Million Dollar Baby

I wasn't even surprised to see him.

"Let me guess," I said, hoisting my bag higher on my shoulder. It was packed to the brim with manuscripts I'd been meaning to read. "Nina told you where I live."

Richard had been sitting on the front stoop of my apartment building, but now he stood, dusting off the back of his jeans. "Of course she did." He gave me a sad smile. "She's my number one fan."

I snorted nastily. "She's your only fan."

Richard made a motion with his hand, like he was waving me over. "Go on. I can take it."

I dropped my bag on the street. It was almost midnight and the roads were dark and lonely. The noise I made was frighteningly loud, a cross between a growl and a battle cry. It contained all the frustration, the exhaustion, the stress that had been building up in me for the last three months. "You know what it is?" I seethed, my nostrils flaring like some kind of fire breathing lady dragon. "What I finally realized hurts the most? That your ego was more important than I was."

"Josie," Richard said, stooping low so that we were eye-to-eye, "I have no ego. I've been sponging off my father for my entire adult life, despite the fact that he treats me no better than the dirt on his shoe. Do you understand how little ego you have to have to allow someone to degrade you like that? How little dignity you have to have? I was a drag on you. I couldn't live with myself if I brought you down while you were out here, if I in any way kept you from doing all the great things that you were meant to do."

"How noble of you," I said, flatly. "What are you even doing here? What are you doing in San Francisco?"

Richard sighed. "I'm a finalist for the writing fellowship at Wired."

I almost broke a smile. Writing for Wired would be huge. But then I remembered how angry I was and set my mouth into a hard line. "So you moved to San Francisco even though you're just a finalist? What are you going to do if you don't get it?"

Richard shrugged his shoulders and stared at the ground. "I don't know. It gets me away from my family at least. I can always just bartend again. It's what I was doing in New York and it was mindless enough to allow me to focus on the book." He looked up and there was just the hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Apparently I did sort of a bang up job."

I didn't laugh. "Sorry, Richard. I'm not so hot and bothered by your masterpiece that I'm going to forget what you did to me."

"I didn't mean that," Richard said. "I just meant," he exhaled, flustered. I can't ever recall seeing Richard flustered. "But it seemed like, earlier today, that you were amendable to, I don't know, opening the lines of communication...or something."

"Oh," I said, "I am. Believe me. But not because of us, and what we had. But because despite the fact that you've acted like such a raging egomaniac, I think I can get you a nice fat offer for your book. And a nice fat offer for you means a nice fat offer for me at CWA."

Richard folded his arms across his chest and gave me a challenging look. "So this is all business for you? Nothing personal about it?"

I picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder again. "I couldn't have feelings for you again if I tried," I said as I walked past him. I was lying through my teeth, but there was no hope for us. Even if the partners agreed to pay me what I'd asked, and even if I stayed in L.A., San Francisco is not exactly a hop, jump, and a skip away. I didn't see how Richard and I could begin to rebuild our trust as a long distance couple. Even though I still had feelings for him, my dance card was more full than it had ever been. I didn't have it in me to rebuild a damaged relationship with a guy I couldn't trust not to bail on me when I needed him most.

From behind me, I heard Richard say, quietly, "I still love you. I didn't end things because I stopped. I ended things because I had nothing to offer you at the moment. It was agony staying away from you, but I just need you to know I did it because I loved you."

I twisted my key in the door and pushed it open. "Well, when you took that risk you took the risk that I would stop loving you. And I did." I glanced at him over my shoulder to see how those words landed. It was cruel, but I wanted him to hurt the way he had hurt me. "I'll see you in the office tomorrow."

I let the door slam behind me with a mean little clap.

_ _

The next morning, I was on my way into the office when I got a call from William. I fumbled with my Bluetooth before picking up ("Promise me you won't text and drive!" Nance begged me when I first came out here). "What are you doing up before noon?"

"Josie, what the hell is going on?" William demanded. "How the fuck does Hilary have an offer for a quarter of a mil from Little, Brown?"

"Hilary?" I repeated, before realizing William meant Howie. "Howie," I corrected him, slowly absorbing the fact that Howie didn't just have a conference call set up between Richard and Denise, she had an offer. A respectable six figure offer for a debut novel, no less.

"I don't care what the fuck her name is," William shouted. "What I care about is getting to the bottom of how a fucking agent trainee in the goddamn branding department has a publishing offer that my team should have." I couldn't see William, but I imagined there was spittle all over his lips. He was furious. As he should be. This was completely unacceptable.

"I didn't want to involve you because I thought I could handle it on my own," I said, trying to sound like I had the whole thing under control even though I clearly didn't.

"Josie," William said, "I don't think you understand how bad this is. How bad this makes me look. The partners are going to want this writer, whoever he is, to take this offer. It's a good offer. And if he takes it, you can forget about your offer here. Why would they pay you $25,000 more than they originally offered you when there is clearly someone else who is doing your job?"

I hit the steering wheel with my fist, to the beat of the repeated fucks screaming in my head. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This was bad. This was so bad. There was no way I could get a better offer on the table in a timely manner. I'd only sent Richard's MS to the editor I wanted eight hours ago. It was 5AM on the west coast, which meant it was only 8AM in New York. She probably hadn't even read my email yet. And then, she still had to read the manuscript—all 400 pages of it—fall in love with it, go to her team and get an offer on the table that could trump 250k.

A part of me wanted to quit right then and there. Spare myself the humiliation. Just go back to New York and forget the last three months of my life. But in my head I could hear Nance, telling me not to give up.

"I can do better than 250," I said to William.

"For your sake and mine, you better," William said.

"I will," I said, my foot going heavy on the gas pedal, the needle on the speedometer arching to the right. I had to.