When I first see The Place, I assume it’s a scam. A pet-friendly one-bedroom with in-unit washer and dryer, ten blocks from the Belladonna offices? Only two hundred bucks above my budget? Can’t exist.

  “I think it’s real,” Cat breathes. “Look, it just got listed today. I bet somebody fell through.”

  “It’s too good to be true,” I argue. “I mean, look at that. Recently refurbished kitchen, built-in bookshelves in the living room? It’s a sham.”

  “Apply for it,” Cat orders. “Now. If you can’t afford it, I’ll loan you the money.”

  I roll my eyes, but I take the laptop from her and start filling out the fields. “The money should work out, actually. I’ve got my winnings from the White Elephant party for the security deposit, and my raise would help with the rent. It doesn’t matter, though. No apartment with windows overlooking a flower garden is real.”

  Except after twenty minutes, my phone rings with an unknown number. I pick it up, hoping it’s not spam. “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this Pippa Murphey?” The voice on the other end is young, female, and stressed.

  “Uh, yes, speaking.”

  “You just applied for the one bedroom on Wellesley, right?”

  My mouth drops open. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. I just saw the listing and I thought it might be a scam. The rent on the website is accurate, right?”

  “It’s accurate,” the woman says. “We’re hoping to move quickly on this. I have to ask—are you the same Pippa Murphy who writes for Belladonna?”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

  “Seriously? Wow, this is so cool. I’m not trying to fangirl on you, but I’m obsessed with your 12 Dates articles. I swear, I must have gone out with the same CryptoBro as you.”

  “Well, then, I’m sorry.” I grin so hard, it hurts my cheeks a little. I know that I technically have fans, but it’s so rare to meet one in real life instead of online.

  “Look, I’m supposed to get landlord references, but I think we can skip that. I just want to get someone in the apartment quickly who I don’t have to worry about.”

  “I have to ask, why is this place available so quickly?”

  “There was a couple that was supposed to move in today, but apparently somebody cheated, they had a big argument, and they broke the lease. The landlord wanted a new renter ASAP, so he dropped the rent a few hundred dollars.”

  “Wow. And by ASAP you mean⁠—”

  “It means if you can come by tomorrow with a check with first and last month’s rent plus security, you can move in this weekend.”

  “Yes!” I squeal. “Yes. Oh my god, I’ve never been happier to hear about a breakup.”

  “And thanks to you, I can spend the rest of New Year’s Day at home with my cats,” she says.

  “Well?” Cat says expectantly when I hang up.

  “The Place is real, and it’s mine! I can move out in a few days.”

  “It’s a miracle! I’d say let’s open some champagne⁠—”

  “—if I didn’t hate champagne, and if we weren’t getting over the world’s worst hangovers,” I finish.

  “Exactly. Do you want to stay in the apartment again tonight, Pips? You can stay in the guest room, or I can make Nate crash at Beau’s place for another night.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve intruded enough. Let Mr. Grumpy have his apartment back. Ryan has his big New Year’s Day poker tournament today, so he’ll be holed up on the poker floor all night. I doubt I’ll see him.”

  Cat’s brow furrows. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I feel bad making Waffle stay there without me, anyway.”

  Between my perfect kitty and the promise of moving into the new place, I’m ready to handle anything.

  Even knowing the man I love is just down the hall.

  34

  RYAN

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Ria asks quietly as I pour more whiskey into my glass. I shrug. “Nope. Want some?”

  “No,” she says drily. “I’d like to actually win this tournament.”

  I dangle the bottle from between two fingers. “Good. More for me.”

  She snatches the bottle out of my hands. I can see my own face reflected in her black sunglasses, my cheeks hollow, the bags under my eyes gigantic. I look like I didn’t sleep last night, which is…accurate, actually.

  James and I stayed up late, finishing off his whiskey. He didn’t make me talk about my feelings, and he let me ball up his fancy personalized stationary and practice throwing paper balls in the trash can. I’ve officially revised my best friend rankings, bringing James all the way up to the top—sorry, Beau.

