But each turn Megan’s life had taken had come with new opportunities and unexpected highs too. Faced with the possibility of actually quitting, she started thinking through all the things she loved about her job at GQ: her coworkers, the surprising ways she got to be creative. And there was definitely something to be said for a regular paycheck.
“I’m still proud of how quickly I worked my way up that so-called corporate ladder.” Megan tried to keep her tone light, free of those tiny fears rising inside her.
“You’re one of the smartest people I know. You’re hyper-capable. Of course you worked your way up quickly. But just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean you should do it.” Leo brushed the hair out of his eyes, gazing off into the middle distance. “If you’re not doing what you love, what’s the point? If you aren’t making a difference to someone or a lot of someones, why do it? I’ve watched you bending over backward for everyone else for years. This is your time, Givens.”
She nodded, willing herself to agree with what sounded like a true statement, but something kept tripping up her affirmation of what he was saying. “I mean, I have been able to make a difference at GQ.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they love you there.” The response was a throwaway. Dismissive. It made Megan bristle. “But do you love it there?”
“I…there are things I think I love there.” She smiled at him to soften the blow of her sudden backpedaling. “I’m spearheading this new program to recruit interns—interns we’ll pay—from marginalized communities to help them break into media, because the expense of living in New York prevents a lot of talented people from even applying to the industry. I compiled a list of positions best suited for remote work and now we’re in the process of—”
Leo laughed softly. “There’s that Givens passion.”
She barely heard him. She was remembering how excited she’d been starting this project and how much she’d wanted to go through the applications and meet the prospective interns, even if only over a video chat.
Giving up something so concrete to possibly make a documentary on a topic she hadn’t even dreamed up seemed…frivolous. Self-indulgent.
Although wasn’t that the point of finally being with Leo? To be a little self-indulgent?
She flitted her eyes over the expansive margarita menu. “Is it too early for tequila?”
“It’s never too early for tequila.”
What she needed was more information to understand all the reasons why this was exciting and right. And tequila.
Anxious energy spilled through her stomach. That was normal, to feel anxious about such a big leap. And they were really doing this. Maybe the nerves would turn to excitement if she could get a clearer picture of what she was saying yes to. “Tell me what a day in the life of Leo looks like.”
A small child toddled by the restaurant in pursuit of a seagull, her parents rushing after her. Megan looked to Leo to share an amused grin, but he was gazing out toward the ocean.
“That’s the best thing about a life with me,” he said.
“What’s the best thing?”
“Every day looks different. A lot of the time, my job is flexible—”
“So I can recruit you to be a film-crew member?” she teased, imagining his biceps as he held the boom mic overhead.
He chuckled. “Sure, I can crew sometimes. And sometimes you can help me too—bookkeeping, readying tour itineraries and stuff.”
“Sounds like our lives will be pretty intertwined.” It was odd to imagine blurring all those lines of home and relationship and work and play. Not odd—exciting. It’s exciting. Megan felt knots forming in her neck and shoulders, even though everything Leo said was appealing. Every day she rode the subway to work, she’d fantasized about not going into the office. About waking up in the morning and making her own schedule. Or not having a schedule at all. Leo could give her all that. Lazy Sundays and Mondays and Tuesdays, staying in bed until they both felt ready to dive into their unorthodox work, their unorthodox life.
The ideas were foreign to Megan, who’d always been the responsible one. But there were ways to be responsible and still carve out these freedoms. There had to be.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Change,” she answered honestly.
“You’re free, Givens.” Leo gave her a lazy grin and dipped a chip in salsa. “Throw caution to the wind and let yourself be free.”
And yet, suddenly quitting, losing not only the new intern project but also the growing creative freedom she’d been awarded over time…her concerns collected and multiplied. The more she pictured drowning her old life in a flash flood and starting over from scratch, the more protective she grew of that old life.
She searched again for the part of her that agreed with him. “I definitely won’t miss the brutal hours and juggling a million different elements for one perfect shot. Dealing with the talent alone could drive a gal to drink.”
“Well, you don’t have to compromise what you want anymore.” Leo winked as he flagged down their server and before she knew what was happening, their awkward conversational stumbling was replaced with margaritas and actual stumbling down into the alley below.
The tequila was making her head spin just enough to be fun again. Like she was on an amusement-park ride. She pushed Leo against the nearest wall and let her body do the rest of the talking. Yes. Leo was like a very hot amusement-park ride.
Since hangovers didn’t seem to exist anymore, maybe she’d spend the rest of her days getting drunk and naked with this man. A lifetime of—maybe not talking, that part hadn’t gone so well today, but a lifetime of alcohol and sex. Wasn’t that what most people dreamed of?
That didn’t sound quite right. What was she chasing again? A way to find herself. To be herself. That was it.
Leo had said she didn’t need to compromise anymore. Something that sounded so appealing…or did it? She thought about it as she kissed Leo in the alley.
There were always compromises to be made in life. And that wasn’t always a bad thing. Living a self-indulgent existence, thinking only of herself, doing what she wanted…didn’t that just make her another Alistair? And who wanted to be Alistair?
