Oliver steps past me to make his threat against Connor a reality, and I can see Connor choosing what to do like there’s a thought bubble above his head with multiple-choice questions.
Throw up his fists, or smile casually and toss the whole thing off?
He chooses the second just as Harper moves between them, her arms forming a T, her palms pointing at each of them.
“Stop,” she says, with a force of command that surprises me and them, too.
The men make eye contact over her head. They’ve wanted to hit each other for years, and it’s a minor miracle that it hasn’t happened yet.
“Oli,” I say, my voice a warning, but softer than Harper’s.
“What?”
“He’s not worth it.”
He glances at me now, and it’s like a sucker punch.
It’s been three years since we broke up, but I don’t think being around him will ever get any easier. Certainly not when he’s standing five feet from me in an open-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up enough to show off his tanned arms and the ropey muscles underneath. Not when his dark brown hair is curling in the heat and making him look boyish, though his fortieth birthday is just around the corner.
My hero.
Or he once was.
“Please?”
Oliver hitches a breath, then lets it out slowly. His hands come down and Connor relaxes in response.
“You’re right,” Oliver says, “he isn’t,” then stalks away.
I watch his back, the way his muscles move under his shirt, the way that one curl folds lazily onto his neck, and my feet carry me after him against my will.
I’ve only been in love with two men in my life: Connor and Oliver. At twenty-five, I fell hard for Connor, and when we broke up less than a year later, that was a hard landing, too. Oliver was the one who put me back together when I was twenty-eight. We met when everything on the outside looked like a dream life, but everything on the inside was a complete mess. We had four good years, and then I fucked it up.
That’s not a surprise, right? You’re getting to know me by now.
“Oli, wait.”
He slows only slightly, but it’s enough for me to catch up.
We’re on the edge of a stone staircase leading farther down into the Forum, an old fountain in front of us, the mosaic tiles surrounding it covered in red dust.
“What, El?” he says, his voice full of the gravel of disappointment.
I stop. It’s a good question. What do I want from him?
“What are you doing here?”
“In the Forum?”
“You know what I mean.”
He blows out a breath, pushing up the curls on his forehead.
I hate how my brain catalogs everything about him, from the creases around his eyes to the touch of sunburn on the bridge of his nose and down to his lips—full, pink, kissable.
And yes, okay, I know. I know.
My inner narration about Oliver sounds like a romance novel.
I can’t turn it off.
“Touring my book,”40 he says, “same as you.”
I drag my eyes away from his mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Our publisher saw fit, in its infinite wisdom, to put me, you, and that man on the same tour.”
“Oh, I—”
“Thought they’d arranged this all for you?”
“No, I … You know I don’t read itineraries.”
He smiles, almost, at this. “You prefer to be surprised.”
“I do.”
“Did you know he was going to be here?”
“He’s everywhere.”
His smile drops. “And whose fault is that?”
“The reading public.”
“Try again.”
“Oli, I’m sorry. You know I am. I’ve said it a million times.”
“And now it’s a million and one.”
“Does it make a difference?”
He looks at me now, really looks at me, and it’s hard for me not to turn away, not to wither under the weight of his gaze, out here in the blazing sun.
“I want it to,” he says.
Some of the tension in my body releases. “That’s something.”
“We’re going to be together for the next ten days, so…”
“It’s only eight, now.”
Shut up, El. Just shut up.
“You’re editing me?”
“No, sorry,” I say. “It just slipped out.”
He nods briefly, then looks past me to where Harper is walking slowly around the complex with Connor. “I hate that guy.”
“Me too.”
His eyes track back to mine. “Do you?”
“I wish I’d never met him. Or never written about him. Or both.”
“Then you wouldn’t be here.”
“Or know you. It’s the central paradox of my life.”
He laughs now, a good sound, the best sound. “I’m part of the central paradox of your life?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I’m flattered.”
“I should tell you, then, that my life is a mess.”
He laughs again, then puts his hands into his pockets. “You really didn’t know I’d be here? I thought Harper would’ve warned you.”
“She knows better.”
“Would’ve skipped it, hmmm?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. The last time … well, the last time took a lot out of me.”
He doesn’t say anything, and maybe that means it took a lot out of him, too.
The last time we were together was at the Salon du Livre in Montreal two years ago. We’d sat in a booth for hours signing books. For the first time in a long time, Connor wasn’t there, because he’d gotten a “better offer,” as he put it, which turned out to be some screenwriters’ conference in New Mexico. It had been a relief to do an event without him, and Oliver and I had spent hours joking about the questions the readers always asked.
But then, in the lobby bar, I’d had one too many drinks and kissed him. He’d kissed me back for long enough to make my knees go weak, then held my wrists firmly and moved my hands away from his face, and said, “That’s all over now.”
Then he left me sitting there while the bartender gave me a sad, knowing smile.41
I’d hidden in my hotel room for the rest of the Salon and made a vow that I was never going to see Oliver again. And now here he is, looking devastatingly handsome and acting like he might regret the way he ended our last encounter as much as I did.
“It was hard for me, too,” he says.
I search the ground. There aren’t any answers in this ancient dust. “Maybe … we could get a drink and talk?”
“About?”
“One for the Show. I read it.” I lift my head now to catch his reaction. He looks pleased but wary.
As for me? I’ve never been able to control my face. If I’m ever interrogated, any competent police officer will see right through me.42
“You said so in the New York Times profile,” Oliver says.
“That’s out already?”
“This morning. You really think it’s a masterpiece?”
“Oli, come on. I wouldn’t lie about that.”
I’ve lied about too many other things, only some of which Oliver knows about.43
“Thank you.”
We stare at each other, the air pregnant with our thoughts. I’m not used to this kind of silence between us. When we first met, all we could do was talk, talk, talk, our words tripping over one another, no thought left unexpressed. It felt like I’d met the part of me that was missing, and I couldn’t imagine anything that could pull us apart.
“Am I awful in that profile?” I ask. “I felt like I was a crazy person that day.”
“It’s fine.”
“Ouch,” I say and repeat Connor’s gesture from earlier, moving my hand to the space over my heart.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’re being honest. I appreciate that.”
That hated silence again as the tourists mingle around, no one paying us attention. What do we look like to them? Old friends, old enemies, old lovers? We’ve been that, and more, and now we’re nothing but memories.
“I’m ending the series,” I say, surprising myself. “The Vacation Mysteries. Book Ten is going to be the last.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s time. Past time.”
“How are you going to do it?”
“I’m going to kill him.”
He throws his head back and laughs.
“I mean it, I’m going to. If someone doesn’t beat me to the punch.”
“What does that—”
A scream pierces the day and our heads swivel toward it in unison.
“Harper!” I shout, searching around me in panic. She’s gone and so is Connor. My heart starts to pound, and my gut tightens in fear.
If I put Harper in danger by not taking Connor seriously, I’m never going to be able to live with myself.
“Helllppp!” someone calls and then that scream again, high-pitched and keening.
Oliver grabs my hand, wrenching me off the spot. “This way,” he says. “Come on!”
We break into a sprint as the scream reaches a peak and then, in a way that’s somehow worse, stops.