Page 57 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Take in a steadying breath.

Face the wall.

Wait as five minutes pass in quiet.

Ten.

And there’s a small part of my mind that has started to wander. My thoughts are starting to swirl a little. Realism detaching from itself and starting to waltz into a space where dreams take hold. Gran, for starters, is wearing pajamas. While she stands on a box outside the Washington Monument, shouting for attention about The Bridge.

But then a voice speaks in my periphery that draws me out—a voice I admit lingers in my dreams probably more than it should—and my eyes flutter open.

When I see Jack, seated in the booth we spent the day in, adrenaline knocks the dream right out of me. I close my eyes quickly.

“Yes, but things have changed. I just feel we’re at a point where it would be unfair to—”

Jack’s voice is blocked out by the hum of a passing truck. I crane my ears to catch more words but hear only, “Yes, but Bryony doesn’t care about that—”

Slowly, painfully slowly, I inch my neck toward him.

What is he talking about?

Who is he talking to? About me. At this time of night?

For the man who claims he’s not a workaholic, it’s half past midnight and here he is, whispering. Is it the editor he emailed with before?

It has to be.

But of course it has to be.

And yet? I lift open one tiny sliver of my left eyelid to see him again. He’s facing me. More than that, his eyes are directly on me. Obviously thinking ahead as always. Making sure I’m asleep.

Jack’s arms are pressed tightly over his chest. He looks so stiff his biceps are bulging, which, to be quite honest, isn’t the natural look for bookish Jack who is more prone to picking up organic sheep cheese to pair with some wine from the nearby French market than any kind of actual weight. A permanent frown rests on his face as he stares down in the general direction of the table.

It gives me an uneasy feeling.

Everything about this moment does.

“I know it’s late. But I’m on this forsaken bus—no, I know Amelia didn’t want me to come. I came for Bryony—”

My sake?

He didn’t have to come?

The liar.

“No, it’s not like that— Well, she’s going to try to eat her alive. Don’t you think somebody should be here to protect her? I get that, but Bryony deserves her own— No, of course she’s grateful—” He drops his voice even further as he leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and dipping his head down to protect his voice even more.

There’s no way to catch whatever he’s saying now. All I can go off is the tone of his voice before he dropped his head. Meek. Pleading. Desperate, even, knowing he’s not getting his way.

And what exactly is his way?

I crane my ears for ten more fruitless minutes until he eventually clicks off the phone. He stays in the same position for some time, head facing the laminate tabletop of the booth, hand rubbing his temple. His shoulders are hunched. And I have a momentary temptation to get up with a smile, put my hands on my hips, and say, “Okay, buddy, what the heck is going on?”

But I don’t.

Some feeling deep down is hushing me. Stilling me.

Telling me to wait. Watch. See what I can learn in this quiet.