The news caught up faster than she’d expected.
By the next day, it had jumped from the niche publishing blog to a financial gossip site.
From there, it hopped to a mainstream network’s online arm.
By Thursday, it made the twelve o’clock broadcast.
“…reports that the missing investor may be shopping a tell-all memoir have sparked controversy,” the anchor intoned, expression carefully concerned. “Some see it as a brave act of transparency; others accuse him of profiting off his own disappearance…”
They cut to a panel.
Two talking heads argued.
One, a mental health advocate, talked about burnout and capitalism and the ways rich people were still people.
The other—some smirking pundit who made Rae’s teeth itch—called him “a spoiled brat in search of a book tour.”
Bob flipped the channel with a snort.
“Same shit, different tie,” he muttered.
Rae’s phone buzzed nonstop.
Sky sent memes.
Miriam sent a simple:
> You okay?
She typed back:
> Define okay
Miriam replied with a gif of a woman chugging coffee.
It helped.
A little.
At least she wasn’t alone in watching the circus.
That afternoon, Halpern sent an email to the class list.
SUBJECT: Boundaries & Writing From Life (Re: Current Events)
She opened it.
Folks—
Given the news cycle, I want to acknowledge something up front before our next workshop: when you write from life, you’re always playing with fire. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t strike the match. It means you need to be honest—first with yourself, then with the page, and finally with anyone whose story intersects with yours.
We’ll talk more on Tuesday. In the meantime, if any of you are feeling particularly raw, my office hours are open.
– D.H.
Her eyes burned.
It felt… pointed.
Even if it wasn’t.
She almost replied.
*What if the person whose story intersects with mine is technically MIA?*
She didn’t.
Instead, she went to work.
The graveyard shift was weirder than usual.
Half the customers talked about the storm that had knocked out power across half the county.
The other half talked about *him*.
“…can you believe it?” a trucker at the counter said around three-thirty, shaking his head. “Book deal. Hell, if I take a week off, my dispatcher acts like I murdered his dog. This guy vanishes, they give him an advance.”
“Bet they’ll make a movie,” the guy next to him said. “Some sad white boy starring in his own breakdown.”
“Y’all are real empathetic,” Kelsey muttered, wiping the counter.
“Hey, I’m happy for him,” the trucker said. “I just wish my nervous breakdown came with a publicity team.”
Rae poured coffee.
Smiled.
Nodded.
Her mind was elsewhere.
Was he safe?
Was he somewhere watching this, jaw tight, pen flying?
Was his father pacing some glass office, fuming?
Was Kline slamming a fist on a desk, muttering about loss of leverage?
Her phone buzzed at four.
NOT NOAH.
She ducked into the back hallway and checked.
> You seen it all yet
She exhaled.
> The blog
> The gossip site
> CNBC
> The memes
> Yeah
> You okay?
> I’ve had worse days
> But not many
He sent a photo.
Not of himself.
Of a page.
His handwritten notes in the margins of a printed copy of the blog post.
He’d circled “tell-all memoir.”
Next to it, he’d written:
*They always want all until they see the parts that make them complicit.*
Below that:
*You can’t “tell all” when half of “all” belongs to other people.*
Her chest constricted.
> They’re already arguing about you on TV
> Welcome to my nightmare
> At least this time I’m not there to smile through it
She snorted.
> Small mercies
> How’s your mom?
> Pissed at my dad
> Worried about me
> Excited about the editor
> She says hi, btw
Rae’s breath hitched.
> She called me
> I know
> She told me
> You okay with that?
A pause.
> You two talking about me behind my back?
> Comparing notes?
> Swapping baby photos?
She smiled.
> She offered me an escape hatch
> If things get bad
> I call her
> Not Kline
> Not the cops
Another beat.
> She means it
> Even if it costs her
> Especially if it costs him
Rae leaned against the wall, the cool concrete press grounding.
> You trust her?
> More than I trust my father
> Less than I trust you
Heat flared.
> That’s… a lot
> It is
> I’m not good at half-trusts
> Clearly
> How’s the book?
> Suddenly very real
> My inbox is a war zone
> Half long-lost friends wanting to “support”
> Half journalists wanting quotes
> Dad’s lawyer wanting “clarification”
> You?
