Wild Card

by Lila Monroe

  At first, I can’t decide what’s more embarrassing, my messy apartment or my voluminous kaftan, but when I see Katie’s easy grin peeking out from behind a giant frond of fennel it’s hard to be anything but grateful. “You’re probably right,” I admit, taking the bag of groceries and setting it on the counter. “All I’ve eaten lately is takeout pho and like a hundred Skinny Cow ice cream bars. Which, by the way, don’t deserve the good name ‘ice cream.’ ”

  “What is that, the Heartbreak Diet?” Katie asks, wincing. “You should trademark that shit, do a book maybe. You could make millions.” She sets her enormous cast iron skillet down on my top-of-the-line, never-used cooktop. “I brought all my own supplies because I figured you wouldn’t have anything,” she explains, then peers around at my barren kitchen. “And it looks like I was correct!”

  She sets herself up with a knife and a cutting board, humming tunelessly as she bustles back and forth to the stove. Twenty minutes later she plunks a BLT and a bowl of minestrone down on the kitchen island. “Comfort food,” she says.

  “Thanks.” It’s such a simple gesture, just soup and a sandwich, but the feeling of being taken care of is enough to have my eyes filling with tears. “Sorry,” I say, swiping quickly at my cheeks. “Oh my God, this is embarrassing.”

  “Just don’t get the bread soggy.” Katie shrugs. Then she softens. “You don’t have to be perfectly put together all the time, you know,” she promises, rubbing a gentle hand over my back. “People will still like you.”

  “You, maybe,” I say darkly. “Not everyone.”

  “Ah, there it is.” She opens a bottle of Pinot with practiced expertise, pouring us each a generous glass. “No word from Tom Brady, huh?”

  “Ryan Callahan,” I correct, smiling in spite of myself. “And he has a new girlfriend. Or at least, I think he does.” I fill her quickly in on my new side hustle: Olivia Danvers, Internet Detective.

  “You know,” Katie says, taking a thoughtful sip of her wine, “not to insult your skills as an amateur sleuth or anything, but you could always go directly to the source on this one.”

  “I tried!” I protest. “I called him—once, which as far as I’m concerned is the hard limit on something like this. But he didn’t answer. And anyway, I’m not about to go groveling for forgiveness when he’s the one who got the totally wrong idea about the whole situation and didn’t let me explain.”

  “Not the totally wrong idea,” Katie points out gently. “You did have a crush on Tristan. For, like, years.”

  “Sure,” I allow, “but not anymore. As soon as stuff started happening with Ryan, that was totally over.”

  “I mean, I get that, but Ryan probably doesn’t. And his pride was bruised.” Katie swipes a leftover piece of bacon out of the frying pan, crunching thoughtfully. “From what you said—and those gorgeous pictures Hallie took at the non-wedding—you guys really had something. But even big manly sports stars get insecure sometimes.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say, once I’ve swallowed a spoonful of soup, which is, for the record, delicious. “There’s no contest between Ryan and Tristan. There’s no competition between Ryan and any other guy I’ve ever met—when he doesn’t have his head up his ass, anyway.”

  “Yeah, but does Ryan know that?”

  “I tried to tell him,” I protest. “But he wasn’t exactly in a listening mood.” I sigh, nibbling at the crust of my sandwich. “Why does everything have to be so complicated? I just want something easy and drama-free, you know? Like you and Seb have.”

  “Easy and drama-free, huh?” Katie raises her eyebrows. “Seb and I separated for six months once, you know.”

  “You did?” I almost choke on my BLT. I can’t even imagine it—the two of them are the picture of domestic bliss. “What happened?”

  Katie shrugs. “We were young and stupid and bad at communicating,” she explains, “and it felt easier to just bail and cut our losses than to actually do the work of trying to be honest with each other.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Eventually he showed up at my apartment with a five-quart Le Creuset full of boeuf bourguignon begging me to forgive him. I said I’d think about it, but only if he’d let me keep the Le Creuset.” She grins. “Then we got back together and went to couples therapy, and the rest is history.” Katie raises her eyebrows meaningfully, spooning a bit of the leftover soup out of the pot. “The point is,” she says, “it’s not about some totally perfect, drama-free match. It’s about working it out when things get tough.”

  I shove the rest of the sandwich in my mouth so I don’t have to answer.

  I drag myself into work the next morning, caking extra concealer onto my face to disguise my lack of sleep and red-wine puffiness. I’ve got a debrief meeting with Jason Kilcher, the Dungeons and Dragons-loving tech CTO, whose corporate retreat was a smashing success—thanks to The Agency. “I had my doubts, Olivia,” he tells me, shining like a new penny in a brand-new suit, “but you really are the best.”

  “I do what I can,” I tell him, mustering a smile. Normally there’s nothing that brings me as much satisfaction as finding the perfect solution for my clients, but this morning I can barely bring myself to care.

  Once he’s gone, Alice comes in to go over messages. “Thanks again for saving my ass this past week,” I tell her, raking my hands through my hair. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “It was just the usual paperwork and research.”

  “Well, I appreciate it. Remind me to give you a raise,” I say, as I turn back to the schedule.

