by Tash Skilton
* * *
Now I just have to figure out how to find her.
I didn’t think it was possible, in this day and age, for someone to be truly unreachable. Especially someone who literally lives next door to me. My brain hums with all the ways I might get hold of Zoey. Do I sit in the hallway all day and night with my laptop? Would that make me a fire hazard? I even consider contacting Clifford (ugh) and calling her through him. Though I wonder if she’d really be likely to answer his call over mine. I mean, it’s Clifford.
But who does she even know in New York besides us?
And then I finally answer my own question. I slowly pull up my phone and search through my e-mails, looking for an address I wrote to once. Now that I know who that mailbox belongs to, it is way more nerve-racking to be writing her without resorting to any of my fanboy thoughts.
She also, apparently, is getting ready to put on a one-woman show, so what are the chances she’ll even respond?
But I have to try.
CHAPTER 36
ZOEY
Today’s coffee shop, Hole in One, is seventeen blocks from the apartment, half of which I walked and half of which I rode the subway to get to. I haven’t been to any café more than once since Miles ghosted me. I’m expanding my horizons block by block, widening the circumference of my explorations, and I’ve been keeping vampire’s hours to minimize our chances of coming across each other in the building or on the street. I even slept at Mary’s a couple of times to dodge him.
Two days ago, I saw him on the High Line, zipping toward me in his Adidas tracksuit, and without thinking, I lifted my hand in a wave. Turned out it wasn’t Miles after all, and I don’t know why seeing a stranger run past felt like losing him all over again, but it did.
I still feel dizzy each time I descend into the darkened tunnels of the subway, and my heart still speeds up at the roar of an approaching train, but the difference is that now I don’t let it stop me.
Hole in One is not, as I’d assumed, a golf-themed restaurant begging to be ripped off by Clifford, but a doughnut joint.
A message from Mary chimes in.
Contrary, Quite: Congrats on “Radioactive Wolves of San Francisco.”
(That’s the script I’ll be doctoring for Night-Light Films.)
Zoey: Thank you! Aw-ooooooh
Contrary, Quite: Aw-oooooh! Where u at, as the kids say (or did once)
I do a pin drop on Google Maps at Hole in One.
Zoey: You nearby?
Contrary, Quite: No, but I have a special delivery headed your way.
Zoey: Noooooo. Leaving now!
Contrary, Quite: Nothing illegal, I swear. Promise me you’ll sit tight till it arrives.
I’m at a small table in the back, enjoying a cinnamon twist and e-signing a contract with Night-Light, when I see him walk in.
Oh no.
A breath dies in my throat and I turn my back but it’s too late. He’s walking toward me, his expression impossible to read. I’d done so well avoiding him, too! My heart pounds and I wipe my mouth with a napkin, hoping I don’t have any cinnamon crumbs on my face. I’m so focused on my own dread that I don’t see he’s holding a large take-out container in his hand until he sets it on the table in front of me.
He opens it with a flourish before he speaks, “Cronuts. Scones. Canelés. Tartlets. And . . . jumbo biscotti. Take your pick.”
I look down at the treats and then up at him. “Hi . . . What is all this?”
“Quality day-old products. I hit every café I could find below Thirty-Fourth Street.”
Unsure of what to say, I settle for something resembling our normal bickering. “You mean we fought over stale biscotti when we could’ve been fighting over cronuts this whole time?”
“Not just any cronut,” he clarifies. “Maple bacon.”
He nudges the container toward me.
“I’m not all that hungry,” I say.
“Oh. Work going well enough that you can buy lunch now?” His eyes are soft, questioning, as if he genuinely cares how my work is going.
“It’s getting there,” I say. We look at each other for a moment. “What are you doing here, Miles?” I can’t stand the way my voice hitches. I wish I could be nonchalant.
