your pretty little head about it.” And before I could move my mouth out from underneath
his touch, he reached his other hand behind my head and took my face in both hands.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of my completely addled brain, the firing synapses were
warning me that he was going to kiss me. I knew it, sensed it, but couldn’t move. He took
my split-second hesitation to move away as permission, leaned over, and touched his lips
to my neck. Just quickly, a brush, really, with perhaps a little tongue, right underneath my
jaw and near my ear but still firmly on the neck, and then he reached for my hand and
pulled me inside.
“Christian, wait! I, uh, I need to tell you something,” I started, not quite sure whether one
uninvited, nonlip, minimal-tongue kiss really demanded a whole long explanation of
having a boyfriend and not meaning to send the wrong signals. Apparently Christian
didn’t think it was necessary, because he had walked me to a couch in a dark corner and
ordered me to sit. Which I did.
“I’m getting us drinks, OK? Don’t worry so much. I don’t bite.” He laughed, and I felt
myself turn red. “Or, if I do, I promise you’ll enjoy it.” And he turned and walked toward
the bar.
To keep from passing out or having to actually consider what had just transpired, I
scanned the dark, cavernous room for Lily. We’d been there less than three minutes, but
she was already deep in conversation with a tall black guy, hanging on his every word
and throwing her head back with delight. I weaved through the throngs of international
drinkers. How did they all know that this was the place to come if you didn’t have an
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American passport? I passed a group of men in their thirties shouting in what I think was
Japanese, two women flapping their hands and talking passionately in Arabic, and a
young, unhappy-looking couple glaring at each other and whispering angrily in
something that sounded like Spanish but could have been Portuguese. Lily’s guy had his
hand on the small of her back already and was looking utterly charmed. No time for
niceties, I decided. Christian Collinsworth had just massaged my neck with his mouth.
Ignoring the guy, I clamped my hand down on her right arm and turned to drag her back
to the couch.
“Andy! Stop it,” she hissed, pulling her arm free but remembering to smile for her guy.
“You’re being rude. I’d like to introduce you to my friend. William, this is my best
friend, Andrea, who doesn’t usually act like this. Andy, this is William.” She smiled
benevolently as we shook hands.
“So, may I ask why you’re stealing your friend from me, Ahn-dre-ah?” William asked in
a deep voice that almost echoed in the subterranean space. Perhaps in another place or at
another time or with another person I would’ve noticed his warm smile or the chivalrous
way he’d immediately stood and offered his seat when I approached, but the only thing I
could focus on was that British accent. Didn’t matter that this was a man, a large black
man, who didn’t exactly resemble Miranda Priestly in any way, shape, or form. Just
hearing that accent, the way he pronounced my namejust like she did, was enough to
literally make my heart beat a little faster.
“William, I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that I have a little problem and I’d
like to talk to Lily in private. I’ll bring her right back.” And with that, I grabbed her arm
more firmly this time and yanked. Enough of this shit: I needed my friend.
Once we’d settled into the couch where Christian had placed me and I checked to ensure
he was still trying to get the bartender’s attention (straight guy at the bar—he may be
there all night), I took a deep breath.
“Christian kissed me.”
“So what’s the problem? Was he a bad kisser? Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? No quicker way to
ruin a good fraction than—”
“Lily! Good, bad, what’s the difference?”
Her eyebrows reached up her forehead and she opened her mouth to talk, but I kept
going.
“And not that it’s at all relevant, but he kissed my neck. The problem is nothow he did,
it’s that it happened at all in the first place. What about Alex? I don’t exactly go around
kissing other guys, you know.”
“Don’t I ever,” she mumbled under her breath before speaking up. “Andy, you’re being
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ridiculous. You love Alex and he loves you, but it’s perfectly okay if you feel like kissing
another guy once in a while. You’re twenty-three years old, for chrissake. Cut yourself a
little slack!”
“But I didn’t kiss him . . . He kissed me!”
