Walker: Check. If you hear their music, consider it a sign of the impending apocalypse.

Jason: Duly noted.

After I send that, a text from Josh pops onto on my screen.

Josh: Hitting the gym this afternoon. Want to meet up? Even though I know it’ll be hard for you to keep up with me. Consider this my charitable act. Walker would be so proud of me.

Jason: Wow. How utterly noble of you. And just for that, I will kick your ass on whatever machine you’re riding.

Josh: Sorry for the slow reply . . . I was swept up in a fit of laughter from your last note.

Jason: Did you forget? Division 1 here.

Josh: Did you forget? Competitive bastard here, like you’ve never seen before.

Jason: See you in a couple of hours, asshole.

Josh: See ya, dickhead.

God, I love my friends. They’re such great assholes, and I fucking adore them for it.

I’m about to close my phone when a new e-mail icon pops up. It’s from Ryder. With a burst of hope—maybe it’s good news about more appearances—I click it open.

Hey. Just want to let you know I don’t actually need you this week. In fact, I’m not sure I’m going to need you on Mondays anymore going forward. Lots of things in play here. I can’t share much info right now. We’ll talk soon.

I reach for the street sign, grabbing hold of the pole.

I can’t walk straight.

I can’t process this shit sandwich of news.

He won’t need me anymore? He won’t need me at all?

Forget running in place. This isn’t even back to square one. This is take-all-the-steps-in-the-infernal-world-back-to-the-swamp-you-came-from news. Do not collect two hundred dollars, do not pass go. Sit in the godforsaken corner like a bad boy.

This is the most important gig I’ve had, and losing it tastes like eating bacon. Like greasy, undercooked pig fat. Disappointment rages inside me, ripping through my body like a virus, infecting my brain, my heart, and every part of me.

As I cross the street, I swallow past the acid in my throat. Is this Valerie’s doing? Did she rat me out?

That can’t be. Yet she is a powerful, strategic woman.

Or is this something else? The inevitability of failure? Perhaps I was never going to get the gig anyway. Maybe it was always going to go to someone else, to Marcus, somebody who sounds just like me who followed my damn advice.

My jaw clenches, and I want to write back and say, WHY???????

But I’m not going to beg. That’s exactly what I advise the men who listen to me to never do—never beg for a thing.

The only acceptable begging is to the gods of baseball, football, hockey, or whatever your respective sport is. Only then may you beg for a victory.

Otherwise, I say never beg a woman. Never beg an employer. And always bow out gracefully.

I reply to Ryder.

I appreciate the heads-up. It has been an absolute pleasure working with you. I hope our paths cross again. All the best, Jason

I send it even as anger lashes at me. While I walk the rest of the way to the diner, I try to pinpoint what went wrong.

When I pass a dry cleaner that also cobbles shoes, tailors dresses, and sells craft soda—but adorns its window now with a going out of business sign—the answer becomes clear. I’m doing too many things. I’m juggling too many plates. I’m ignoring my own tips—I always advise my readers to pace themselves, to pursue balance, to make sure they aren’t spread too thin.

Like me.

I’m distracted, and it’s affecting all my work. It affected me last night when I let that “manners” comment slip in front of Valerie. Troy even noticed that I wasn’t at the top of my game, and that’s a problem. I have another wedding to do tonight, then a handful more, as well as some speeches to write.

I need to finish out the commitment I made to my sister, so when Truly sends me her note, I’m pretty sure what I need to do when I see her too.

As hard as it may be, and as much as it’ll hurt.

I brace myself for the pain. But no pain, no gain. Grit your teeth and suck it up like a man.

45

She’s waiting for me inside a booth, her eyes the darkest shade of midnight blue I’ve ever seen, but there’s a softness in them too. That vulnerability she shares with me.

I can’t let it draw me in. Can’t let it distract me more than it already has.

“Hey,” she says, and the sweetness in her tone nearly does me in. I don’t want sweetness right now. Don’t deserve it, can’t give it, and haven’t a clue what to do with it. I’m a snake, coiled tight, ready to strike at the next thing that shakes my world.

I don’t kiss her hello. I’ll cave if I touch her. I’ll haul her in for a searing kiss to blot out the misery churning in my gut.

“Hi.” It comes out tight, clipped.

The second I sit, she blurts out, “The investment deal fell through.”

I blink in surprise. “It did? Why?”

She takes a fueling breath. “The partners weren’t in love with my concept, I guess. I can’t figure out why. His e-mail was so . . . bland. It was a thanks, but no thanks. And I thought I’d done a great job with the pitch.” She takes a long breath, then holds up her palms, giving a what can you do smile. “That’s how it goes. It happens. Right?”

I blow out a long sigh of frustration, and I’m pretty sure good manners dictate that I ask her how she’s feeling about it, what she wants to do next, but misery loves company, so I serve up my side dish. “I’m in the same boat. My guest spot is gone. Ryder doesn’t need me anymore.”

Her expression transforms in a heartbeat. The sadness vanishes. She’s Fierce Truly now, her eyes narrowed. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, I am.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re the best thing to happen to that show.” And now she’s Defender Truly, and that’s damn tempting too.

Except temptation put me here, and I’d be wise to remember that. “I appreciate that, but he doesn’t see it that way.”

“He’s wrong.” She stabs the table with her finger. “Dead wrong. You know that, right?”