by G. , Whitney
Dear Penelope,
I’ve been thinking A LOT lately, and these past few months with you have been pretty fucking awesome for me.
I really like your vibe and all, but I don’t think that this long-distance thing will work for me.
You spend more time at practice/on the ice than you do with me, and I don’t think I’m built for all the traveling you do, so yeah …
I don’t want us to be over AT ALL, I’m just asking for some space until you have more time for me.
Good luck at Skate Canada next month.
Ryan
* * *
Subject: Fwd: Us
Yo.
You think this was a good enough message to end things with Miss ‘Too Good to Fuck’?
Kind of feel bad since she’s a nice girl, but she was on some bullshit “7 date rule” and didn’t even offer to suck my dick while I waited on her to give me the pussy. (Took her out to eat five times and she didn’t even think about giving me her mouth once.)
If she’d done that, maybe I’d have more of an incentive to stop messing around with Maya.
Let me know if you’re still planning to head to the Alpha Party tonight.
I’m going to Maya’s first.
Ryan
* * *
Hayden’s lips turn up into a smirk as he reads over my ex’s accidental email for the third time in a row. He’s read it in a different accent each time—Russian, British, Italian, as if that somehow softens the impact of the words.
“Okay,” he says, returning my phone. “I think that’s enough. There’s only thing left for me to say about this breakup.”
“Don’t you dare say it, Hayden.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Keep that shitty-ass line of commentary to yourself.”
“Why?” He smiles. “He’s been calling your relationship ‘long-distance’ when you live thirty minutes away from each other. That was a red-flag from day one.”
“I still don’t want to hear you say it. Not right now.”
“Okay, well—” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “I won’t dare hurt your feelings any further by saying, I fucking told you so.”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “Thanks for being so mature.”
“You’re welcome. For the record, the next time a guy tells you that he needs space, he’s just trying to be gentle about breaking up with you.”
“Noted.” I look outside the window, wondering if he’s ever going to start the car.
We’ve been sitting here for hours.
“How much longer do we have to sit here and stare at your ex-girlfriend’s house?” I ask.
“She was never my girlfriend,” he says. “I just liked her a lot.”
I tap my foot.
The woman in question is—well, was, a member of his app team. And she’s the first woman who managed to get him to go out on ten dates in a row.
A record that will probably never be broken.
“I just don’t understand why we’re sitting out here staring at a house,” I say. “Like—”
“She’s in there fucking the new guy I just hired to the team.” He interrupts. “He’s engaged and she’s fucking him. I had my suspicions, but I needed to see it for myself.”
I look over and notice that the red Bronco from his other teammate is parked on the side of the street.
“I was planning to make her an Italian dinner if I was wrong about it,” he says. “Oh well.”
“All those grocery bags in the back were for her? Not you?”
He doesn’t answer me.
“Do you want me to give you some breakup advice?” I ask.
“Not at all, Penelope.”
“I’m going to give you some anyway.” I clear my throat.
“I think that we should drive to Wal-Mart and buy the best brand of box cutters.” I look at him. “Then we should slash her and the new guy’s tires. After that, you should send his fiancee an anonymous text via the Block Sender app with a picture of his car parked in her driveway. Then you should fire her via text with the same thoughtfulness that she gave you, and after that, you can use all those groceries to make me an Italian dinner. I’ll probably feel starved by then.”
“Are you being serious, Pen?” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “That is by far the pettiest, immaturely stinted, and ridiculous advice that you could ever give someone in this situation.”
“I didn’t mean for it to come off that way,” I say. “I know that you'd never do any of that. I was trying to lighten the mood and make you laugh.”
“There’s nothing funny about this,” he says, pausing. “Because we don’t need to go all the way to Wal-Mart for a great box cutter. The gas station around the corner sells plenty of those.”
“Oh?” I smile. “Do you already have the Block Sender App, then?”
“I will in a few seconds.” He hands me his cell phone. “Download that for me, please.”
“Will do. Um, does this mean that you’re making me the Italian dinner once we’re finished? Are we following that part of my suggestion, too?”
“Don’t fucking push it.”
Ten
Present Day
Hayden
Hell Has Frozen Over: Hayden Hunter is Actually Apologizing
* * *
Hayden Hunter, Untamed Playboy of Manhattan, Recent Revealer of D*ck Pics, Wants Us to Know He’s “Sorry” Now
* * *
The Allure of Handwritten Letters: How Hayden Hunter Is Bringing It Back to Life
* * *
Hayden Hunter’s Apology Letter to Hilton Hotels Revealed: Details Inside!
* * *
Ten Reasons Why We’re Skeptical of Hayden Hunter’s Apologies (Just Give Us More D*ck Pics!)
Eleven
Present Day
Hayden
“Sarah, have you heard from Penelope today?” I looked up the moment she stepped into my office Monday morning.
