Page 92 of What's in a Kiss?

I love you, he’d texted. He’s wrong. He doesn’t know me.

I climb back to the Wrigley Mansion. The living room’s ghostly quiet, and I realize everyone’s getting ready for the champagne sabering. The thought of showing up for that is exhausting. No one will miss me.

I close myself in the hotel room, where the sight of Jake’s earbuds and sweatshirt makes me slide down the door in despair. It’s like he was raptured. He wanted so badly to escape me, he left his things behind.

Gram Parsons trots over and curls up in my lap.

“Thank you.” I let him lick my nose. “You don’t know how lost I’d be without you.”

I take him out to use the bathroom on the front lawn of the mansion. Holding a plastic bag like a glove, I watch him poop under a sign that reads “No Pets Allowed.”

“There you are,” a familiar voice says.

“Hi, Ivy,” I sigh even as I admire her blue-sequined formal dress. “Sorry I dragged you into hell with me.”

“Are you kidding?” Ivy says. “I’m having a blast. You were right when you said not to call or text, or to take any calls or texts from you—it’s much more fun.”

“That feeling seems to be contagious,” I say, disposing of the poop bag.

“Rough day?” Ivy asks.

I laugh, because what else can I do?

“Sorry about Jake,” Ivy says. “But I have some other... not-great news. I called Masha’s mother about that rabbi—”

“And?”

“Her dad took the phone and started speaking in what I think were Ukrainian expletives. Then he said the whole family would be blocking your number, and my number, too.”

“You know, Ivy,” I say, lifting Gram Parsons and gazing eastward toward my home in the waning afternoon. “That might be the best way to deal with me. Everyone should block my calls and emails. Then I’d know where I stand, and you wouldn’t have to manage my expectations with phrases like ‘not-great news.’ ”

“I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Good night, Ivy.”

“Good night, Olivia.”

I decide to enjoy this bleak night at this exquisite inn I’vealways wanted to sleep inside. I’ll take a bath and light a fire in the fireplace, then Gram Parsons and I will find something either very good or very bad to watch on TV. Once the party moves on to the casino, I’ll have a Fisherman’s Platter and a bottle of overpriced white wine delivered from Bluewater Grill.

In my Real Life, I’d call Masha or my mom. I think about the billboard I saw the other day—Lorena and Silver in matching mai tai outfits. I glance at my watch. It’s six forty-five on a Saturday night, the hour when the show takes live calls. I realize that at this very moment, my mother is helping total strangers with their problems, while she couldn’t care less about mine.

Wait...

I open a browser on my phone and pull up the website for her podcast. It’s far sleeker than the site Mom and I talked about building in the real world. Silver has taste. And strong commercial instincts. I’m not not jealous.

I block the Caller ID on my phone and click the hyperlinked number on Lorena’s website. I hear my heart pound as I hold the phone up to my ear.

“Call Your Mother Podcast Hotline, can you hold?” It’s Silver.

Without thinking, I disguise my voice, giving myself a British accent with a slightly husky tone. “I can’t, actually. It’s important.”

“Just a brief hold,” she says with a chill.

“I beg your pardon, but I’m calling from London and it’s very late, and I need Lorena’s help.”

“There are callers ahead of you.”

“Tell her...” I start to say.

---