by Cat Carmine
My father’s secretary shows me into his office, where I find him sitting behind his desk, reading the paper. There are three televisions behind him, all tuned to different stations, the volume low. One is set to Good Grant’s cable network, one to a 24-hour news channel, and one to Channel Nine, which is currently airing their usual cheesy morning show. I stare at the screens distractedly while my father slowly folds away the newspaper.
Then we get to it. I hand him a copy of the presentation and start walking him through my plans for Good Grant Books. He doesn’t say anything, but he listens attentively, following along through the presentation and nodding in the right places and occasionally making grunting noises that could maybe, possibly be taken as a grudging approval.
Bolstered, I push through, outlining the opportunities for the company, the risk mitigation strategy I’ve come up with, the five and ten year forecast. I’m about to start on the digital strategy component when I make the mistake of glancing up at the televisions behind him.
Holy fuck. That’s Emma. On the far left television, I see her sitting in a tan leather chair, wearing a sexy as hell green dress and a sharp white blazer. She’s talking to the host — Charlotte something, I think. I can’t make out what they’re saying.
“Tyler?”
My father draws my attention back to the presentation.
“Sorry, right — I was just saying …” I glance up at the screen again, and this time I see Charlotte pass Emma a box of tissues. She takes one and dabs at her eyes. She’s crying.
My heart wrenches. I push my chair back and walk over to the television, cranking the volume way up.
“Tyler, what in God’s name are you doing?”
“Shut-up, Dad.”
Emma’s voice fills my father’s office.
“I’m sorry,” she’s saying. “Now you all know the truth — break-ups aren’t easy, even if you write an advice column and supposedly know what you’re doing.”
The host squeezes her knee at the same time that my hands squeeze into fists. I did this, I realize. I made her cry like this. Oh, Emma.
The host says something cheerful about Emma’s book, but that only makes her cry harder, and my heart wrenches again as I watch her. I feel so helpless, standing here, watching her in pain and unable to do anything to fix it. Then again, I don’t know if she’d want to have anything to do with me even if I was there.
“Tyler, sit down. I won’t have you waste my time. I’m a very busy man, you know.”
My father’s voice is stern, and it takes me back to all the times he’d snapped at us as children, all the times everything had to be just so. It’s his ‘I mean business’ voice, but this time, it doesn’t move me. I stand transfixed, watching my beautiful Emma as she dabs at her eyes. Every part of me wants to go to her, but I can’t walk out on this interview. Not when I’ve just convinced my father to give me one more chance.
On screen, Emma’s shoulders slump as she faces the host.
“I don’t want another guy,” she says. “I want this guy. But the rules don’t work on him, because there’s nothing he seems to like more than busting his way through them.”
I grin at that sentence, and then the enormity of what she just said hits me with the weight of a thousand anvils. She wants me. She just told all of New York that she does.
If there was ever a chance to fix this with Emma, to make things right once and for all, this is it. I can’t let her pour her heart out on live television and not be there to catch her when it’s all over. I have to get down to that studio. Now.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” I say, already heading for the door. “We’re going to have to finish this conversation later. There’s something else I have to go do.”
“Tyler!” My father stands up, his face gone red, as if he can’t believe anyone would have the stones to walk out on him. “If you walk out that door, this is it. You’ll never work at Good Grant again.”
I hesitate, my hand on the handle of his office door. Only for a millisecond. “Some things are more important,” I tell him. “I know you wouldn’t understand that, but it’s true.”
And then I’m gone.
Twenty-Nine
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
I can’t tell whether it’s me or Solange that’s keeping up the constant stream of muttering. I guess it doesn’t matter. We both know I royally fucked us both over.
I’m sitting collapsed on the black leather sofa in the green room while Solange paces back and forth in the room, her phone pressed to her ear. I’m sure she’s trying to get ahold of someone at Good Grant Books, trying to figure out how to fix this lovely mess I made for us.
