Somehow I got back to my apartment. I had absolutely no memory of it, nor did I have any recollection of calling Georgia, but when I got home, she was there waiting for me with a hug, a pint of ice cream, and a box of wine. A big box.

I managed to hold back the tears until we were inside, but once the lock was turned, I lost it. I sank to the floor, sobbing, my entire being shaken from my core. What had happened? How had things gone wrong so quickly? Hadn’t it just been last night that I was in Jack’s arms feeling more beautiful and cherished than I ever had in my life?

Georgia knelt down next to me and stroked my back before helping me back to my feet. She led me to the couch, and then disappeared into the kitchen, only to return with two spoons and glasses. Not wine glasses. Just regular glasses. Without saying a word, she cracked open the boxed wine and filled my tumbler to the top. I took a long drink, and then when half of my glass was gone, she handed me the ice cream and a spoon and then refilled my cup.

When half the ice cream and most of the wine was gone, I finally felt ready to talk.

“He dumped me,” I told Georgia. “And he fired me.”

Her eyebrows went up and I realized that I hadn’t really been keeping her abreast of all the romantic developments that had happened between Jack and me. But it had all happened so quickly and I had enjoyed keeping it to myself. Had enjoyed the secret of it all. Now, I was pretty damn annoyed at myself – and Jack – for the obsessive need for secrecy. Why would you hide something – or someone – you care about?

“I think you need to start at the beginning,” Georgia said quietly.

So I told her about everything that had happened with Jack, though I left out some of the more intimate details. Mainly because it hurt too much too recall them. I didn’t want to linger on the memory of being held by him. Of being kissed by him. Being touched by him.

“You really care for him, don’t you?” Georgia asked when I finished talking about everything that had transpired on the romantic front.

I snorted. “No,” I denied emphatically. “Because that would be ridiculous. I barely know him. Who falls in love with someone they barely know?”

Georgia was silent for a moment.

“I didn’t say anything about love,” she reminded me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I buried my head in my couch cushions. Mr Mistoffelees took this as the perfect opportunity to jump up on the sofa, and then onto my head. Thankfully, Georgia extracted him before he could force me to smother myself with the pillow. Not that it sounded like such a bad idea now.

Because I was a moron. I had fallen in love with Jack.

It was officially the dumbest thing I could have done.

“What am I going to do?” I wailed, pressing my face into the pillow again.

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the two of you together,” Georgia told me. “From what I’ve read about him, he doesn’t seem like your type at all. Except for being ridiculously gorgeous, which is every woman’s type.”

“He’s not my type,” I readily agreed. “He’s cold and closed off and obsessed with keeping secrets and totally obsessed with his work and yet I’m completely, utterly, head over heels in love with him.”

“That is not good.” Georgia let out a low whistle.

“I know!” I screamed into my pillow.

“But if things were going so well between the two of you, what happened that changed it? Why did he fire you?” Georgia prompted, making me realize I still had a good portion of the story to tell her.

I needed more wine and more ice cream to get the rest of it out. Luckily there was a bottle in the fridge and a fudge bar in the freezer. Georgia continued to solidify her position as best friend in the entire world by not even asking to share the fudge bar and opening the wine and pouring me another glass.

I already knew I was going to be hurting in the morning, but I was hurting now. A hangover couldn’t be any worse than heartache. Especially a heartache over the worst person in the world to give your heart to.

Once the fudge bar was gone, I told Georgia about going to see Mac, and how we had talked about Jack. How it had inspired me. Then I told her about the phone call I had overheard that morning. Her forehead scrunched up as she frowned, but she didn’t say anything. Then I told her how I had gone home and finished the book.

“And the worst part is – ok, one of the worst parts – is that it’s good,” I took another long drink of wine, draining my glass. “The book is really good.”

Georgia sat back. “Wow,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that about your own work.”

“Well, technically, it’s not my work,” I reminded her. “It’s Jack’s.”