“First of all, let’s get something very clear. Remember when Monica went down on Bill
and the whole country and all our parents and Ken Starr rushed to call that sex? That was
not sex. In much the same way, some guy who probably means to kiss your cheek but
gets your neck instead does not qualify as ‘kissing someone.’ ”
“But—”
“Shut up and let me finish. More important than what actually happened is that you
wanted it to happen. Just admit it, Andy. You wanted to kiss Christian regardless of
whether that’s ‘wrong’ or ‘bad’ or ‘against the rules.’ And if you don’t admit it, you’re
lying.”
“Lily, seriously, I don’t think it’s fair that—”
“I’ve known you for nine years, Andy. You don’t think I can see it written all over your
face that you worship him? You know you shouldn’t—he doesn’t quite play by your
rules, does he? But that’s probably exactly why you like him. Just go with it, enjoy it. If
Alex is right for you, he’ll always be right for you. And now, you’ll have to excuse me,
because I have found someone who’s right for me . . . for right now.” She literally
jumped off the couch and skipped back to William, who looked undeniably happy to see
her.
I felt self-conscious sitting on the oversize velvet couch alone and looked around to find
Christian, but he wasn’t at the bar anymore. It would just take a little more time, I
decided. Everything would just sort itself out if I just stopped worrying so much. Maybe
Lily was right and I did like Christian—what was so wrong with that? He’s smart and
undeniably gorgeous, and the whole take-charge confidence thing was incredibly sexy.
Hanging out with someone who just happened to be sexy didn’t exactly translate as
cheating. I’m sure there had been situations over the years in which Alex had worked
with or studied with or gotten to know a cool, attractive girl, and he may have had
thoughts. Did that make him disloyal? Of course not. With renewed confidence (and a
now-desperate attempt to see, watch, hear, just be near Christian again), I began cruising
the lounge.
I found him leaning on his right hand, talking intently to an older man, probably in his
late forties, who was wearing a very dapper three-piece suit. Christian was gesturing
wildly, hands flailing, with a look on his face that registered somewhere between amused
and supremely annoyed, while the man with salt-and-pepper hair looked at him earnestly.
I was still too far away to hear what they were discussing, but I must have been staring
rather intently, because the man’s eyes locked on mine and he smiled. Christian pulled
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back a little, followed his gaze, and saw me watching them both.
“Andy, darling,” he said, his tone entirely different from what it had been just a few
minutes earlier. I noticed he made the transition from seducer to friend of your parent
quite smoothly. “Come here, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Gabriel
Brooks, my agent, business manager, and all-around hero. Gabriel, this is Andrea Sachs,
currently ofRunway magazine.”
“Andrea, a pleasure to meet you,” Gabriel said, extending a hand and taking mine in one
of those annoyingly delicate I’m-not-shaking-your-hand-as-I-would-a-man’s-because-
I’m-sure-I’d-just-snap-your-girly-little-bones-in-half clutches. “Christian has told me a
lot about you.”
“Really?” I said, pressing a bit more firmly, which only caused him to loosen his already
slack grip. “All good, I hope?”
“Of course. He said you’re an aspiring writer, like our mutual friend here.” He smiled.
I was surprised to hear that he actually had heard about me from Christian, since our
conversation about writing had sounded like just small talk. “Yes, well, I love to write, so
hopefully someday . . .”
“Well, if you’re half as good as some of the other people he’s sent my way, then I look
forward to reading your work.” He dug around in an inside pocket and produced a leather
case, from which he drew out a business card. “I know you’re not ready yet, but when it
does come time to show your stuff to someone, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”
It took every ounce of willpower and strength to remain standing upright, to make sure
that my mouth had not flopped open or my knees had not just given out.Hope you’ll keep
me in mind? The man who represented Christian Collinsworth, literary boy genius
extraordinaire, had just asked if I would keep him in mind. This was craziness.
“Why thank you,” I croaked, tucking the card into my bag, from where I knew I would
pull it out and examine every inch of it the first chance I got. They both smiled at me, and
it took a minute for me to recognize this as my cue to leave. “Well, Mr. Brooks, um,
Gabriel, it was really great meeting you. I’ve got to be getting home now, but hopefully
we’ll cross paths soon.”