“Yes, hi, it’s me,” she says finally. She pauses and then, “I know! I’m sorry, I tried to …” as she slips out of the room. I bury my head in my hands. God, I hope I didn’t get Solange fired. That’s the last thing I need on my conscience. First thing tomorrow, I’ll contact her boss, Diana. Hell, I’ll even call Tyler if I have to. Solange shouldn’t be punished for my screw-up.
I heave myself off the couch and grab a packet of chocolate-covered almonds from the snack tray. Who cares if it’s not even eight o’clock in the morning? A girl needs her chocolate in a time like this.
The door to the green room swings open.
“I’m sorry,” I say right away, spinning around to face Solange. But instead, it’s Charlie I find standing there in front of me. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hi.” Charlie grins. “Doing okay?”
“Yeah. I guess. I’m really sorry about … whatever that was.”
“Are you kidding? Don’t apologize. That’s the most entertainment we’ve had on this show since Mr. Diddly the Dancing Weiner Dog pissed on Derek’s Prada loafers. People are already talking about it on social media — I won’t be surprised if the clip is up on YouTube soon.”
“Great.” I suck back a handful of chocolate. “Just great.”
“I’m sorry, I know it’s probably not how you saw this morning going. But honestly, Emma? I loved how real you were out there. Most of our guests are so fake.”
“I trashed my own book,” I point out, and she grins.
“Okay, maybe not the best PR move, I’ll grant you that. But you know what? People are allowed to move on. Change their minds. Evolve their ideas. And anyone who tells you you can’t … can go fuck themselves.”
For the first time since I got here, I smile for real. “Thanks, Charlie. I’m still really sorry about everything. Are your producers pissed?”
She waves off my concern. “Ah … fuck them, too. Now, we’ve got about twenty minutes until your next segment. I’m going to get make-up in here real quick because, no offense, honey, but you look like part of a bad KISS cover band.”
“Wait … my next segment?” I blink at her in surprise.
“Of course. You’re going to field questions from our audience, remember?”
“You mean you still want me to actually do that?”
“Of course. In fact, I expect it to be a particularly lively segment, don’t you?”
Ten minutes later, the size-zero make-up artist — who I find out is called Jacinta — has me looking like a million bucks. Gone are the raccoon-like mascara streaks, the red cheeks, the puffy eyes. I actually look human. Half pretty, even. If only she could do something about the way my insides feel like a plate of wet noodles.
I make my way back towards the stage, where Charlie and Derek are wrapping up a heated segment on whether Birkenstocks are in or out. I don’t see Solange anywhere, but I suppose she’s probably on the phone with Good Grant’s marketing department, trying to figure out how much damage I’ve done to their brand.
I know I should be upset about what happened today but … I’m not. I honestly just feel exhausted. Like I want to find a bed and crawl into it for a million years.
The thing is, yeah, I screwed up the publicity for my book. But I screwed up something else way, way worse.
Tyler.
&nb
sp; My stomach twists into a knot at the thought of him. I had something amazing, and I blew it. All because it didn’t fit some preconceived notion of who I am and what I need.
The truth is, Tyler is who and what I need. Because despite our differences, we fit together somehow. I love the way he doesn’t just listen to me, but hears me. The way he doesn’t just look at me, but sees me. The way he lets me be a person I didn’t think I could be — someone who’s fun and playful and dirty and sweet all at once. The way he lets me just be … Emma. Whoever she is.
And now it’s too late. I walked away from the best thing I ever had. And judging by the fact that I haven’t heard a peep from him since, he’s not too broken up about the whole thing.
Damn. I carefully wipe a tear from my eye and look around in a panic for Jacinta. I don’t see anyone but a producer who gives me the stink eye, probably for my earlier performance. I try to shrug apologetically, but then I hear Charlie starting my intro. Oh boy. Here we go.