> People talking about you at the counter
> Truckers jealous
> Pundits outraged
> Kelsey wants to throw a book launch party and call it “Missing & Messy”
He sent a laughing emoji.
> Of course she does
> You coming Tuesday?
Her thumb hovered.
She’d been dreading and anticipating that question in equal measure.
> Yeah
> I’ll be there
> The booth misses you
> And so do I
Her heart stuttered.
> Stop
> Not in the walk-in fridge
> You’re the one texting me in the spice aisle
> Sorry
> Couldn’t wait
> See you soon, Rae
She slid the phone back into her apron pocket.
Took a breath.
Went back out.
Pour. Wipe. Smile.
The routine wrapped around her like armor.
But under it, everything was shifting.
***
Tuesday came like a held breath exhaling.
She spent the day in class, half-present.
Halpern opened with a joke about the “this week’s gossip” and how the publishing world loved nothing more than a scandal wrapped in a narrative.
Then he looked at her, just once.
Not nosy.
Not prying.
Just… aware.
It made her want to crawl out of her skin and also… stay exactly where she was.
Miriam’s piece was up for workshop.
A story about a woman in line at the DMV, finally changing her name back after a divorce.
As they picked it apart, Rae’s mind kept sliding sideways.
To a booth.
To a kiss.
To a man with gray eyes and a mouth that tasted like coffee.
When class ended, Halpern caught her at the door.
“Rae,” he said. “Got a minute?”
Her stomach dropped.
“Sure,” she said, even though she wanted to say no, run, hide.
They stepped aside into the empty hallway.
Students flowed around them, chatter echoing off the linoleum.
He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he said. “But… if the stuff in the news is touching your life in any way, I want you to know you’re not… on your own with that.”
Her heart thudded.
“What makes you think it is?” she asked carefully.
“Your writing,” he said. “Your… face when people joke about men like him. The way you tense when we talk about using real life in work. I’m not… a detective, Rae. I just… pay attention.”
She swallowed.
“You think I know him,” she said.
“I think you know… people like him,” he corrected gently. “Whether that’s… him, specifically… is not my business unless you make it my business.”
Relief and gratitude and a strange, sharp pang of loneliness washed through her.
“I’m… figuring it out,” she said. “What I can… put on the page… without… betraying anyone.”
He nodded.
“That’s the work,” he said. “Of being a writer and a human. You’re allowed to… tell your story. Even if it brushes up against other people. But you’re also allowed to… choose what you keep. For yourself. For now. Or forever.”
“Even if the rest of the world… wants all of it?” she asked.
“Especially then,” he said. “You don’t owe the internet… your insides.”
She laughed, shaky.
“That might be the most radical thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she said.
He smiled.
“Then we need to get you better friends,” he said.
She snorted.
“I have… one,” she said. “Maybe two.”
He cocked his head.
“The diner guy?” he guessed.
Her cheeks heated.
“Something like that,” she muttered.
He pushed his glasses up his nose.
“If you ever… want to talk shop about memoir specifically,” he said, “come by. I’ve… got scars.”
“You wrote one?” she asked, surprised.
“More of a long essay,” he said. “About my brother. Addiction. The time I thought I could save him with the right metaphor. Spoiler: I couldn’t.”
Her chest squeezed.
“Sorry,” she said.
He shrugged.
“It’s… a while ago,” he said. “Point is… telling the story didn’t fix the past. But it did… change my relationship to it. And to myself. That’s… worth something.”
She nodded.
“I’ll… think about it,” she said.
“Do that,” he said. “And Rae?”
“Yeah?” she said.
“Whatever… you’re in…” he said. “Make sure the part of you that’s a writer gets a say. Not just the part of you that’s… loyal. Or scared.”
She swallowed.
“I’ll try,” she said.
He smiled.
“I’ll see you next week,” he said.
She walked out of the building into the thick evening air feeling… lighter and heavier all at once.
By the time she pulled into the diner lot at 8:45, the sky was streaked pink and purple.
The neon sign buzzed, casting its half-lit glow over the wet pavement from a brief afternoon shower.
Her stomach fluttered.
*He’ll be here,* she thought.
She could feel it.
She wasn’t sure if that scared her more or less than the idea he’d stayed away.
She tied on her apron.
Stepped behind the counter.
It felt different now.
Like stepping onto a stage she was finally acknowledging she was on.