  Alice pauses in the doorway. “Olivia, I was thinking,” she says, the words coming out all in a rush. “What if I jumped in and did some of the field work?”

  I look up.

  “You know, go out on assignment. See some of the action for myself. You said it yourself, your roster is thin these days,” she adds, looking hopeful. “Maybe I could take a job one of these days.”

  I give a hollow laugh. Send her to go get her heart broken the way I just did? I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, let alone my best employee. “I don’t think that would work,” I reply. “I can guarantee you don’t want the drama.”

  Alice’s face falls. “I mean, it wouldn’t have to mean drama, necessarily,” she says. “I was just thinking I could mix it up, that’s all. I mean, I spend all day sitting behind that desk—”

  “Which is the safe place to be,” I interrupt, giving her a sad smile. “Take it from me. When you mix business and pleasure, it’s always a recipe for disaster.”

  For a moment it looks like Alice is going to argue, but in the end she only nods. “OK,” she says, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “Well. Just thought I’d mention it. Remember you’ve got that call with the restaurant mogul at two.”

  “Thanks,” I say, sitting back in my chair and watching as she heads back out into the reception area. I have to admit, I’m surprised. Alice often jokes that she’s my Moneypenny: keeping the office held down while my agents go out on assignment, but I had no idea she had any ambitions beyond that. Clearly, she thinks it’s all glamorous cocktail dates and fancy parties, but she has no idea how hard it is to keep your feelings from getting in the way.

  She might not realize it, but I’m doing her a favor.

  One I can’t help wishing somebody had done for me.

  24

  Ryan

  Part of me wishes I could put everything on hold and just disappear to my cabin in the woods to lick my wounds, but life keeps going. Hell, it kicks up to another level entirely after news of Mason Industries’ investment. PowerBar is the hottest thing in town, and my phone won’t stop buzzing.

  But none of the messages are from the only person I want to hear from.

  I meet my business manager, Logan, for drinks at a steakhouse uptown—a real old boys’ club kind of place, all dark wood and reserve whiskey and big windows overl
ooking Central Park. Logan and I have been buddies since back in college, when he tried to recruit me to be a promoter for the underground speakeasy he was running out of his dorm room. The guy’s a total hustler, but somehow manages not to be an unbearable douche about it.

  Most of the time, at least.

  “To PowerBar,” he says now, raising his Manhattan across the table. “And, you know, world domination.”

  “You forgot your evil laugh,” I point out as we clink.

  “Still working on it,” Logan shoots back. “I need to grow a mustache to twirl, too.” Then he grins. “So what’s next, huh? I was thinking maybe a chain of cycling studios, or otherwise we could look into sporting goods, but with online competition I’m not sure—”

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” I interrupt. “What’s next? Dude, the first PowerBar didn’t even open yet. Let’s see how that goes first before anything else?”

  Logan shrugs, undeterred. “Gotta keep chasing the paper, my friend. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  I let out a sigh. A couple of months ago I would have agreed with him, but right now the idea of an endless parade of meetings—however successful—just makes me feel empty inside. Ever since I got back from Florida, I keep thinking of what Mason said on the yacht that day, about the most important part of life being the right person to share it with. At the time it just seemed like a throwaway comment from a rich old dude in love.

  But now I can’t help but wonder if he was right.

  As if he can read my mind, Logan kicks me under the table. “Four o’clock,” he says quietly. “Hostess is giving you the eye.”

  I glance over. Sure enough, the hostess smiles back from her spot behind the stand before sinking her teeth into her plush bottom lip. She’s a curvy redhead, with a spray of freckles across her nose, and legs for fucking days. I shrug. “Huh.”

  “Huh?” Logan frowns. “What does ‘huh’ mean?”

  “It means I noticed!” I say, suddenly weirdly embarrassed by the whole thing. “I don’t know.”

  Logan’s eyes narrow. “What’s your problem tonight, huh?” he asks. “If I were you I’d be doing victory laps around the city right now.”

  “No, I know.” I rub a hand over my face. “You’re right.” Fuck, I need to pull it together. Even back when I was playing ball, it’s not like I was ever some huge womanizer, but since I ended things with Olivia it’s like I can’t muster even a little bit of interest in any other girl. I even brought my cousin to the last press event we did for PowerBar because I couldn’t be bothered to find a date of my own. If I didn’t know better, I’d think something was wrong with my dick.

  It’s not your dick that’s broken, asshole, I think, knocking back the rest of my bourbon.

  It’s your heart.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  Once we’re done with dinner Logan wants to head out to another bar, or maybe a club downtown, but I don’t have it in me. “I’d be a shitty wingman tonight,” I tell him honestly. “I’ll catch you next week for the board meeting, though?”

  Logan’s face communicates pretty clearly what an idiot he thinks I am, but in the end all he does is shake his head. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, slapping a conciliatory hand on my back.

  “You better not.”

  I decide to walk instead of getting a car home. Logan’s right—I’ve been a sulky, sour bastard lately, and I should be on top of the world. But I can’t help it. Everything I thought I wanted—PowerBar, the trust and respect of an investment team, the satisfaction of being a real entrepreneur instead of some jock playing dress up . . .