“Bullshit,” she argued. “From what you’ve told me, no one else could have gotten anything book worthy out of someone as closed off as Jack Willis. So not only did you get great information, but you also wrote an amazing book with it.”

“Not like anyone will ever see it,” I grumbled.

I’d always taken pride in the work I had done. Even if my name wasn’t on something, I still considered a part of it mine. Still put my full attention and focus on it. I wanted to make it good, even if I wasn’t going to get recognized for it. And I had wanted to do the same for Jack’s book. But somewhere along the way it had become way more personal. I put so much of myself in the book because I loved Jack, and that was what made the book good. I had written it with such love and tenderness that it was like exposing a part of myself to the whole world.

“What did Jack think of the pages?” Georgia asked.

I shrugged. “He never saw them.”

“What?” Georgia sat up so abruptly she almost made me spill my wine. Mr. Mistoffelees jumped off the couch and hissed at her, but she ignored him. “You haven’t shown him what you wrote?”

“He fired me before I could.” I gestured towards the door where I had dropped my bag and everything else when we came in. “I was going to bring him a thumb drive with the manuscript and a print out of the first chapter. But now I guess it will all just go in the trash.”

“Absolutely not!” Georgia got off the couch and gathered up my things.

I grabbed for the pages, but she held them away, reading them. After a few moments, she sunk into my old, ratty chair that sat across from the sofa. I drank more wine and watched her face. She smiled and then the smile began to fade, her eyes scanning the pages rapidly. Then they began to well up with tears. When she was done, she put the chapter down on her lap and took a deep breath.

“Libby,” she told me, wiping her eyes. “This is magnificent writing.”

Somehow her praise only seemed to make everything worse. All that hard work, all that sweat and blood and passion I had poured into those pages was for nothing. Just like everything I had tried to build with Jack was nothing.

“Just toss it in the trash on your way out,” I told her, waving at the pages dismissively.

“Over my dead body.” Georgia stood, holding the thumb drive. “You’re going to send this to him and you’re going to send it now.”

I gaped at her. “Are you crazy?” I demanded. “What part of my getting fired did you not understand? Jack said the book was a bad idea. The last thing he wants is to read the progress of a cancelled project.”

“He’ll want to read this,” Georgia said with utter confidence.

“No,” I argued. “That’s going straight into the digital trashcan of death.”

“If you don’t send it, I will,” Georgia threatened. “But I think he’d rather get it from you.”

“I’m pretty sure Jack Willis wants nothing to do with me.”

“I’m pretty sure Jack Willis has no idea how you really feel about him,” Georgia countered. “But these pages will show him. They’ll show him that all you did was try to make something he could be proud of. And if he’s as smart as everyone says he is, he’ll read this and be damn proud of it. And proud of you. Just like I am.”

Tears filled my eyes. Georgia always knew the right thing to say.

“What if he hates it?” I whispered.

“Then he’s a moron and you’re better off without him,” Georgia told me. “But I don’t think he’ll hate it. I think he’ll love it and I think he’ll realize what a fool he’s being.”

“You don’t know him,” I said. “He felt I betrayed him. Exposed him. I don’t think there’s anything worse than that in his eyes.”

“But you didn’t betray him. Or expose him.” Georgia sat down on the couch next to me and took my hands. “You celebrated him. In a way that only you can.” She squeezed my fingers. “He’ll read this and see how much you love him.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I admitted. “I’m afraid he’ll see that and still want nothing to do with me.”

“You have to be brave,” Georgia told me. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

I knew she was right. But still, it took twelve hours after she left for me to build up the courage to go down to FedEx and print out the pages. I was deeply hungover, and full of ice cream, and I was pretty sure that the woman at the counter thought I had lost my damn mind. She might not have been that wrong, but the lingering hangover and sugar high helped a hell of a lot when it came down to it. But still, when I handed the envelope to her, I sent up a silent, desperate prayer.

Please let him see me the way I see him, I thought. And please let him feel the same.