What was wrong with her? Was this a grass-is-greener complex on steroids? Or was she broken, unable to imagine any scenario in which she could be happy?
Paulina had said happiness was fleeting, Megan reminded herself. All this time she’d been viewing it as a destination, an achievement, thinking that if she could only diagnose what was wrong with her life, she’d have it instantly.
But Paulina had also talked about making decisions that brought a sense of calm into her life. Relief. And Megan wasn’t feeling any of those things.
It was the middle of the afternoon. Leo had offered her exactly what she thought she wanted, and yet she was growing defensive about the life she’d already created. She had to admit, juggling those millions of details for one perfect shot was kind of a rush. And her hours were brutal mostly because she had a tendency toward workaholism and because, in addition to her full-time job, she’d been full-time planning a wedding.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Leo nuzzled her neck.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, mourning all the things she was sacrificing for what she thought she wanted.
While Megan had been vilifying all the worst parts of what she’d built since college, she’d forgotten to fully appreciate all the best parts too. No, working at GQ hadn’t been the original plan, but plans were meant to morph and change. Futures were meant to expand and contract as opportunities came and went and people grew. She didn’t want to give it all up. There was too much she loved.
And as she realized all this, Leo murmured into her ear that he wanted to give her everything.
Her body went cold. Under the late-afternoon sun, pushed against a brick building, Megan suddenly felt nothing.
No all-consuming love, no answers to questions deep within. Even her hormone
s had jumped ship. With her hands on his chest, she pulled back to look at him. “I don’t know if running away right now is very smart.”
“What are you talking about? Of course it is. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was your idea as much as mine.”
She searched his face, willing herself to feel calm. Sober.
“Come to Belize with me,” he begged. “We can leave tomorrow. Tonight. Now. Whenever you want. I know you need this. This is your escape hatch, your path out, Givens.”
She swallowed, the world tipping from the tequila. “No, what I mean is, I don’t know if running away is what I want.”
Leo’s chest rose and fell. Two times. Three times. “You still want me, though, right?”
Drunkenness came in stages: happy, randy, confused, melancholy. Megan had just hit the last one.
“What if I don’t know what I want anymore? What if I can’t see it?” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
“Maybe day-drinking doesn’t agree with you, Givens.” His words were playful, but his face was growing stony.
“Am I what you want?” She reached out, touched his chest. “You didn’t seem fully stoked about me moving in with you.”
He flinched from her touch. “You know I want you. And yeah, maybe the idea of shacking up right away caught me off guard, but this is all happening pretty fast.”
“Pretty fast?” She raised her eyebrows. “You were the one who came here to bust up my wedding.”
“And you’re the one who said yes.”
The air between them stilled; there was silence apart from the cawing of a few seagulls in the distance.
“Are you going to jerk me around again?” His voice was quiet. Hurt, not accusatory.
She froze, her heart grasping for a lifeline. “Jerk you around again? What are you talking about?”
“What am I—” He took a few steps away from her before spinning back, pointing accusingly. “Graduation morning when you’re all over me, making me promises, and then running off to the Prescotts again.”
Could that have been right? Had she made him promises? “I didn’t—”
How could this have gone sideways too? Every choice she made in every single day seemed to be the wrong one. How could she try on life after life and still have nothing fit?
Leo watched her, his face a mixture of pain and pride. Megan had to look away.
“You know what I am to you?” he said.
“What?” If he understood this better than she did, Megan was desperate for enlightenment.
“I’m your fantasy. Your little escape. Whenever your life gets too predictable or stifling, you make out with me, get it out of your system, then ditch me.”
Heat flushed her face, her body. She wanted the world to stop tilting. She wanted to undrink those margaritas. “You make it sound like this is a pattern. It’s happened twice, Leo.”
For a man of his stature, he crumbled easily. The pride he’d exuded moments ago gone, he asked, “Is it me, Megan? Am I really what you want? If I am, let’s get out of here. Let’s go to Belize. Let’s be together.”
Her lips parted. She willed the words to come. She wanted to escape.
Escape.
Leo was right. That’s what he’d been to her. Every thought that had traveled to him, the day she’d spent in his bed, the make-out in the alley…it was an escape. It wasn’t a life.
A cloud passed over the sun, blocking it long enough for goose bumps to rise on her arms. She hugged herself.
It seemed Leo wasn’t what the universe wanted for her. More important, he wasn’t what she wanted. Suddenly all the nights she’d spent looking for traces of him online, picturing the life they could’ve had together, felt immature. Shameful.
“Givens.” Leo pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t spend another decade wanting you, wondering if I have a shot. Please. Just…give me an answer.”
The weight of the sky descended on her as she willed herself to have the courage to meet his eyes. When their gazes connected, she knew what the answer was.
She shook her head.
No.
He raised his face to the cloudy sky and she watched his Adam’s apple go up and down as he tried to compose himself. When his eyes met hers again, they were filled with pain.