  After that, James dragged me back to my apartment and laid me out on the couch. I probably could have made it to my room, but 3:00 a.m. Ryan wanted to be waiting out for Pippa in case she got home late. Shortly after that, 3:30 a.m. Ryan went to Pippa’s room to see if she was there. He knocked, and when she didn’t answer, he opened the door.

  She wasn’t there, which got him thinking that she was probably still out with Jacob. Which is probably why 4:00 a.m. Ryan was stupid enough to comment on that Toronto Tea article, denying that he could ever be interested in Pippa.

  Stupid, stupid 4:00 a.m. Ryan.

  I managed to get maybe an hour of sleep between tossing and turning on my bed. Once the sun was up, I decided to get an early start on the poker tournament. I headed down to the third floor and made sure the registration was ready, that the tables had all the right chips, that the seating charts all looked good.

  Once all that was done, I remembered my stupid, stupid fucking comment on that blog. I deleted it, but nothing is really gone on the internet. Now, screenshots are circulating, and the whole world knows what a fucking asshole I am. Worst of all, Pippa will read it. And knowing her, she’ll assume I actually meant it.

  So I started drinking, and I haven’t stopped since.

  Ria’s not the only one with an opinion about it. The server apparently decided that he didn’t need to come to my poker table for refills, so I had to head to the bar and take matters into my own hands.

  And now, Ria’s taking them into hers. Because she pours my full glass down the drain and shoves a Red Bull in my hand.

  “Get your shit together, Archer,” Ria says in a low voice. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, and frankly, I don’t give a shit. But you’re hosting this tournament, and you have to at least pretend that you want to be here.”

  “Why? ‘Cause I don’t want to be here.” I don’t bother keeping my voice down. Ria’s right, this is my tournament. The third floor is full of players that I invited, most of whom would cut off a finger to earn an invitation. I can act however I want, especially since I’m sober enough to correctly use the word “whom.”

  Apparently, Ria disagrees, because she kicks me hard in the shin.

  “Ow!” I yelp. “That’s assault.”

  “That’s a reality check. Because when you sober up, you’re going to remember that you love hosting this tournament, and you’re proud of its reputation. And when you realize that you yelled at a server for bringing you the wrong brand of whiskey, you’re going to feel like an asshole.”

  “I yelled at a server?” I blink. That doesn’t sound like me. I loathe people who are rude to servers, and I’ll drink just about any kind of whiskey someone hands me.

  “You’ve almost lost all your chips twice, and you’re only still in this because Arthur got unlucky on the river. Now, I’m telling you this as a colleague.” Ria lifts up her sunglasses so she can glare at me. “You need to sit out for a minute. Hydrate. Caffeinate. Get right with your god. Do whatever the fuck you need to do so you can sit down at the final table tonight and play like you’re not the biggest loser in the room.”

  She puts her glasses back on, whirls on her heel, and marches away from me.

  I haven’t been scolded like that—with that brusque kind of tough love, as opposed to the open contempt my father scolds me with‚—since I was seventeen, and Emily caught me trying to sneak a girl in my bedroom.

  So I crack open the Red Bull and lean against the bar. I sip slowly, trying to give the caffeine a fighting chance against all the alcohol I’ve been downing.

  I know I’m spiraling. The sensible voice in the back of my head—the one that sounds like Nate—has been telling me to quit, but I’ve been ignoring it. Because there’s a hole in my chest, and I’ve got to fill it with something before my heart falls out of it.

  I rake my hands through my hair. I’ve fucked up before, but never like this. First the argument with Pippa, then that stupid fucking comment. Pippa’s not the opposite of my type—she’s the fucking definition of it. I was hurt and lashed out in the stupidest way possible.

  Fuck, it’s like I aimed a shotgun at our fragile, broken relationship and pulled the trigger.