“Is it okay if I sit for a second?” he asks and I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak; I’ll either rage at him or sob, and the way my pulse speeds up as he settles across from me, I have no idea which emotion will win. I wasn’t sure I’d ever talk to him again, but suddenly here we are, as though nothing’s changed, as though he didn’t shatter my heart.
He swallows tightly. “I’m here to apologize. I went off the grid for a few days and I need to tell you why. I don’t expect you to understand, given how you feel about having kids—”
Now I’m really thrown. “What do kids have to do with anything?”
“You don’t want them and I do, and . . .”
“Wait, hold up. There are days I do, and days I don’t. I don’t think I should be pinned down about it at this stage in the game.”
“You’re right, but Jordan came to me, the day I was supposed to meet up with you. She said she wanted me to be the twins’ dad. I freaked out and I didn’t know how to handle it and by the time I came back to myself, I couldn’t get ahold of you.”
“I blocked you,” I explain, my mind spinning. “After four days of nothing, I’d had enough.”
“I’m so sorry. I brought you something to let you know just how much I mean that.” He stands up and in his haste he knocks over his bag—that ridiculous, stupid, obnoxious, holier-than-thou, upcycled bag that makes my heart clench to look at because it’s so very Miles and even when I hated him, I missed him.
He gets on the floor to clean up his stuff and retrieves a thumb drive which he holds out to me, still on one knee. “I hate that I might have ruined the city for you, so I put together some new walking tours for you to have. I got Jude to record them because, let’s face it, that accent. And in case you never wanted to hear my voice again,” he finishes in a rush.
From far away, it probably looks like the world’s most ridiculous high-tech proposal. I look at the thumb drive but I don’t take it. If I take it, does that mean he’ll walk out the door, and we’ll be done for good? I’m paralyzed, uncertain what to say or do. He stands up awkwardly, sets the drive on the table, and glances over at my laptop, the screen open to my airline ticket purchase.
“You can’t leave New York,” he blurts.
I glance between him and the screen. “Why?”
“For the same reason I turned down Jordan. I’m in love with the girl I’ve been speaking to for these past couple of months. I think about her all the time. What she says. The way she thinks. She makes me laugh. And someone once told me that a relationship is all about finding that person who makes you laugh on the worst, most god-awful days.”
My pulse jumps and I find it hard to speak. In love with . . . “Who told you that?”
“It . . . it was my dad, okay?”
I can’t help it; a smile pulls at my lips. “A life without lows makes the highs meaningless.” In love with me. He chooses me. “Was this a recent heart-to-heart with your dad or was this a Brady Bunch moment of yore?”
“Listen, I promise you can tease me about my parents all you want,” Miles says heatedly. “Only keep teasing me. Don’t stop teasing me. Don’t leave.”
“I took a new job in LA. . . .”
He slumps forward, rests his head in palms. “You did?”
“But I’m not moving back. I told them I’d only accept if I could telecommute.”
“So what’s the flight for?”
“They agreed to an in-person meetup every six weeks.” I shut my laptop and suddenly there’s no barrier between us.
He looks chagrined. “I just confessed all that for nothing?”
“No, not for nothing. You once asked me what I miss most about LA and here’s the real answer. I love when you’re in your car and the mu
sic on the radio overtakes you, so you pump it up so loud it vibrates through the steering wheel. The bass hits, you’re gliding along the 405—which never happens unless you hit it just right, on a Sunday morning maybe—you’re soaring along, you own the whole city, and when that perfect song hits, it creates this dome around you in your car. You’re moving around amongst all these other people but they can’t touch you.”
“Sounds lonely,” he points out.
