Funny You Should Ask(90)
“I know you,” he says.
“No, you don’t,” I say. “And I could write about all of this. About last night. About your family. About your relationship with your niece. About your sister and Benjamin Walsh. This could be my story.”
It makes me sick just saying it out loud.
Gabe is silent for a long time.
“Then do it,” he says.
“What?”
“Go call your editor,” he says, extending a hand toward the living room. “Write that article.”
We stare at each other, playing the weirdest game of chicken ever.
“No?” he says. “I thought so.”
I scowl at him. “Don’t be smug just because you think I’m a decent person.”
Gabe shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you’re being like this,” he says.
“Because this was a mistake,” I say.
“No,” he says. “It wasn’t a fucking mistake. Isn’t. Ten years ago, maybe, but that was one we made together. If anyone is making a mistake right now, it’s you. On your own.”
I’m out of bed and pulling my clothes on.
“Chani,” Gabe says.
His hand is on my elbow, but I shake it off.
“You don’t understand,” I say. “You don’t understand at all.”
“Then tell me,” he says.
I shove my legs into my pants, not looking at him.
“You know what happens at my book signings?” I ask. “People don’t come to learn about my writing technique or my interviewing process. They don’t want to know about craft or publishing. They buy their book and get in line and every single one of them asks me what really happened between the two of us.”
“So what?” Gabe says. “You think I don’t get asked about my Bond outburst or my drinking problem or half a dozen other personal things that people feel entitled to know about? You know how it is! It’s part of the job.”
“It’s not the same,” I say. “You can recover. No matter what—no matter the scandal, no matter the narrative—at the end of the day you still get to be Gabe Parker. Look at what’s happening now—you’ve already been forgiven. Your career is on the rise again. You still get to be judged on your work. On your talent.”
“Chani—”
I shake my head.
“I’ll always be known for writing that article. And this will just prove everything that’s been said. That I’m a fraud. I’ll always be the girl who fucked Gabe Parker and lied about it. Who thought she was good enough. And no one will ever forgive me for that.”
“That’s bullshit,” he says. “You wrote that article. You decided what to include. Take some responsibility. Stop acting like a victim.”
Anger rears up inside of me. It builds like a tsunami, overwhelming every other emotion.
“Fuck you, Gabe,” I say.
I pull my sweater on with such force that I get rug burn on my chin.
“I wish I’d never written the fucking thing,” I say.
“You know what,” Gabe says, “me too.”
Chapter
30
I don’t bother tying my boots.
Teddy scrambles out of her dog bed as I pass, her tail wagging. I grab my coat, laces flapping. I hear Gabe coming out of the bedroom.
“Chani.” His voice is muffled beneath the shirt he’s putting on. “Chani, wait.”
I leave my scarf behind.
I leave my purse behind. All my things.
All I have is my jacket, unlaced boots, and my phone.
I know Gabe is probably going to come looking for me, so I duck into an alley and hide. It’s ridiculous and pathetic, but I don’t know what else to do.
I stay there, crouched alongside a dumpster until my ears go numb from the cold.
Then, I lace my boots up. Slowly. Carefully. I think about calling Katie, but that’s not the person I end up dialing.
“Hello, darling,” Ollie says.
He’s far more awake and far less surprised than I would have expected for this kind of call at this point in the day. It’s barely seven.
“Tired of Gabe already?” he asks.
“Something like that,” I say.
“Hmm,” he says. “Shall I come get you?”
“Please,” I say.
I have to step out from beyond the dumpster to give him directions. I wait on the sidewalk, chilled and stupid, half expecting to see Gabe appear from around the corner. When Ollie arrives, it’s in a very nice car that smells brand-new. Cooper is quiet, just beginning to wake up as we turn away from Main Street.
I’m certain this place is magical when it’s snowing.
I have that feeling of not belonging. What it was like in New York. What it’s been like in L.A.
I’m wondering if I just don’t feel at home in myself anymore.
Ollie takes me to a diner at the other end of town and doesn’t say anything until we’ve both ordered and have cups of tea set in front of us.
“I think you should give him another chance,” Ollie says.
“You don’t even know what he’s done,” I say.
“Don’t I?” he asks.