  After this tournament is over, I’ll go back to our apartment and figure out some way to apologize. I’ll buy her every book off her Goodreads wishlist. I’ll get her Cameos from everyone on The Vampire Diaries cast. Fuck, I’ll even build Waffle a cat castle big enough to fill the whole living room if that’s what it takes.

  My phone vibrates, and Pippa’s name appears on the screen. Even though I doubt she has anything nice to say to me right now, my stupid heart still leaps in my chest just reading her name. My hand shakes as I open my texts.

  Pippa

  I found an apartment. I’ll be out of your hair in a few days.

  The hole in my chest is empty, and my heart is on the ground, writhing on the emerald carpet.

  I thought I hit rock bottom before, but there was one final level to hit. Before, I was able to hold onto a dim hope that as long as Pippa is in my apartment, she won’t be lost to me. She’d soften eventually and forgive me.

  Now, I can’t even pretend. The person who made me happier than anything—happier than poker, winning, laughing with the guys, happier than every other woman in the world combined—is gone. I let myself get close enough to taste what being with Pippa would be like, and now I have to live with knowing exactly what I lost.

  I want another drink. I want to forget.

  Instead, I choke down the rest of my Red Bull. Then I flag over a server. He looks like he’s barely twenty, his face covered in acne. I wonder if he’s the one I yelled at.

  “Hey man, I’m sorry that I’ve been rude to the staff today,” I say awkwardly. “You can tell the other servers that I’ll make sure they’re paid double their rates, and a thousand-dollar tip on top of whatever the other players tip you.”

  Confusion is written all over his face as he says, “Uh, thank you, Mr. Archer.” Guess he’s not the one I yelled at. I’ll have to ask Ria to point him out later.

  “So when you get a minute, could you order me a grilled cheese and some fries from Terrace Steakhouse? There’s some whiskey I need to soak up.”

  The server nods. “Of course. Right away.”

  He hurries away, and I fill my own glass of water. It’s time to suck it up and save whatever I can of my reputation.

  Without Pippa, I’ll need as many friends as I can get.

  Four cards lie on the table.

  I’ve got two pairs and a choice.

  Do I throw the rest of my pathetic stack at winning this? Or stay, and let Arthur be the latest wound in my poker death by a thousand cuts?

  My head swims. Thoughts that normally come automatically get tangled up in each other. Percentages bump up against instincts, memories of previous hands getting mixed up with the actual cards on the table.

  I’ve done what I can to sober up, but no amount of coffees or grilled cheese sandwiches can make up for the time I’d need to work through an inhuman amount of whiskey.

  I look up at Arthur’s placid face and decide the most dignified thing to do would be to put myself out of my misery. I shove the rest of my chips forward and pray that Arthur calls.

  He does.

  The dealer turns the river, and for a brief moment I live in the hope that it’ll turn my two pair into a more attractive full house.

  It doesn’t. Arthur shows his own two pair, and it’s higher than mine. I give him the closest thing I can to a smile at the moment, considering how shitty I feel.

  “Good game, Arthur.”

  He nods, his attention already on the next hand—just like mine would be at any other tournament. Nobody pays much attention when I push away from the table and head toward the crowd at the bar.

  Ria’s there, chatting with Miguel. Her sunglasses are tucked in her purse, so I know she’s out, too.

  “Thanks,” I murmur to her. “I needed that.”

  “You wanna stay for a bit?” she asks. “Have another Red Bull and play host?”

  That’s exactly what I should do. It’s the polite thing, as the man who put this whole tournament together. But between my pounding head and my aching chest, I’d rather stick my head down a garbage disposal than stand around making polite conversation with a dozen poker players.

  I shake my head. “I can’t. I just—I⁠—”

  “It’s fine.” Ria pats my elbow awkwardly. “Go.”

  “See you guys later.”

  I give them a half-hearted wave and head for the elevator. I keep my eyes glued to the floor, because I don’t have it in me for one more conversation if someone makes eye contact.