“It was safe,” I tell him. “Because it was separate. I had my own bubble, and I never had to hear other people’s noises, never had to bump up against the rest of the world. I would go to work, and I would come home, and sometimes I would smoke pot and numb myself to every kind of emotion. I don’t want to do that anymore. These past few weeks with you, I’ve felt so many things, good and bad, but even getting hurt . . . it’s not as bad as not living.” I scramble to locate and open my notebook—flipping past the Table of Champions chart—and show him my new list. “There’s so much I want to see in New York, so many things I’ve never done. I haven’t ridden the Circle Line yet or eaten at a Russian supper club or browsed the shelves at the Strand bookstore. I haven’t taken a horse-drawn carriage around Central Park or wandered the marble cemetery in the East Village or toured the row houses and jazz museum of Harlem or pitted the best pizza places against each other or tasted enough exotic dishes at Chelsea Market or explored Museum Mile or watched my breath swirl in the air while ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. I haven’t even seen a Broadway show!”
Miles looks at my list, touching each item like it’s a precious thing and I know it is, to him. “The new walking tours have a lot of those things covered.”
I take his hands in mine, and look him straight in the eyes. “I want to hear them in your voice. Because I want you walking beside me while you speak. I’ve fallen in love with New York and I’ve fallen in love with you, too.”
He opens his mouth but I reach over and press a light fingertip against his lips.
“Will you show me your New York? Can we start fresh?”
His response is to cup my face in his hands and pull me in for a passionate kiss. It feels like coming home.
“Yes, yes,” he murmurs, when we break apart. His thumb gently brushes a tear from my cheek. He leans in and kisses the spot where it slid.
A waiter comes over and asks Miles if he wants anything. “You’ll need to spend ten dollars if you want to plug into the Wi-Fi,” he adds.
“That’s okay. We don’t need Wi-Fi today,” Miles tells him. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“Yes.”
We grin at each other across our table.
“Clifford’s e-mails alone—” I sputter.
“His e-mail signature from the old days still haunts me.” Miles shudders. “He used to sign off as ‘Da Big Red Dawg.’ ”
I laugh, and it feels so good. Being on the same side, laughing together.
Miles is right. We have so much to talk about—in the real world, offline, as Zoey and Miles and nobody else.
“I think it’s time for a new chart,” I announce. “We should taste-test and rank all the snacks you brought us.”
I flip over to a fresh page in my notebook, blank with possibility, just waiting for the story of Zoey and Miles to be written.
Four Months Later
MILES
In case those scenes in Ghost haven’t convinced you, let me assure you that renovating a New York City apartment is very, very sexy. Zoey even wore Demi Moore-esque overalls while we destroyed a wall, got sheetrock inside all of our champagne glasses, and drank it to our heart’s content anyway. I may have lead poisoning, but it was all worth it.
I roll over now to pull Zoey closer to me, my muscles feeling well used and achy, but my hands are met with crumpled sheets instead. I force one eye open.
Not only is Zoey fully dressed but she’s almost out the front door already.
“Hey,” I call out to her, my voice still filled with sleep. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She looks back at me. “Where else?” she asks. “There’s a very large, empty table waiting just for me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Listen,” she says, as she pulls her wet hair into a ponytail. She even took a shower already? “If you think a few rounds of mind-blowing sex are enough to keep me from my destiny of Table Champion, you don’t know me very well.”
I smirk. “Mind-blowing sex, eh?” I say, folding my arms behind my head and leaning back into the headboard. “Go on.”
“My mind is blown and my strategy is sound,” she says, as she pulls open our door. “Flattery just bought me another thirty seconds. See ya!” She slams the door behind her.
“You’re ruthless,” I yell, but I also don’t attempt to move out of bed. If this is the consolation prize for losing Table Champion, I don’t think I mind one bit.
Besides, I know she’s saving me a seat.
Acknowledgments
SarvenazTash: Hey
SarahSkilton: Hey
SarvenazTash: Hmmmm . . . well, that accomplished nothing. Maybe Miles is onto something in his handbook.
SarahSkilton: So we have to do the acknowledgments. How do you want to handle it?
SarvenazTash: Well, we have to thank Alicia Condon, of course, our amazing editor at Kensington. And let her know how much we appreciate her enthusiasm and love for Miles and Zoey’s story. Working with her has been a pleasure and a joy.
