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He thanks me.
Jesus, this is a racket.
Bored, I close the file and check my phone. There’s nothing from Gus.
Weird.
For the next hour, I get ahead on a presentation I’m prepping about Copenhagen prospects. It’s mostly more smoke and mirrors, but apparently that’s my specialty. Once I get to a good place, I decide to give myself a break. Again, nothing from Gus.
Annoyed, I refresh my messages. Still nothing. Not a single message from him today—so out of character for him. In fact, he hasn’t said much over the last couple of days. The last time I heard from him was when he texted me about the tomato crop coming in at the cabin, including one bad selfie of him with the plant over his shoulder.
I saved the picture to my phone, where it will live in good company with the hundreds of pictures of Gus I’ve amassed over our two-month, intercontinental, long-distance relationship. I stare at the picture now with a lump in my throat. On a good day, I miss him so much my chest aches. Today, I’m nearly sick to my stomach.
Why isn’t he answering? Maybe he’s bored of me, finally, like my father predicted.
I send him a text, ignoring the overwhelming urge to play old games—to tell him to come and get me. This time, I tell him I miss him. Three little words, a gross understatement: I miss you.
When he doesn’t respond within the hour, my optimism fades entirely. Something is wrong.
I can’t focus. I’m not doing this.
The workday is just starting, but I detest this job and I’m a nepo baby, so I pack my laptop and cut out early, shamelessly waving at the building’s receptionist before I emerge into a tranquil Parisian morning.
This week, Peter is visiting and staying in my apartment. I stop by a boulangerie and pick up a few things for us to share for brunch. When I get back to the apartment, I’m unsurprised to discover that Peter apparently brought home a cute French bartender he met last night. The three of us end up splitting the spread I bought.
Gus never contacts me.
Hours later, on the verge of tears, I fall asleep with the tightness in my stomach gnawing at me.
It’s my birthday—and the one thing I want, I don’t have.
***
Startled, I awaken to my phone vibrating nonstop.
“Happy birthday,” Gus’s rough voice says when I answer. “It’s not midnight here, so I didn’t miss it.”
I have every right to be furious with him, but I’m just relieved to hear him speak.
“Where the hell have you been?” I ask, not bothering to hide the crack in my voice as the day’s emotions finally pour out. “Is something wrong? I thought…”
“I’m fine. I love you, Julia. The entire world could implode and I’d still love you.”
“You’re so dramatic,” I reply, but his words make my stomach flutter. “But seriously, where were you?”
“I have gifts for you. I would have given them to you sooner, but I was down to the wire on one. I just emailed you your first gift,” he continues, not exactly answering my question.
Confused, I pull my phone away from my ear and open an email from Gus, which contains nothing but a hyperlink that says, Click Here. Even though it looks spammy as shit, I click the link, and it opens a New York Times article with the headline: Gus Winter Purchases The Carraway.
That’s how famous he is; the New York Times can post an article with his name in the headline, and everyone will know who he is without qualifiers.
I scan the first few lines of the article, realization slowing dawning. My pulse speeds up. Screw this old person telephone call shit, I think, and I FaceTime him so I can see him. His image appears on the screen, handsome—so handsome—but tired and unshaven.
“August, what is this?” I demand. “The article you sent to me…”
“I bought it,” he replies simply, raising his shoulder. “I own the website now.”
Blinking, I let out a laugh. “You’re kidding.”
