Page 76 of Cut Off
“A lot of calls.”
I stare at him. I am, possibly, blinking, but I’m not sure because I can’t feel my face.
“Why?”
“I’m kind of the reason you got fired,” he says, low. “So it made sense to do something that might help you celebrate your new job and network forZoe Knows. But more than that—” He stops. Starts again. He is, for the first time since I’ve known him, fumbling. “You deserve it, Zoe. You’re amazing. In so many ways. It wasn’t even hard to convince these people to come. They were excited. They want to talk to you.”
“Jonah,” I croak, and my voice has gone thick. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“Good. Then I did it right.”
He puts his hand on the small of my back—warm, solid—and he guides me into the room, and the second we cross the threshold, someone calls my name.
It’s Jerry. Jerry from W2Beaver. He’s already halfway across the room with his arms out like he’s about to lift me off the ground.
“There she is,” he booms, because volume control isn’t a thing for Jerry. “There’s our girl. Zoe Lane, you look like a movie star.”
“Jerry.” I let him squeeze my shoulders. “Thank you for coming.”
“Holt called. Said you were doing big things. I’m sad to see you go, but I don’t blame you.” He leans in, lowers his voice to what he thinks is a whisper, and it’s not. “And listen. Since you left? It’s a disaster. Donny Dexter? The man cannot read a teleprompter. We had to bleep him on live air. Twice. Last week he called the mayor by the wrong name.”
“Jerry, no.”
“Jerry, yes. Sweetheart, whatever you need from me—B-roll, contacts, a referral, my left kidney—you say the word.”
I laugh, grabbing Jonah’s arm to keep from tipping in my heels, and Jonah’s grinning down at me.
A flute of champagne appears in my hand. I don’t see who hands it to me. The next hour is a tunnel of faces—producers, podcast people, a woman who runs a syndication network out of Seattle, and another who books guests for a morning show in Boise. They all want to talk to me. They all want to talk about ideas. Cross-promotion. A possible segment. A guest spot. A panel. Someone uses the word “vertical.”
Sydney finds me by the second flute. She’s in a red dress, red lipstick, and a mood, and she pulls me into a hug that smells like her shampoo.
“You look so hot I want to cry,” she says into my ear. “Also, my brother’s not stopped staring at you all night, and I’m going to need you to give me a heads-up before I become an aunt again, because I will need to take a personal day.”
“Sydney.”
“Zoe.” She pulls back and grabs me by both shoulders. “He filled a ballroom. For you. Filled. A ballroom.”
“I know.”
“You know what that means.”
“Syd.”
“You know what that means.”
“I’m gonna need you to lower your voice in this beautiful hotel.”
She glances over my shoulder at Jonah, who’s across the room, cornered by Jerry, and she sighs the long, dramatic sigh of a sister who’s been waiting a long time. “You two are so disgustingly perfect together I might barf.”
“Please don’t barf.”
She squeezes my arms. “Go. Work the room. I’ll find you later. Also, your eyeliner is perfect. I hate you.”
I’m halfway to the bar when I hear my name again, and I turn, and there is Dylan Wright, Sawyer McDavid’s wife, leaning against the wall the way an eight-months-pregnant woman has to lean, one hand cradling the lower curve of her belly and the other holding a sparkling water. Dark wavy hair. Sharp red lipstick.
“Lane,” she says.
“Wright.”
