he's on the couch to speak. "Do you want to know what I think?"
"Do I have a choice?"
He laughs. "I really do like you, Eve."
"Thanks." I guess.
"When Ian told me you'd be at the party, I didn't know what to think. He doesn't invite women into his life. And his arrangements… you're not on even ground. I suppose his parting gifts make that easier, but…"
"It's not for you?"
"No. I'm not sure it's for him, really. He wasn't happy with a new woman every few months. He enjoyed it, sure, but there was something missing. He didn't admit it. He didn't see it… but I did. I know what he looks like happy."
"Oh."
"You make him happy. You're good for him." He takes a long sip. "We've just met. I can't say if he's good for you. But you did seem happy around him."
"Because I didn't know he was…" How could he not tell me? I take a long sip. It's too much. So much I cough. But I push through it. I need to relax my thoughts. Make everything fuzzy. "I should probably tell you to fuck off. Since you knew."
"Probably."
"Would you have told me?"
"No. Like you said. My loyalty is to him."
"So this… I can't really trust a thing you say?"
"Probably. But that won't stop me from arranging your flight. Or taking you to the airport."
"I can find my own way."
"I'm sure you can. But a promise is a promise."
I guess that's true. And I'm sure there's no sense in arguing with him. And even though he is an awful traitor—even if he did have no reason to pledge loyalty to me—I appreciate the familiarity.
I can't collapse in my bed and cry to my sister.
This is the best I can do.
It's not enough.
But it's still the best I can do.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Eve
After my third Manhattan, my thoughts blur.
Ty keeps me entertained with British TV and takeaway. We order Indian food.
Ian was right. It's fucking amazing. Better than anything I've had in New York. Or maybe that's the Manhattans talking.
After a few hours of Agatha Christie adaptations, Ty cuts me off. He gives me space.
I change, shower, put myself to bed.
Wake up at three a.m. with a splitting headache and a painfully dry mouth. Sleep returns in fits. An hour here. Twenty minutes of what the fuck there.
I can't explain why I feel so betrayed. Ian had every right to read my site when he didn't know me. It's out there. It's a public site.
In theory…
I invited the entire world to read it.
But it's mine. My space to spill my ugly thoughts.
He knew that. He knew it was mine. He knew he was taking something that wasn't his.
Why was it okay when he didn't know me and wrong when he did?
Why didn't he tell me?
If he'd just told me…
I don't know. What would I have done if he told me?
Fuck. It's bright in here. Too bright.
And loud.
The air-conditioning is screaming.
I push myself out of bed. Shower. Brush my teeth twice. Fail to wipe away that fuzzy feeling. Manhattan, how could you fuck me like this?
I'm trying to get home to you. Okay, to Brooklyn, but close enough.
What's so great about alcohol anyway?
It's fun for a few hours. For a few drinks. But the second I cross that line—
It's nonstop misery.
Whose brilliant idea was it to fly across the Atlantic with a hangover?
Ugh.
Ty is in the main room. Awake and dressed in casual clothes. He looks at home in jeans and a t-shirt. But then he looks at home in his suit too.
"You look different without makeup," he says.
"You know you're not supposed to say that."
"I didn't say better."
"You didn't say worse."
His laugh is easy. "More vulnerable."
Is it that obvious?
"Prettier. But less yourself."
"Should I say thank you or fuck you?"
"Up to you."
"Maybe slap you. Just in case."
"Maybe." He half-smiles. "How did you sleep?"
I shake my head.
"There's a painkiller on the counter. Porridge on the stove. Ian says that's what you prefer."
"Yeah, thanks."
"He dropped something off."
My stomach seizes. My heart thuds against my chest. "He did?"
Ty nods. Rises from his spot on the couch. Moves to the kitchen island. A thermos—a tacky touristy one with a picture of Big Ben—filled with chai. And a small, leather-bound notebook.
"What is it?"
"He didn't tell me. Forbade me from reading it."
"Oh." My fingers brush the cover. It's faded. Worn. Like it's been through hell and back. Or been loved to death. Is there a difference?
"We have to leave in two hours. If that isn't enough time to pack—"
"No.