“Well, folks, earlier this morning we had quite an entertaining interview with Emma Holloway, author of Miss Emma’s Rules for Dating. I’m sure none of us are going to forget that any time soon, are we? Well, I’m delighted to tell you that Emma is still here in the studio with us, and she’s agreed to come back out and field some questions from all of you. So get your burning, searing questions ready and join me in welcoming Emma back to the stage!”
The audience erupts into applause, and I walk on noodle legs back onto the set. Charlie wraps me in a hug. “You’ve got this,” she whispers into my ear.
Oh damn. Another tear springs to my eye. I wipe it frantically away before plastering on a smile and slipping into the same seat I’d sat in earlier. The studio lights feel even hotter than they did last time, and a bead of sweat is already forming on my hairline.
“Okay, Emma — so. Let’s talk first about what happened earlier.”
Oh God, no, please let’s not.
“Sure,” I smile, instead. “Can I claim temporary insanity?”
“You can,” Charlie grins. “But we both know there’s more to it than that.”
I let out a breath as my shoulders slump. “Look, the truth is, I don’t know if I’m qualified to give anyone advice. I mean, what do I know? I fucked up the one good thing I had.”
Charlie squints, and I clap my hand over my mouth.
Sorry, I mouth.
“Well, I think I can speak for everyone here when I say that your honesty is refreshing. It’s like having a best friend who will tell it to you like it is, you know? Everyone needs one of those.”
I try to smile. I have no idea why she’s being so nice to me, but in this moment, I kind of love her.
“Well, I promise to try my best,” I assure her.
“Good. Let’s go to our first question.” She consults an index card she’d been holding in her lap. “Gretchen K. … Gretchen, you had a question?”
A woman about ten years older than me stands up. She’s wearing a powder blue twinset, and her blonde hair is curled into tight little ringlets. She has suburban housewife written all over her. She makes her way to the aisle, and a producer hands her a microphone.
“Hi Emma. I love your column, and I just want to say, I think I love you even more now.”
Oh God. My stomach flip-flops. I don’t deserve this adoration. I force myself to smile. “Thank you. That’s too kind.”
“My question is actually about my sister.”
Oh, thank God. Sisters. That’s something I definitely know about.
“She’s thirty now,” Gretchen explains, “but she still lives like she’s twenty-one. Parties, trashy clothes, a new guy every week. How can I get her to grow up?”
I immediately think of Blake, and a small smile comes over my face.
“You can’t,” I tell Gretchen. “And it’s not your job to. As long as she’s not hurting anyone, or hurting herself, she has a right to live her life how she wants. Trust me, I have two sisters. Do I agree with all their decisions? Hell no. But I’m starting to think that’s because they’re braver than I am. They’re not perfect, but they’re happy, and I think that’s a pretty great thing to be.”
I collapse back against the seat, realizing I’d been getting worked up giving my answer.
“Great answer, Emma,” Charlie says, shuffling through her index cards. “And let’s remember, one woman’s trash is another woman’s couture.”
The audience chuckles politely, and Gretchen nods and sits back down. I’m not sure I gave her the answer she wanted, but for the first time in a long time, I feel like I gave someone advice that’s real and genuine. I guess I can be proud of that.
“Okay, let’s go to our next question. April P. … April, where are you?”
A petite brunette puts up her hand nervously and then makes her way to the aisle, where another producer is waiting with another microphone.
“Hi,” she whispers into the microphone, then flinches at the way it echoes. Her cheeks go beet red. I try to smile encouragingly at her. “I read your book, and I’ve been trying to follow your advice but …”
She trails off for a minute. My stomach sinks.
Poor April P. looks like she wishes she’d never decided to ask a question. She tugs on her dress, stares at the floor, and clutches the microphone. Then she seems to rally.
“It’s just … he thinks I’m playing games with him. He’s a really good guy, and I really like him, and I think … it feels wrong not to tell him how I feel.”
I swallow. Hot guilt burns my stomach.