And then she let him walk away.
Back at the hotel, her arms full of bundles of underwear and socks, Megan was trying not to think about how each item she was taking from the hotel closet and drawers had been carefully curated, intended for her honeymoon.
In two days, presuming time was linear and not the Slinky of Satan’s spawn, she and Tom were supposed to be heading to the Amalfi coast, where they’d drink wine in a little bubble away from the rest of the world and promise not to look at their phones.
Work had been so busy for them both (busier for Tom, it’d seemed, and now she understood why) that they hadn’t even had the chance to plan an itinerary. Not long ago, the prospect of unscheduled time had been so seductive.
Megan threw everything haphazardly into her suitcase, slammed it shut, and zipped it up roughly as though it could contain her eviscerated life. She still wasn’t sure where she was going. She just knew that she had to get out of this hotel. Off this island.
She closed her eyes and asked herself if she’d made a mistake breaking things off with Leo in the alley. But her resolve had only strengthened. It seemed the farther away she got from Leo, the more clearly she saw her fixation on him for what it was.
Going to Belize with him would have been just swapping out one problem, one man’s prescribed path for her, for another.
What Megan had to do was get away from all this and find the space to really think things through. A fast decision wasn’t necessarily a good one, and she needed the time to shake off all the impulsive things she’d done in the past few days, to chart a new course of action.
A jolt of inspiration hit and she knew just where to go.
She’d take the ferry over to Seattle, head straight to the airport, and fly to Montana.
She missed the mountains and big skies of her home state. And since everyone who normally drove her crazy there was actually here, she’d be able to return to her roots alone. To think. It wasn’t an answer, but maybe it was a place where she could find answers. Saying goodbye to both Tom and Leo might have broken the loop, or maybe a change in geography would do the trick, but she had a feeling that getting on that plane was what she needed to do to move forward.
Luggage in hand, looking back at the hotel room to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything, she thought better of the garment bag containing her wedding dress slung over her shoulder. With one last vision of the day she’d tried it on in front of Paulina, Gran, Donna, and Brianna, she tossed it onto the bed. A symbol of a different life. One she no longer needed to live.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tom
Evening was falling. Tom could see it through the expansive windows of the airport. He’d been wandering the terminal for hours, checking with airline kiosks, desperate for a standby ticket to New York, or even somewhere in the general vicinity of New York. He was getting less picky as the day went on.
His feet ached; a migraine pulsed behind his eyes. There was a feeling in his chest that he’d decided was a slow-burn heart attack. And he was no closer to a flight, had nothing to show for any of these symptoms.
Although, if there really was a lifetime of this same day ahead of him, one day wasted didn’t matter.
Wasted, that is, apart from his breakfast with Hollywood royalty.
He kept turning the words of the old actor over in his mind, thinking of ways he could build the life he wanted, be the person he wanted to be.
Sitting down in a quiet corner near a dim gate where the lights overhead buzzed gently, he promised himself something: Tomorrow he wouldn’t be a coward. Because while he’d been walking between gates A through N, occasionally taking the shuttle for a change of scenery, he figured out everything
he’d do differently the day of his rehearsal dinner.
Not that it mattered. If Brody and Emmeline’s relationship had been taken down by a series of persistent nudges, Tom and Megan’s had been exploded by dynamite. Bit by bit, Tom was learning to accept his new reality. But to get there, he had to get over what he’d lost.
Grief was a mercurial beast. Just when you thought numbness had settled in, a fresh wave of pain coursed through your body like fire.
He’d never hold Megs again, never spoon against her warm body while her cold toes iced his legs. Never kiss her again or slow dance with her in their SoHo apartment. He no longer had anyone to help him ditch New Year’s Eve parties.
No one to watch him cook.
So many inside jokes and silly songs were suddenly and irrevocably irrelevant.
It was miraculous how twelve years of shared memories and future plans could evaporate. How their wedding could simply cease to exist.
Although his parents had insisted on a traditional ceremony, Tom and Megs had secretly promised to write their own vows. They’d share the vows only with each other and only when they’d gotten through the weekend.
Megs, he’d planned to say once they were on their honeymoon. You and I connected over a shared taste in music, in humor. Those things seemed so important when we were eighteen. But that wasn’t what carried us through the next twelve years. It was the little things—the way you’d wolf-whistle when I cooked for you, the way I’d kiss your forehead when you had a bad day. We did these things because we wanted to make each other smile.
But it was the big things that carried us through too—the way you made me feel accepted and loved and chosen just the way I was. The way I’ve tried to make you feel adored and loved and chosen just the way you are.
I chose you the day we met, twelve years ago, in an undergrad science class designed for people with very little interest in science. I chose you again when you told me you thought the way I cried at happy endings was sexy and I told you I thought the snort that escapes whenever you laugh too hard was sexy. I kept choosing you as I discovered just how clever you were, how you could see through people instantly and how, when you looked at me, you saw someone worthy of your time. Your care. Your heart.
The Rehearsals Page 21