The bell chimed at 1:58.
She didn’t look.
Not at first.
She was in the middle of stacking clean mugs.
She set one down carefully.
Inhaled.
Turned.
Noah.
Hat pulled low this time.
No jacket.
Just a dark T-shirt that made his eyes look lighter.
He looked… tired.
But there was a spark there.
A new one.
Something like… purpose.
He sat.
Same booth.
Same table.
But everything between them felt… shifted.
“Usual?” she asked, walking over.
“For now,” he said. “Might upgrade to pancakes if I get too emotional.”
She smiled.
“Cherry pie,” she said. “On the house. Consider it my advance on your royalties.”
He barked a laugh.
“If I give you points, my editor will kill me,” he said.
“She can take it up with me,” Rae said. “I can be very persuasive.”
He watched her.
Something unreadable flickering in his gaze.
“You look… different,” he said.
She raised a brow.
“I showered,” she said. “Occasionally I do that.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “You look… like someone who just read her words out loud and didn’t die.”
Heat crept up her neck.
“Halpern snitched,” she said.
“He didn’t have to,” Noah said. “You texted me *they didn’t hate it* like someone who’s high on adrenaline and validation.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Don’t psychoanalyze my emojis,” she said.
He smiled.
She poured his coffee.
Slides of normalcy threaded through the heightened air.
It felt… good.
Grounding.
“Everyone’s talking about you,” she said, quieter. “In here. Out there.”
“I know,” he said. “My inbox is… a horror show.”
“Any death threats?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “Just a lot of… *how dare you complain with your bank account* and *tell us everything so we can judge you properly.*”
She made a face.
“You gonna… read them all?” she asked.
“Trying not to,” he said. “Evan’s… screening some. Mom’s screening others. Marshall would probably screen too if he believed in email.”
“Sounds like a village,” she said.
“Sometimes it feels like a firing squad,” he said.
Her chest pulled.
“But,” he added, “then some come in that are… different.”
He pulled his phone out.
Flipped it around to show her.
An email.
Subject line: THANK YOU.
She skimmed.
A stranger.
Someone whose kid had flamed out of med school because of panic attacks.
Who’d read the blog post and felt “seen.”
Who’d written:
*I know you don’t owe any of us your story. But if you’re going to tell it, know that some of us are listening with open hands, not clenched fists.*
Her throat tightened.
“That’s… something,” she said.
He nodded.
“It is,” he said. “It makes wading through the rest… less pointless.”
She leaned her hip against the table.
“That’s what your mom meant,” she realized aloud.
“About what?” he asked.
“About… other people needing to hear it,” she said. “Not just you needing to say it.”
He studied her.
“What about you?” he asked. “You… still think it’s… worth it? Even with… the risk?”
Her stomach knotted.
“I think…” she said slowly, choosing her words, “if you don’t… do this… you’ll always wonder if you could’ve… used this mess for something more than just… running. And I think… wondering… might eat you alive.”
He exhaled.
“And you?” he asked. “Will it… eat you?”
She looked at him.
At the booth.
At the neon reflection in the window.
At the flyer still tacked to the corkboard near the restrooms.
“I’ve been eaten before,” she said softly. “By… grief. By guilt. By… smallness. I know what that tastes like. This…” She gestured between them. “This is… new. I’m… willing to try… something else. Even if it means I occasionally… get chewed by Twitter.”
His mouth curved.
“Brave,” he said.
“Stupid,” she corrected.
He reached out.
His fingers brushed the back of her hand where it rested on the table edge.
“You can be both,” he said.
Her skin tingled.
“Don’t do that when I’m holding coffee,” she muttered.
He glanced at the pot in her other hand.
Fair.
She poured.
Moved away.
If she didn’t, she was going to forget they were in public.
Again.
***
The night wore on.
They didn’t talk about the book the whole time.
They fell into other grooves.
She told him about Miriam’s DMV story and Danny’s heartbreak poem disguised as a sci-fi allegory.
He told her about Evan’s latest hair-brained scheme to “decolonize the family Thanksgiving,” which involved PowerPoints and vegan side dishes.
They bickered about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
They scolded Jenna in tandem when she tried to post a TikTok behind the counter with a filter that made everyone’s eyes enormous.
“You can’t put me on the internet,” Rae hissed. “What if Kline doomscrolls?”
