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“My plan is to change the story. My plan is to fix this for you. For us.”
He leaned forward, holding each side of my egg chair. And he looked into my eyes. Despite everything I knew about him—everything he showed me over and over again about how he felt about the truth, how he felt about doing what was ostensibly right—it was in the moments like this that Ryan amazed me. Because he wasn’t playing around when he looked at me like that. He wasn’t pretending. He was looking into my eyes, so I would see it: his sincerity. How much he wanted to do right by me.
“Look, the Food Network gig, they’re going to put that on hold. Those guys don’t like controversy. But we’ll get it back. I swear to you. The only thing America loves more than adoring someone is hating her. And then having a new reason to love her all over again. So we pretended a little about where you came from because you were embarrassed about where you came from. Everyone can relate to being embarrassed. Everyone can relate to wanting to change their own story so they’re presented in their best possible light.”
I nodded, starting to feel calmer.
Ryan had made up the story once, he could make it up again. If anyone could, it was Ryan.
Sensin
g my quiet praise, he smiled. I smiled back, taking a breath.
This was probably a mistake. He took it as an invitation and kissed me. I pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
I shook my head. “Ryan, we decided not to do this.”
“We decided it would get too messy. It’s not messy anymore. Danny’s out of the picture. And . . .”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
My heart started to hurt. Fourteen years. He couldn’t be. Not just like that.
“It’s not about our spouses anymore,” he said.
“You think Meredith is going to go along with your plan if you leave her?”
“Yes,” he said, totally unfazed, and I realized my error. Ryan didn’t operate in the world of self-doubt. He believed he’d get away with anything. And, really, he was probably right.
He pushed my hair behind my ears, leaned in again. “I love you,” he said.
Love. Ryan never said he loved me, not like that. The closest he’d gotten was when he hired a crew to film the behind-the-scenes of my photo shoot—the day that was now all over the internet. The camera operator was this really good-looking guy—tall, smart, and studying to be a director at NYU. Ryan thought we were flirting even though it was innocently friendly. And Ryan fired him. When I asked Ryan why later, he begrudgingly admitted to being jealous. It’s hard to see someone you love interested in someone else. That was what he had said, daring me to argue. I didn’t say anything. It hadn’t seemed worth the fight.
“I love you and I want to be with you. And I will work it out so ultimately it doesn’t hurt us. Look at Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman . . .”
“I don’t think they’d like the comparison.”
Ryan waited. “I know you love me too.”
I took a large sip of my scotch, finishing the glass.
Ryan didn’t move. “Sunny?”
“I think we should talk about this tomorrow.”
“No. I think we should talk about this now. I want this.” He motioned between us. “No wives, no husbands. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.”
Ryan didn’t say things like that. He’d never said that we should leave our spouses, be together. He wouldn’t. Not unless he was certain it would be reciprocated.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he said.
“Did you do this? So I’d have no choice but to be with you?”
He laughed awkwardly. “No choice? Wow.”