  Thank fuck, I catch the elevator up to my apartment without anyone stopping me. As the doors close behind me, I close my eyes and let the quiet of my empty apartment permeate my mind. I’m finally alone—for better or for worse.

  Or not. Something warm rubs against my ankles, and I look down to see Waffle winding between my legs.

  “Hey, pretty girl,” I murmur, crouching so she can rub her head against my hand. “Sorry if I smell like booze.”

  Waffle lets out a chirpy little meow, as if to say, obviously. Then she trots away down the hallway toward⁠—

  My heart stops in my chest when I see the yellow light coming out of Pippa’s cracked door.

  She’s still here.

  Hope swells in my veins. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe there’s a world where she comes out and slaps me. She can yell at me as long as she wants, as long as it means she’s still talking to me.

  The cat disappears through that tiny crack. Then, almost immediately, the door closes behind her.

  Guess she doesn’t even want to fight with me.

  But I’m going to give her every chance to change her mind.

  I head to the kitchen to make myself a smoothie. Not because I want one, but because it’s the noisiest thing I could possibly make. I unpeel a banana and drop it in the blender, kicking the trash can as I drop in the banana peel. A bag of frozen berries makes satisfying little bangs when I add it to the plastic container. Then, the pièce de resistance—chicken broth. I don’t care what Beau tells me, it adds extra protein and it tastes exactly the same.

  When I press blend, it fills the kitchen with a loud mechanical whirl. I don’t stop it for at least five minutes, because hey, there’s no such thing as an over-blended smoothie.

  I pour out my smoothie and drop the dirty blender cup in the sink instead of putting it in the dishwasher. If all the noise doesn’t get Pippa to come out and yell at me, hopefully the dirty dishes will put her over the top.

  Plopping down on the sofa, I put my feet up on the coffee table and wait.

  An hour later, Arthur texts me to thank me for hosting the tournament and drop that, by the way, he won.

  An hour after that, James texts to make sure I’ve recovered from my hangover.

  One more hour, and I know there’s no way Pippa’s coming out to see me. So I drag myself to my room for a shower. If I’m lucky I’ll fall dead asleep, and I won’t dream about everything I’ll miss.

  35

  PIPPA

  The pillow feels hot under my cheek. I turn it over, seeking out that cool pillow feeling, but it’s still too warm from the last time I flipped it. I groan, the sound filling the bedroom. I’ve spent hours turning over in bed, chasing sleep. All that time, and sleep hasn’t gotten any closer.

  My blood has been rushing through my body like I’ve been downing caffeine all day. Pent-up energy swells in my limbs. I want to get up and pace instead of lie down to sleep, even though I know I’ll regret it in the morning if I don’t sleep. I’m just too twitchy and erratic, all too aware of the man down the hall.

  I heard the elevator door ding when Ryan came back early from his poker tournament. I put on my noise-canceling headphones so I didn’t have to listen to his purposefully loud smoothie-making session. Blasting music might have kept the sound out, but it didn’t do anything to quell the knowledge that he was there.

  On top of everything else, my period chose today to show up, which puts soreness and mood swings on my list of life obstacles. Today sucks, and if I don’t get any sleep, tomorrow’s going to feel even worse.

  So what do I do? I lie in the dark and try to do the thing any sensible woman would do right now: imagine my immediate future without him in it.

  Try to get amped up for it.

  I picture the morning. I still make coffee, still snuggle with Waffles, still drag out my laptop to write about other people’s love stories instead of my own. At first, it almost works. Then my brain hits a snag on the smallest details. Who will be there to top off my coffee?

  To turn up the heat when I shiver?

  Every future I try to storyboard has a Ryan-shaped blank space cut out of it. I can fill it with someone like Jacob, but the edges will never properly line up. It’s like trying to paste a different sky over a photo; the lighting will never entirely match.

 

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