  All of it feels hollow without Olivia.

  I wanted to believe what she said that day at the wedding—that she didn’t want that guy to kiss her, that she wasn’t just using me as bait. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made that she’d want to be with someone like Tristan. After all, they had history between them. They came from the same kind of world. The truth is, I started picturing a future for Olivia and me—marriage, kids, a legacy—without ever stopping to wonder if I was even the kind of guy she’d want to build a life with.

  For all I know, to her I’m just some bum from rural Michigan who doesn’t know which fork to use at a fancy dinner out.

  It’s a warm night, and the windows of all the bars are flung open, music and chatter seeping out into the streets. My route home takes me by The Agency’s offices, and without even meaning to, I find myself stopping on the sidewalk outside. There’s a light on in the window, and just for a minute I imagine heading up there and bursting through the doorway.

  Making a declaration. Sweeping her off her feet.

  I’ve got my finger hovering over the buzzer before I realize I’m being fucking ridiculous.

  Grand romantic gestures are for the movies, not real life. And Olivia made it clear, this was just an arrangement for her. So we got carried away. It wouldn’t be the first time I wound up having a wild fling. But the thing about vacation romances is they have to end sometime. And ours came crashing down to earth the minute our project was over.

  I hurry on down the sidewalk, flagging a passing taxi and jumping into the backseat before I can get any other dumb ideas. Hell, it might not be even Olivia up there. It occurs to me that I don’t actually know anything about the day-to-day rhythms of her life—what kinds of hours she works, where she hangs out, even where her apartment is. But somehow what happened down in Florida felt like more than the sum of all that. The kind of connection you don’t feel every day.

  I might not know all the mundane details . . . but I know her.

  At least, I thought I did.

  There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep, so I head into the office, thinking at the very least I can get a little work done. We’ve been building the PowerBar team out of the Dubeck building in Midtown, but Mason’s been traveling since I saw him down in Miami, and I’m surprised to find him here tonight in suit pants and shirtsleeves, pecking away at a laptop.

  “Hey,” I say, flicking the overhead light on. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “Just for a couple of days.” Mason leans back and opens the door of the mini fridge, handing me a beer before taking one for himself. “Wanted to take a look in person, see how things are coming along. It’s all looking good.”

  “It really is,” I agree with a grudging smile. “We’ll be all set for launch, soon.”

  Mason nods. “And what about you?” he asks, lifting his chin at me. “How are you and Olivia doing?”

  I hesitate, taking a long pull of my beer. “ ‘Me and Olivia’ aren’t exactly a package deal anymore. We broke up.”

  Mason looks surprised. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “You saw her with that guy.” I can’t even say his name.

  “The one who pawed her?” Mason snorts. “Looked like a pretty simple misunderstanding to me.”

  “Yeah, well.” I shrug, leaning against the doorjamb. “Turned out it was bigger than that.”

  “And you couldn’t talk it out?” he asks. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, thinking back to that day on the patio outside the hotel. “I think she was trying to, actually. But my pride was bruised, I guess, and I blew up at her, and after that . . .” I trail off, remembering the look on her face in the split second before I turned and walked away. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud, that the fight was probably just as much my fault as it was Olivia’s.

  OK, more my fault than hers.

  “So why don’t you call her now?” Mason presses, sitting back in his desk chair and looking at me shrewdly. “I mean, look, I’m not trying to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but you look fucking miserable. Why not just make it right?”

  I shake my head. “It’s too late now. Things were . . . complicated between us to begin with. I think she was always a little out of my league.”

  “Maybe so.” Mason gives me a wise smile. “God knows Arianna was out
of mine. Every schmuck at Princeton was after her. She could have had any guy she wanted, but I knew she was the one for me. So I made it happen.” He lifts his beer in a salute. “I’m not a quitter, Ryan. And I’ve got to say, I didn’t take you for one, either.”

  I open my mouth, close it again. “No,” I say finally. “I guess you’re right.”

  Mason nods, like he’s glad that’s all settled. “Speaking of my lovely wife,” he says, draining the rest of his beer, “she’s waiting for me back at the hotel.” He stands up and pulls his jacket off the rack in the corner, claps me gently on the back. “Take care of yourself. Remember, you’re my superstar. Something tells me people won’t be so eager to try PowerBar if you’re mooching around the joint like someone died.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Anytime!”

  After he’s gone I sit in the deserted office for a long time, staring out at the city skyline and trying like all hell to come to any conclusion but the obvious one. I tell myself we’re wrong for each other. I tell myself it’s never going to work. Then I think of Olivia’s sleepy smile first thing in the morning, and in the end there’s nothing left but the truth:

  Mason is right.

  I’m not ready to quit on her.

  I only hope to God I’m not too late.

  25

  Olivia

  It takes me another solid week of lying on the couch eating my body weight in carbs and getting teary-eyed at commercials for low-end jewelry stores before I finally pick myself up and decide: no more moping. I can’t wallow around forever. It was special, what I had with Ryan. Once in a lifetime, even. But it’s done now.

  He’s moved on, obviously.

  It’s way past time for me to do the same.