“It is wrong,” I admit. “When I wrote that book, I had a very different idea of what it took to make a relationship work. If I could do it all over again…”
I pause. If I could do it all over again, I’d do everything differently. Everything. I’d never have written that stupid book in the first place. I’d have given Tyler a chance from the start. I’d have let myself fall in love with him for who he is, not for who I thought he should be. And just maybe, I’d have let myself fall in love with the person I’m becoming, too.
“Oh, Emma.” Charlie hands me a box of tissues, and I realize I’m crying again. Jesus. Really wish I hadn’t spent so much time blaming Tyler for embarrassing me — it turns out I’m perfectly capable of humiliating myself all on my own.
I grab a tissue and blot at my face, then turn back to April. “Look, you seem like a sweet girl. If you really like this guy, and you think he deserves you, then I think you should tell him exactly how you feel. Fuck the rules.”
“Emma!” Charlie chides, but she’s laughing. She consults her notes. “Okay, let’s go to next question. Let’s see. This one is from Tyler G. … Tyler?”
I gasp. It can’t be.
It can’t.
My eyes frantically scan the audience, but I don’t see him anywhere. It must be a coincidence. Just a cruel little prank from the universe.
Then there’s a commotion on the far left hand side of the studio audience. I strain so hard to see that I’m almost crawling out of my chair and then …
Those grey eyes.
That dimple.
That gorgeous smile, lighting right on me.
Tyler.
I swallow hard as he takes the microphone from one of the producers. He’s overdressed compared to the rest of the audience, but he looks incredible to me. He’s wearing a sleek black suit, crisp white shirt, and pale blue tie, and I wonder absently if he came here from work.
It seems to take forever for him to speak. The silence stretches out between us and the rest of the audience melts away, until there’s only me and Tyler. We’re fifty feet apart, but I want to run up the aisle and throw myself into his arms, tell him I’m sorry about everything, that I love him and that I’m an idiot.
The silence stretches longer and longer, and my stomach starts to tighten. My hopes had lifted when I saw him standing there, but as he goes longer without saying anything, I wonder if maybe I was wrong about the reason he’s here.
/> But then he smiles again, and everything inside me seems to smooth out, dissolve, like snow finally melting on a warm day in April.
“Hi Emma,” he says. Hearing his voice is as sweet as buttercream frosting. “I need some advice.”
“Okay.” I can’t keep the smile off my face.
“I met this girl recently, and she’s … well, she’s everything to me. Beautiful, and smart, and clever, and funny, and … well, I don’t know if I can say this on television, but she’s sexy as hell.”
“Okay,” I say again. My smile has grown wider, until I think it probably looks more maniacal than sexy.
“Anyway, I did something stupid. I let her walk away from us. This is the woman I want to spent the rest of my life with, and I just let her go. I love her, Emma — so I guess I’m wondering if you think there’s any hope for me? For us?”
My heart is thudding out of my chest. I open up my mouth to speak, but no words come out. All I can feel and hear is my own racing pulse.
Tyler stands there, blinking. His smile starts to dip as he waits. I open and close my mouth, trying to trick my voice into working again, but everything I want to say seems caught in my throat.
So I do the only thing I can think of.
I stand up, rip off the lav mic that’s clipped to my blouse, and throw it down on my chair. Then I turn and walk off the stage, down the stairs, into the audience and up the aisle towards where Tyler is standing.
The walk seems to take forever, but I keep my feet moving, one in front of the other. The audience is watching me, and I can feel Charlie’s eyes on me, too, but Tyler is the only one I can focus on.
Tyler. Tyler who came back for me. Tyler who says he loves me.
Tyler.
I finally reach him.
“Hi.” I touch his cheek.
“Hi,” he says. His smile is back, the one that carves out that gorgeous dimple on his left cheek. The one that I’ll never get tired looking at, that I could spend a lifetime waking up next to.