“Why would she ever call me when she talks to you twenty times a day?”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“It’s a pretty stupid question.” She smiled and set the latest copy of The New York Post on my desk. “The CEO of The Williams Company leaked your letter this morning. He still hates you, but he wants you to know that you’re forgiven for being an ass years ago.”
“It’s a yes or no question,” I repeated myself.
“Mr. Walsh from Tinder is currently giving a brand-new interview on Good Morning America, and he says that he doesn’t want an apology letter from you. He wants a confession.”
“He’s not even on my list.”
“Thank you for finally joining me on this conversation topic.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve personally sent ‘Thank You’ packages to everyone who RSVP’d ‘Yes’ to your charity gala, and I sent one to myself since you have a problem saying that phrase to me.”
“Your paycheck says it loud and clear.”
“The fireworks coordinator is calling me in an hour via video-chat to give me a preview of the show based on your ideas. Would you like to join us?”
“Not at all.”
“I figured.” She shrugged. “Well, that’s all I have for you at this moment.”
I stared at her.
“We’re off to a fabulous Monday here at Cinder, Mr. Hunter,” she said. “It’s nice to have actual business things on my agenda instead of personal things for a change. Although, yes, I will be sure to deliver the second wardrobe to Penelope’s brownstone this afternoon. No need to ask me for that. ”
No really. Why haven’t I fired you?
I tapped my fingers against my desk as she smiled and silently dared me to do it.
“Oh, and I remembered something …” She pulled a yellow post-it from her pocket. “Penelope called me an hour ago since your phone kept going to voicemail. She said she needs a raincheck for dinner tonight because Simon is taking her to—” She squinted, then she tossed me the paper. “I can’t read the rest. I guess I
scribbled it down too fast.”
“Why couldn’t you say that before?”
“Because I’m desperately waiting for you to threaten to fire me, so Lawrence can offer me another big bonus to come back.” She smiled. “Is there anything else that I can do for you today?”
It took everything in me not to say what I really wanted to say. “No, thank you, Sarah. Please be sure that the next set of letters are sent off today.”
“Will do, Mr. Hunter.” She took her time walking out of my office.
I glanced at the post-it and read her handwriting just fine.
Please tell Hayden that I need a raincheck for our usual dinner tonight.
* * *
Simon showed up at the rink and invited me to fly down to Miami for dinner.
* * *
PS—Could you please NOT pretend like I didn’t call and tell you this? Like, for once…Could you NOT make things difficult?
Twelve
Present Day
Penelope
* * *
A few days later
Me: Hey! Why does it feel like we haven’t talked in forever?
Hayden: Because it’s been five days. That’s a record for us. How was Miami?
Me: Soooo effin beautiful. He owns a residency building right on the beach and he gave me a private walkthrough. He wanted to stay a few nights (separate suites), but I thought that would mean moving too fast. Right?
Hayden: Right.
Hayden: Feel like catching up at Central Park later?
Me: Can’t. Simon is hosting a party at the top of the Empire State Building. It’s a “Thank You” event for his top executives, and he invited me as his date *blushing emoji*
Hayden: Are you sure that Simon has a real job? When exactly does he work, if he has all this free time to fly you around and throw parties?
Me: That is so beyond ironic coming from you. (Did you receive the twenty apology letters I emailed?)
Hayden: How so? I’m a changed man now. (Yes.)
Me: You’re a changing* man, but you’re still a womanizing asshole. LOL. I’ll call you once I get home. I’ll tell you all about it.
Twelve (B)
Present Day
Hayden
She didn’t call.
Didn’t even text.
All she did was send me a ‘raincheck’ email.
For three days in a row.
This wasn’t quite the five-day record we’d just set, but it was unusual all the same. Even when she’d dated boyfriends in the past, they never took up this much of her time in the beginning.
They received her mornings or her afternoons, and I received the rest. The best.
I wasn’t sure why, but for the time since we’d become friends, I felt like I was undergoing the oncoming symptoms of withdrawal.
And I didn’t like it.
Thirteen
Present Day
Hayden
A couple of years ago, I unknowingly created one of my top enemies in this city. I was attending an opening night at Gershwin Theater and speaking to an undercover reporter.
At intermission, she said, “What do you think so far?” and I said, “I’ve seen better high school productions.” The following day, The New York Times ran my picture along with “Hayden Hunter Unimpressed with Opening Night” as a lead story, and it caught fire.
The play was deemed D.O.A.—dead on arrival, and the production lost hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Ever since then, the director took out a full-page ad at the back of The Post with “Hayden Hunter is an Asshole” and a new picture of me.
Sighing, I looked over the last lines of his letter before tucking it into an envelope. As I was making sure the address was centered, my phone buzzed with a text. Penelope.
