Chapter 44

44

After softball practice, Malone tells me he’ll meet up with me in thirty minutes, after he runs a quick errand with Sloane. His fiancée waves goodbye and says she’ll see me again soon.

I leave Central Park and head to the diner, prepping along the way, as I do. Walking and thinking, running and thinking, practicing what to say. It’s like a best man’s speech. You put your best foot forward. Be self-deprecating, but also don’t take yourself too seriously. Be honest, but also fun.

I can do this. I can talk to my friend and sort out my feelings for his sister.

I’ll just say something like, I’m crazy for your sister. I’ll treat her well. We’ll make it work. That’s really all there is to it. With my plan ready, I check my phone to make sure there aren’t any last-minute issues with tonight’s wedding.

And nope, all is well.

Perhaps this is the winding down, the beginning of the exit plan.

I’ll finish out this wedding, serve as the groomsman for one of Josh’s skateboarding clients in a couple of weeks, then do one last job that came in a couple of days ago. With that, I should have almost everything I need for Abby. Then, I can devote all my energy to growing the Modern Gentleman.

I spot a message on my phone from Walker that he’ll be at the wedding tonight. That’s a surprise.

Walker: The DJ is sick, so I got the sub call. That’s why I say you should never eat sushi the night before a gig. Bad fish. It’s always the fish.

Jason: “Fish” is a suitable answer for whenever someone asks what went wrong.

Walker: True that. When I see you tonight, should I act like I don’t know you? :)

Jason: Just act like someone who refuses to play Coldplay, and we’ll be all good.

Walker: Check. If you hear their music, consider it a sign of the impending apocalypse.

Jason : Duly noted.

After I send that, a text from Josh pops onto on my screen.

Josh: Hitting the gym this afternoon. Want to meet up? Even though I know it’ll be hard for you to keep up with me. Consider this my charitable act. Walker would be so proud of me.

Jason: Wow. How utterly noble of you. And just for that, I will kick your ass on whatever machine you’re riding.

Josh: Sorry for the slow reply . . . I was swept up in a fit of laughter from your last note.

Jason: Did you forget? Division 1 here.

Josh: Did you forget? Competitive bastard here, like you’ve never seen before.

Jason: See you in a couple of hours, asshole.

Josh: See ya, dickhead.

God, I love my friends. They’re such great assholes, and I fucking adore them for it.

I’m about to close my phone when a new e-mail icon pops up. It’s from Ryder. With a burst of hope—maybe it’s good news about more appearances—I click it open.

Hey. Just want to let you know I don’t actually need you this week. In fact, I’m not sure I’m going to need you on Mondays anymore going forward. Lots of things in play here. I can’t share much info right now. We’ll talk soon.

I reach for the street sign, grabbing hold of the pole.

I can’t walk straight.

I can’t process this shit sandwich of news.

He won’t need me anymore? He won’t need me at all?

Forget running in place. This isn’t even back to square one. This is take-all-the-steps-in-the-infernal-world-back-to-the-swamp-you-came-from news. Do not collect two hundred dollars, do not pass go. Sit in the godforsaken corner like a bad boy.

This is the most important gig I’ve had, and losing it tastes like eating bacon. Like greasy, undercooked pig fat. Disappointment rages inside me, ripping through my body like a virus, infecting my brain, my heart, and every part of me.

As I cross the street, I swallow past the acid in my throat. Is this Valerie’s doing? Did she rat me out?

That can’t be. Yet she is a powerful, strategic woman.

Or is this something else? The inevitability of failure? Perhaps I was never going to get the gig anyway. Maybe it was always going to go to someone else, to Marcus, somebody who sounds just like me who followed my damn advice.

My jaw clenches, and I want to write back and say, WHY???????

But I’m not going to beg. That’s exactly what I advise the men who listen to me to never do— never beg for a thing .

The only acceptable begging is to the gods of baseball, football, hockey, or whatever your respective sport is. Only then may you beg for a victory.

Otherwise, I say never beg a woman. Never beg an employer. And always bow out gracefully.

I reply to Ryder.

I appreciate the heads-up. It has been an absolute pleasure working with you. I hope our paths cross again. All the best, Jason

I send it even as anger lashes at me. While I walk the rest of the way to the diner, I try to pinpoint what went wrong.

When I pass a dry cleaner that also cobbles shoes, tailors dresses, and sells craft soda—but adorns its window now with a going out of business sign—the answer becomes clear. I’m doing too many things. I’m juggling too many plates. I’m ignoring my own tips—I always advise my readers to pace themselves, to pursue balance, to make sure they aren’t spread too thin.

Like me.

I’m distracted, and it’s affecting all my work. It affected me last night when I let that “manners” comment slip in front of Valerie. Troy even noticed that I wasn’t at the top of my game, and that’s a problem. I have another wedding to do tonight, then a handful more, as well as some speeches to write.

I need to finish out the commitment I made to my sister, so when Truly sends me her note, I’m pretty sure what I need to do when I see her too.

As hard as it may be, and as much as it’ll hurt.

I brace myself for the pain. But no pain, no gain. Grit your teeth and suck it up like a man.