After our impromptu meal of chili-cheese hotdogs—which we discovered are surprisingly hard to find—I don’t hear from James for two weeks. He’d told me he was going out of town, first to England to visit with his sister’s family, then to New York to meet with his publisher.

I didn’t really expect him to call every day or anything, but I’d hoped for something. An email, an occasional text… anything to keep at bay my rising uncertainty.

Some days, I want him so badly that I spend an embarrassing amount of time daydreaming about a life with him. Waking up every day to his face. Reading in a living room with Rufus on the couch between us. Cooking and eating together. Brushing our teeth side by side.

Other days, dark questions cloud my mind. Why hasn’t he called? Is he still seeing Jessica? Does he sleep with women besides her? Does he actually want a relationship, or is he stringing me along for the purpose of breaking my heart like I broke his?

For the most part I keep busy, filling my time with a second round of edits on my novel, taking a two-day trip to visit my mom, and seeing Allison a few times a week. Since Rose’s marriage to Julian, the lead singer of Breaking Giants, and her subsequent pregnancy, we’re kind of in the same boat of absentee best friends.

Not that either of us blame our friends or think they abandoned us. Quite the opposite, in fact. If it weren’t for Rose and Claire making big changes in their lives, Allison and I probably wouldn’t be developing such a deep, solid friendship.

On the Friday before James is due back in town, Allison sits on my couch flipping through television channels while I paint my toenails blue. We have a raucous evening planned—pizza delivery and a Nicolas Sparks movie marathon.

When Allison finally gives up on finding a channel with substance, she clicks over to the nightly news. I listen with half an ear to the depressing montage of tragedy and political commentary. Then I hear a name so unexpected that my fingers spasm and I paint a line of blue over the top of my foot.

“Turn that up,” I tell Allison.

She does.

“Turn it off,” I croak.

A second later, the screen goes black. Allison turns wide, anxious eyes to me. “It was him, wasn’t it? William Cabot?”

I nod shortly.

“Who do you think wrote the article?” She pauses. “And do I need to kiss them or kill them?”

I ignore the question—the answer is too fucking painful—and lurch off the couch, racing to the kitchen for my phone. There are three missed calls: my mom, Claire, and Rachel Tanaka. I ignore two in favor of the person I was going to call anyway.

Rachel answers on the first ring. For once, her voice is close to a normal octave. “I’ve already talked to the publisher. A statement has been drafted denying your involvement in that fiasco of an article. It will roll on the morning news.”

The words register, but I don’t feel the relief I’d expected to. Instead, I feel a tornado of conviction take shape inside me. It spins upward, swallowing my feet, legs, torso, and finally my head.

Something inside me… shifts.

“No.”

Rachel hesitates. “What? Did you just say no?”

“Yes, I said no. I don’t want to deny anything. It was him, Rachel.”

I hear her swiftly drawn breath. “Oh God, Iris. I’m so sorry. Fuck that piece of shit, then. Let me think about this.” She mutters inaudibly for a few moments. “At worst, your publisher doesn’t want to back you anymore. We should be prepared to fight a breach of contract lawsuit—bullshit about moral clauses and the like. I’ll review it immediately. Are you thinking you want to make a statement in support of the article?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

“That’s okay. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, your silence is going to speak louder than words, anyway.”

“I haven’t, um—that is, did you happen to hear on the news, or know, whether Will has a family? Kids?”

“He’s divorced. No kids.”

Relief comes in a sweet wave. “Okay, thanks.”

“Iris? Keep your chin up. And if you happen to know who wrote that article, don’t tell me. But you should also give them a big kiss and a hug from me.”

Chin up, buttercup.

I laugh weakly. “Thanks. Touch-base tomorrow?”

“You got it.”

The line goes dead. I slump into a chair and stare listlessly at the dying herb garden on my kitchen windowsill. Allison’s footsteps come up behind me.

“Why did I think I could grow herbs in winter?” I ask aimlessly.

She sits in the chair next to me. “I found the article online. Do you want to read it?”

I shake my head.

* * *

Two days later, I’m sitting in my mom’s kitchen in Palo Alto. Her eyes are full of tears as she looks across the table at me.

“You what?”

“I asked him, baby. Two months ago, I found his card in a junk drawer from when he’d given it to me three years ago. I figured it was a sign that I needed to call and give him overdue thanks for the lovely book on your father. One thing led to another, and we started talking about you.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Tell me exactly what you said.”

She drags in a heavy breath. “I told him that my one regret was that that despicable man would never be brought to justice through a trial.”

“And what did he say?”

She gives me a watery smile. “He told me that words were weapons, too. So I said that if he ever came across a way to make such a weapon, I’d be grateful if he used it.”

I close my eyes and sigh wearily, the insanity of the past two days finally catching up. I flew on a whim to California to escape, and inadvertently landed in another, no less mind-boggling cesspit of revelation.

I still haven’t talked to James. I don’t know if he’s back in Seattle or still traveling. He hasn’t called. I haven’t, either.

“If you’re going to be upset with anyone, it should be with me.”

“I’m not upset,” I tell her, opening my eyes. “I’m more confused than anything.”

“Understandable, baby. I’m sorry you’re going through this.” She reaches out for my hand and I slip my fingers into hers. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

Did you have an affair?

I shake my head. “Nope.”