Nothing more. I will be your employee only. Your intern.

I hitsendbefore I could talk myself out of it. A sob shook my body and I curled onto my side, letting the tears fall as my heart broke all over again. Eventually, I hoped, the wells would dry up and I’d be done crying about my mistakes. About him. And about what could have been.

My mom’s reason for a visit was two-fold. One, she missed me and wanted to reconnect, check on me after my life fell apart. But the other reason, the bigger reason? She’d left my father in Iowa and never planned to look back.

That tree didn’t fall very far from this apple.

While she’d been here, my mom had fallen in love with New York City and had begun searching for a place to live. She was vibrant and alive, happier than I’d ever seen her. Greer’s grandfather offered to renovate his study if Mom wanted to move in with us permanently, but the brownstone was already tight with just the three of us; a fourth person would be uncomfortable long term.

We were halfway through a self-guided tour of the Museum of Modern Art when my phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my pocket, unlinking my arms from my mom’s and Greer’s.

Mina’s name flashed across the screen and my feet stopped moving forward.

My stomach sank into my ass.

Oblivious, my mom and Greer continued their leisurely stroll, arm in arm like I hadn’t just walked between them at all, while I stood here frozen in place. I breathed deeply, trying to prepare myself to answer Mina’s call. I was running out of time; it would head to voicemail any second.

“I have to take this,” I yelled to my mom and Greer, then answered the call and brought it to my ear as I turned on my heels and tried to put some distance between myself and my family.

“Hello?” I said.

“Rylan, hello.” Mina sighed, as if relieved I’d answered.

“Hi.” Strolling past an art installation of a half-eaten apple that was nearly as tall as I was, I stepped through the glass doors to an outdoor sculpture garden.

“How are you, darling?”

I shrugged.

“I need you to answer me with words, Rylan.” There was a teasing tone to her voice, but the statement made my stomach go weightless, reminding me of Cabot’s constant command for spoken responses.

Verbal consent.

At the thought of him, my heart sank and my belly tightened.

God, I missed him.

“I’m okay, I guess.” I shrugged again.

“I’ll cut right to it.” Her voice switched back into dominance, the air of authority that had originally drawn me to her replacing the brief show of concern. “Laurel has gone into labor early.”

“Oh my god, is she okay?”

“There have been complications—I won’t sugarcoat it—but please don’t be worried. She and the baby are doing fine now, surrounded by the best prenatal care team in all of New York. They want to keep her in the hospital for as long as possible, delaying childbirth until they absolutely cannot any longer.”

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