SarahSkilton: Victoria Marini at Irene Goodman is our rock-star agent: smart, empathetic, and all-around awesome. We’re indebted to Lee OBrien and Maggie Kane as well. Thank you so much!
SarvenazTash: Also, from Kensington, we are very grateful for our publicist Jane Nutter, as well as the fabulous efforts of Lynn Cully, Jackie Dinas, Alexandra Nicolajsen, Kris Noble, Laura Jernigan, Susanna Gruninger, and Carly Sommerstein. Also a very special thank-you to Elizabeth Trout, who was the very first Kensingtonian to read and love this book and who started the chain of events that led to its home. We’d also like to thank superheroine agent Lia Chan at ICM, and the incomparable Ronald Bass for his enthusiasm, ideas, and one of the most unforgettably delightful meetings of our careers.
SarahSkilton: To my sister, Rachel “HankyBook” Murphy: I love you so much and your support means the world to me. Thanks for being an early reader of all my stuff, from the published to the unpublished and everything in between.
SarvenazTash: And to my sister, Golnaz Taghavian, one of the most discerning readers/watchers of rom-coms that I know. Thank you for being a beta reader for this; I knew if I could get you on board, I’d done us proud. (#TeamMusic-FromAnotherRoom4eva.)
SarahSkilton: I need to thank the wonderful Amy Spalding for always making me laugh (and making me meals!) when I most need it; Leslie Sullivant and Lisa Green for our nights at Rose & Crown pub talking writing; the RWA Santa Clarita branch; Lynne “Early Reader” Kadish for the kind e-mails; and Stephanie “Dammital” Sagheb for fabbo movie nights. Elliot “Cheesy Nuggets” Skilton is my favorite little guy, and Joe “Love of My Life” Skilton is the reason any of my books exist at all. My parents Earl & Ros Hoover and Lydia & Richard Skilton have endlessly supported and encouraged me, and I’m extremely grateful. Carrie Fisher and Nora Ephron helped inspire this story; we miss you.
Lastly, thank you to Sarvenaz Tash, the only person I can imagine collaborating with on a novel. After we met on Twitter in 2011, you literally opened your home to me a few months later when I was in NYC (and many times since). Your generosity, talent, work ethic, and creative spirit are unmatched. I have loved writing this book with you and it still makes me laugh every time I look at it. Thank you, thank you for your friendship. I treasure it more than I can say.
SarvenazTash: I’d like to thank the rest of my wonderful family, especially my mom, Haleh, and aunt, Homa, for too many things to list here; my aunts Hengameh and Haideh—I miss you both so much; my in-laws, Arlene and Michael, for their cons
tant support and enthusiasm; my husband, Graig (whom I met-cute on—true story—the Staten Island Ferry), for making me laugh every single day; and Bennett and Jonah, who were generally no help when it came to the writing of this book but enrich my life in every other way. I can’t wait to dress up as Tired Mom for Halloween with you two.
And, most of all, I’d like to thank my writing partner, Sarah Skilton. Writing this book with you will always be one of the greatest joys of my life. It’s been my beacon of light and hope and SO much laughter over the past two years. It was the place I retreated during the darkest times (and without fear of neuro-caterpillars). I’m so honored that you’ve shared your talents with me in this way. And even more grateful that I can call you one of my best friends.
Photo courtesy of Robyn Von Swank
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tash Skilton is the pen name of Sarvenaz Tash (author of The Geek’s Guide to Unrequited Love and Virtually Yours) and Sarah Skilton (author of Fame Adjacent and Club Deception), who met on Twitter and parlayed their online friendship into an IRL one. Their Guidebook to Forever Friendship includes getting each other’s ’90s pop culture references, passionately discoursing their favorite TV shows/books/movies via email, and cheering each other on through the psychological matrix that is motherhood. They have a complicated relationship with the Internet, but will also always love it for facilitating their bicoastal friendship (and the writing of this book).