Penelope: Can I have a raincheck tonight?
Me: Another one?
Penelope: I just sent you 20 letters.
Me: In that case, I’ll write as many rain checks as you like.
I shut my inbox and decided to deliver the letter to the theater personally.
“Hayden! Look over here!” “Any comment on your pictures?” “Any word on Tinder?” The photogs yelled after me as I stepped out of my car.
I ignored them and made my way through to the V.I.P. entrance. Before I could ask the hostess to direct me to the executive box, Mr. Lewis stepped in front of me.
“Well, well, well,” he said, crossing his arms. “Glad to see you here to insult my work all over again. We’re sold out tonight and the second act is almost over.”
“I’m not here to watch your show.” I pulled the envelope from my breast pocket. “I’m here to say sorry.”
He stepped back, looking scared to take it from me. “What type of poison did you put on the pages?”
“None.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a goddamn apology, and it’s one of the ones I wrote by hand … I didn’t mean to affect your production back then, even if it was a shitty play with the most terrible acting I’ve ever seen—”
“Seriously?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything publicly about it.” I held out the letter again. “I’m sorry.”
He stared at me for a few seconds before taking the envelope. “Can we bury the hatchet without me reading a word of this?”
“How so?”
“Well, um…” He looked nervous. “We’re doing well box-office wise so far, but I think we’d do even better if you were spotted here and maybe made a comment about how much you love it so much that you had to stop by—just to see your favorite part.”
“Sold.” I snatched the envelope back. “I’ll make an appearance at the bar during the intermission.”
“Thank you.” He snapped his fingers. “Brenda, can you get Mr. Hunter a drink and escort him up to the bar area?”
“Absolutely.” A redhead suddenly appeared at my side. “Follow me, Mr. Hunter.”
“Is this play any good?” I asked. “Be honest.”
She blushed, ignoring my question. “I saw your pictures online …”
“That’s nice. Is this play any good?”
“I saved them in my phone.” She lowered her voice. “I touch myself to them at night. Usually, I have to switch my porn videos after a few viewings, but I’ve been using your pictures for two weeks straight now. You have a gift. Feel like giving it to me later?”
I ignored her until we reached the top of the steps.
“I’ll get you a drink.” She pulled out her phone, snapped a selfie with me without permission, and disappeared.
I knew that drink wasn’t coming anytime soon, so I signaled for the bartender.
“Yes, sir? What can I get you?”
“Scotch on the rocks, please,” I said. “It’s on the owner’s tab.”
He nodded and made it within seconds.
The doors to the theater opened for intermission, sending audience members into the bar area.
I turned my head and nearly dropped my drink at the sight of Penelope. She was a vision in a tightly fitted top, with a plunging neckline that cut below her breasts.
She was utterly oblivious to the way every man was stealing glances of her, completely unaware of how she was the center of attention without even trying.
She didn’t tell me she was coming here tonight.
Picking up my drink, I walked over to her.
“Hey,” I whispered into her ear from behind. “You look good.”
“Thank you.” She turned around to face me. “You do, too. I mean, as always.”
Silence.
“Did you come here by yourself?” I asked.
“No, this was another spur of the moment surprise from Simon,” she said. “We were talking Broadway and I told him that I’ve always wanted to see Wicked.”
You’ve never told me that.
“He showed up with yellow roses and told me I had an hour to get ready. I didn’t have time to put on any makeup.”
“You’ve never needed it.” I looked her up
and down, and she blushed. “You forgot to do something else, though.”
“What?”
“Here.” I gently grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a corner. I slid my hand around her neck—feeling her skin heat at my touch.
“Hayden…” She looked into my eyes and her cheeks flushed red. “What are you doing?”
I tore off the small price tag from her shirt and crumpled it. Then I pushed it down deep into her pants pocket.
“Oh.” She swallowed. “Why are you here? This director hates you.”
“I’m well aware.” I held back a laugh. “I came here to deliver my apology, but he asked me for a favor instead.”
“How nice of you.” She lowered her voice. “His first play really did suck, though.”
“I know. Is this one better?”
“It’s beyond amazing.”
“You look really good, Penelope.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I mean that.”
We stood staring at each other in silence, struggling for a new line of conversation for some reason. The thoughts running through my head were an insult to the word ‘inappropriate’ and I wasn’t looking at her like she was “just my best friend” at all right now.
She’s your best friend’s younger sister…Your best friend’s younger sister…Travis’s little sister…
“Mr. Hunter?” A woman suddenly stepped in front of us. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m Myra Tate from Vanity Fair, and I’ve been trying to get a comment from you for months on the new Tinder lawsuit. I know this is probably unethical, but I can’t help but ask if I could borrow a few minutes of your time tonight.”
