It’s not my intention to stoke whatever flame Ryan has burning right now. It’s really not. But a dinner out sounds nice. I haven’t been out to eat with someone in a really long time. The last time was probably with Ryan, actually. And while I don’t think I’m in the right headspace to date someone else, there can’t be any harm in meeting up with another writer to talk craft. When Ryan mentioned critique partners the other day, I was overwhelmingly sad about the loss of them all. It would be amazing to have another writer to talk to again.

Charles hands me his phone, and I type in my number. When I hand it back to him, he taps out a text and sends it. “I sent the information. Good luck with your meeting, S.J. I’ll see you tonight.” He flashes a pearly-white smile at me, then turns on his heel to leave.

Ryan stands perfectly still, his eyes tracking Charles’s movement through the lobby. It isn’t until the door has shut behind him that Ryan allows himself to relax a fraction. He closes his eyes, and his chest rises and falls with a deep breath.

“Tapas,” he mutters under his breath. He opens his eyes and pins me with a look. “Really?”

“I was flustered,” I say defensively. “Besides, you suggested yourself that I should have some critique partners again. How else am I supposed to meet other writers who are willing to be associated with me?”

Ryan flinches. He never did like my self-deprecating humor. “I don’t think he’s interested in critiquing your work.”

I shrug, but the motion feels robotic and stiff, even to me. “So maybe he also thinks I’m okay to look at,” I say. “There’s no harm in that.”

He stares at me for a moment, so still, I’d think he was made of wax if I hadn’t been talking to him. Then, he shakes his head slowly and turns his back to me. “Come on,” he says. “We’re going to be late.”

As much as I hate it, with that movement, I’m sure Ryan knows as well as I do that we can’t be together anymore. Before he turned around, the defeat was written on his face, disappointment etched in the curve of his shoulders. It wouldn’t be good for us or for the book. Even if the feel of his fingertips grazing my jaw in my kitchen days ago have lingered far longer than my fleeting handshake with Charles. It lingers, still.

But I have to put it out of my mind, at least for now. What’s done is done, and it would be best for me to move on.

Chapter 21

Ryan