I paused. “Well, it’s not about what I want.”
“Ah.” He pulled back. “So what? Ryan wants to do some damage control?”
Danny’s expression changed, almost hardened. Danny used to tolerate Ryan, but the toleration had taken a downturn. He could barely stand to be in the same room with him. And he certainly didn’t care what he thought about anything.
“What do you think?” he said.
“A performance is probably mandated.”
“A performance is probably mandated . . .” he said.
And he laughed, clearly irritated by that response.
I stared at him, annoyed. How had this conversation taken this turn? Was he seriously angry about a party? I almost bro
ught up Italy again. If anyone was choosing their job over marriage in this conversation, shouldn’t Danny be the one on the hook? And why should I apologize for choosing to protect A Little Sunshine? Which pretty much had purchased the apartment we were arguing in.
Danny rubbed his hands together, seeing the look in my eye. “Forget I asked,” he said. “If you’ve got to do this tonight, we’ll do it. We’ll have our alone celebration tomorrow.”
I followed his lead, playing nice. “You promise?” I said.
“Of course.” He corked the bottle, gave me his winning smile, the one he reserved for just me. “Consider this saved for tomorrow,” he said.
And we walked toward the bedroom to get ready, a small thing to do together, except when it turns out it’s for the last time.
5
Locanda Verde had one of the best private rooms in New York—dark and rustic, with a fireplace and long farm tables. It was a great place to park a party of fifty in, especially this fifty, who would already be on their second martinis, grazing on the passed plates of duck confit and cheese, on the small bowls of fruit, quietly whispering about the drama A Little Sunshine faced that day, pretending they had no doubts in my authenticity.
Danny and I were perched in the hallway outside, listening, Danny’s hand on the doorknob.
I took a last look at my outfit, straightening my dress. It was a simple print dress over thick tights, my hair swept up off my face. Understated. Presentable. Considering what kind of day I’d had, I decided that was no small miracle.
“Ready?” Danny said.
“Is it too late for sushi and Notting Hill?” I asked.
“?’Fraid so,” he said, but he hesitated, his hand still on the doorknob.
On the other side of the door at my intimate surprise party, Sarah Michaels, a society reporter for Vogue, would be mingling with our college friends Derek and Michelle. Kelly Specter would be snapping a few photographs for Food & Wine. Someone from the New York Post would be talking to my cookbook publisher confirming that the Twitter hack was indeed a fluke. The evening was no longer purely celebratory. It was business.
“Let’s just get this done,” Danny said. “And get back to the wine waiting for us at home.”
Then Danny smiled, and I relaxed in spite of myself. And maybe this was my first mistake. As soon as I took a breath, my phone vibrated in my purse.
I went to grab for it, but Danny was already turning the doorknob, people already shouting surprise! as he opened the door.
My eyes ticked around the room at everyone in attendance, a blur of smiles and applause and raised champagne flutes. Maggie, who designed our apartment (and who arguably had the most influential design blog in the business), ran over and gave Danny a hug. She had been a longtime friend of his and I was happy to see her. I was also happy to see that she had come alone. Maggie was as notorious for her terrible taste in men as she was for her great design style.
I was about to reach in and give her a hug when Louis Leonard, the head of my publishing company, walked over to me with two martinis in hand—one of them with extra olives.
Louis was in his early sixties, and a handsome guy, whom everyone liked. Even Danny had gotten close to him over the years. Ordinarily, I would’ve happily taken a drink from him and sat in the corner listening to him fill me in on everything interesting that had happened at the party before we arrived. Except my phone vibrated again, a message waiting.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “That’s a bad face.”
“Impressive that you still recognize the difference,” I said.
Louis laughed and turned to Danny, whose arm was wrapped around Maggie. “How are you, my friend?” Danny asked him.