Tryst

We all knew the truth, as eye-roll-inducing as the spin was. Ransom had hit rock bottom, and it was either go to rehab or face scrutiny for being involved in my accident. It was a smart move, something I would have suggested had I still been his publicist. But I wasn’t, and I’m not. I’m not his anything.

I’d like to think that Ransom’s absence from my bedside was his way of giving me a gift. I lied to him right before the car hit me. We weren’t good together. We were bad—toxic even. We would hurt everyone we care about if we kept on like that. So maybe he was doing what I had failed to do a long time ago. He was cutting himself out of my life. He was letting me heal with my husband and friends. And he was going to get himself healthy and move on.

In my mind, that’s what he did, and that’s what I’ll remember. That’s what I felt in my heart when I said goodbye to him. And that’s what I would have stated in his eulogy. Ransom is dead to me, but not in a bad way. But in a very final way. We came, we saw, we loved, and we left. He isn’t meant to be a part of my life, and I’m not supposed to be a part of his, in any capacity. It was real. It was fun. But it wasn’t always real fun.

Learning how to walk, write, feed myself, tie a bow, cross my legs, and throw a ball again thankfully occupied most of my time. It was a grueling twenty-two weeks of physical therapy every day to regain usage of my limbs. I’m pretty much back to normal, although I walk with a slight limp. And wearing heels is out for at least a few more years. They might as well toss me in the casket now.

Tucker was incredible throughout it all. Of course he was. And I don’t say that with resentment. He was amazing to me—encouraging, positive, and patient. I had a lot of bad days. There were times when I had given up altogether and would just crumple on the floor and cry. And Tucker . . . he’d get right on that dingy linoleum with me and hold me close as I cried and cursed and hated everyone who could walk without issue. He didn’t try to tell me how to feel. He didn’t make me feel guilty for my irrational envy. And he didn’t take it personally every time I tried to push him away permanently, telling him that we should get a divorce. He let me feel my anger. He let me be afraid. Probably because he was afraid too.

That time spent on the floors and beds of hospitals reminded me of why I fell in love with Tuck in the first place. Back in undergrad, when I had shed that fear and rage from my attack, he let me own it. He never tried to make me feel differently. And it just felt so damn good to be heard and understood.

He really was a great doctor. Despite what he facilitated in an attempt to help both Ransom and me, his heart was in the right place. Crazy but true. And maybe Ransom saw it too . . . maybe he realized that the only way for us to all heal from the wreckage was to say goodbye for good.

Chapter Thirty-three

It’s been a long time coming, but I am finally able to get back to work. And oddly enough, we’ve been busier than ever. I promoted Tamara to Social Media Manager as soon as I returned, considering how well she kept the ship ru

Although business is booming, personally I’m only taking on a couple clients, Justice being one of them. If I didn’t believe it before, Justice and I have officially crossed into close friend—almost family zone. After we got settled back in New York, he and Ally came for a visit to help out. Of course, Justice kicked and screamed the second they touched down at LaGuardia. But after being pulled in by the sheer magic of the city—the bright lights, the colorful characters, the constant symphony of car horns—he began to settle in and make himself at home. As he should.

I look around my office, which apparently moonlights as a flower shop considering the sheer fuck-cophony of fragrant, floral arrangements that fill it. We received flowers after the accident. We received them when we came back to the city. And now I’m getting “Welcome Back” bouquets at the job. Awesome. But I’m not complaining. Not on the outside at least. I’m just grateful to be alive, to be able to work and bitch and gripe and deride another day.

After an uneventful first week back, my body is certainly feeling what several months out of work will do to you. I love it though. But the only thing I love more is opening the front door to our condo to find my handsome husband stretched out on the couch, those Tom Ford readers on his nose, and a book nestled between those large, yet delicate, hands.

“How was your day, baby?” He smiles, placing the book down flat so he doesn’t lose his page.

“Long. Busy. Great,” I answer, kicking off my Tory Burch flats, which honestly, aren’t nearly as comfortable as my favorite heels. “How about you?”

He smiles again and shrugs. “Nothing too exciting here. Oh, the life of a well-kept house husband.”

“Well, who needs excitement?” I sigh as I sink into the couch beside him, curling into his side. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for five lifetimes.”

He wraps me in his arms and holds me close, ru

I shake my head and smile, burying my face into his shirt to steal his scent. “No. Let’s just stay here tonight. Just the two of us.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that. Angelo’s?”

I chuckle at the hopeful inflection of his voice. Leave it to Tuck to find an excuse for pizza. “Sure,” I acquiesce. “But don’t forget the garlic knots.”

Like two old married people, we spend our Friday night on the couch, eating pizza and drinking wine. He fills me in on whose team is going to the playoffs and who will be out for the season after an ACL injury, and I give him an earful on all the latest gossip around town, and who’s hot and who definitely is not.

Neither one of us truly cares about what the other is saying, but we listen anyway, and comment when appropriate and laugh when something is fu

We switch the TV over from the nightly news to see what else is on. Tucker flips through the movie cha

When we finally calm down long enough to settle in for a movie, we hear something on the television that catches both our attention.

There’s a heavy drumbeat, the zing of electric guitar and heart-pounding melodies. And then just as the singing begins, the title of the program appears on the screen.

A N HBO E XCLUSIVE S PECIAL

T HE H OSTAGE W ORLD T OUR

S TARRING R ANSOM

We look at each other, smile, and turn off the TV.

Epilogue