“My pleasure, Andrea. Congratulations again on scoring such a fantastic job. Right out
of college and working atRunway . Very impressive.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Christian said, placing a hand on my elbow and motioning to Gabriel
that he’d be right back.
We stopped at the bar so I could tell Lily that I was heading home, and she unnecessarily
told me—in between William’s nuzzlings—that she wouldn’t be joining me. At the foot
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of the stairs that would take me back to street level, Christian kissed me on the cheek.
“Great running into you tonight. And I have a feeling I’m going to have to hear Gabriel
talk about how great you are now, too.” He grinned.
“We barely exchanged two words,” I pointed out, wondering why everyone was being so
complimentary.
“Yes, Andy, but what you don’t seem to realize is that the writing world is a small one.
Whether you write mysteries or feature stories or newspaper articles, everyone knows
everyone. Gabriel doesn’t have to know much about you to know that you have potential:
you were good enough to get a job atRunway, you sound bright and articulate when you
talk, and hell, you’re a friend of mine. He’s got nothing to lose by giving you his card.
What does he know? He could have just discovered the next best-selling author. And
trust me—Gabriel Brooks is a good man for you to know.”
“Hmm, I guess you’re right. Well, anyway, I’ve got to get home since I’ve got to be at
work again in a few hours anyway. Thanks for everything. I really appreciate it.” I leaned
up to kiss him on the cheek, half expecting him to turn his face forward and half wanting
him to, but he just smiled.
“More than my pleasure, Andrea Sachs. Have a good night.” And before I could come
up with anything remotely clever to say, he was headed back to Gabriel.
I rolled my eyes at myself and headed to the street to hail a cab. It had started to rain—
nothing torrential, just a light, steady stream—so of course there wasn’t a single cab free
anywhere in Manhattan. I called the Elias-Clark car service, gave them my VIP number,
and had a car screeching to the curb exactly six minutes later. Alex had left a voice mail
asking me how my day was and saying that he’d be home all night writing lesson plans. It
had been too long since I surprised him. It was time to make a little effort and be
spontaneous. The driver agreed to wait as long as I needed, so I ran upstairs, jumped in
the shower, took a little extra time making my hair look good, and threw together a bag
with stuff for work the next day. Since it was already after eleven, traffic was tame and
we made it to Alex’s apartment in Brooklyn in under fifteen minutes. He looked
genuinely happy to see me when he opened the door, saying over and over and over again
how he couldn’t believe that I’d come all the way to Brooklyn so late on a work night and
it was the best surprise he could’ve hoped for. And as I lay with my head on my favorite
spot on his chest, watching Conan and listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing as
he played with my hair, I barely thought about Christian at all.
“Um, hi. May I speak with your food editor please? No? OK, maybe an editorial
assistant, or someone who can tell me when a restaurant review ran?” I asked an openly
hostile receptionist at theNew York Times . She had answered the phone by barking,
“What!” and was currently pretending—or perhaps not—that we didn’t speak a common
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language. Persistence paid off, though, and after asking her name three times (“We can’t
tell our names, lady”), threatening to report her to her manager (“What? You think he
cares? I’ll put him on right now”), and finally swearing rather emphatically that I would
personally show up at their Times Square offices and do everything in my power to have
her fired on the spot (“Oh, really? I’m not so worried”), she tired of me and connected me
to someone else.
“Editorial,” snapped another hassled-sounding woman. I wondered if this is what I
sounded like answering Miranda’s phone, and if not, then I aspired to it. It was such an
enormous turnoff hearing a voice that was so incredibly, undeniably unhappy to hear
from you that it almost made you just want to hang up.
“Hi, I just had a quick question.” The words tumbled out in a desperate attempt to be
heard before she inevitably slammed down the phone. “I’m wondering if you ran any
reviews of Asian fusion restaurants yesterday?”
She sighed as though I’d just asked her to donate one of her limbs to science and then
sighed again. “Have you looked online?” Another sigh.