“Pretty sure Kline doesn’t have TikTok,” Jenna said.
“You don’t know his life,” Noah muttered.
The normalcy threaded through the surreal.
Weirdly, it helped.
Made it possible to breathe around the knowledge that outside, somewhere, people were debating whether or not he deserved to exist.
At four-thirty, a lull settled.
Kelsey had long since clocked out.
Mace was on a different route.
For a moment, it was just Rae, Noah, and a drunk college kid sleeping face-down in his pancakes at table four.
She slid into the booth across from Noah uninvited.
He didn’t look surprised.
He’d started expecting her to do that.
She liked that he did.
“Tell me about… before,” she said suddenly.
He blinked.
“Before what?” he asked.
“Before this,” she said, gesturing around. “Before the fund. Before the suits.”
He leaned back, thinking.
“Before… all of that,” he said slowly, “we were… just… a family that was slightly more stressed about money than everyone else on our block.”
He told her about Queens.
About the laundromat below their apartment and the way the whole building smelled like fabric softener and steam.
About his dad before money—sharp, funny, always hustling.
About his mom before society pages—working double shifts as a nurse, falling asleep sitting up on the couch.
About Evan, feral and loud, climbing everything.
She pictured him at eight.
Knees scraped.
Notebook in hand.
Heart not yet braced for the weight that would be dropped on it.
“You know,” she said softly, “if you put *that* in the book, people will have a harder time turning you into a cartoon.”
He shrugged.
“I will,” he said. “Eventually. It feels… private, still. Sacred.”
“Then keep it for yourself until it doesn’t,” she said. “You don’t have to dump it all at once. Bleeding out isn’t… noble.”
He huffed a laugh.
“You and Halpern should team up,” he said. “You’d terrify half of Brooklyn.”
She smiled.
“We’d save on coffee,” she said.
He watched her.
Expression shifting.
Softening.
“So,” he said. “About… the kiss.”
Her heart lurched.
“The one Mace nearly sold tickets to?” she said.
He chuckled.
“Yeah,” he said. “That one.”
She would’ve liked to brush it off.
Keep it light.
Impossible.
“It was…” she started, then stopped.
He leaned in.
“Good?” he suggested.
“Yeah,” she said. “Good.”
“Great?” he pushed, a teasing edge.
She rolled her eyes.
“Don’t fish,” she said.
He smiled.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t. Much.”
Silence hummed.
“That wasn’t…” he said finally, more serious, “a… one-off thing for me. I don’t… do… casual… well. Or… at all.”
Her stomach clenched.
“I know,” she said softly.
“And I know… your life is… complicated,” he went on. “Night shift. Class. Family ghosts. Private investigators. The last thing you need is… some half-here guy with a target on his back… yanking your heart around.”
“Agree,” she said.
His mouth twitched.
“But,” he continued, “I also know… I’m not gonna be able to… unknow… what that felt like. To… kiss you and not… hate myself in the morning.”
Her chest squeezed.
Guilt flared.
“You’ve… hated yourself in the morning before?” she asked.
He looked away.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “A lot. Wrong people. Wrong reasons. Wrong… *me*.”
“And this didn’t feel… wrong,” she said.
He met her gaze.
“No,” he said. “It felt… like the first right thing I’ve done in a very long time.”
Tears pricked behind her eyes.
“Careful,” she said roughly. “You’re gonna make me get sappy, and I’m already sleep-deprived.”
He smiled.
He sobered.
“Rae,” he said. “If we… keep doing this… if we… keep… kissing… maybe… more… I need you to… understand something.”
Her pulse kicked.
“What,” she whispered.
“I’m not… asking you… to wait for me,” he said. “Not in some… romantic, teen-movie way. I don’t know what my timeline looks like. For the book. For… my father. For… being able to… exist… in one place for more than a week without someone wanting to monetize it.”
She nodded slowly.
“I know,” she said.
“But,” he added, “I am… asking you… to tell me… if you start… wanting something I can’t give. So I don’t… stay in your booth like a… placeholder you resent.”
A laugh-broken sound escaped her.
“You really do assume you’re the main character in everyone’s life,” she said.
He winced.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m trying… not to.”
She reached across the table.
Took his hand.
Squeezed.
“I’ll tell you,” she said. “If I… get there. If… this… stops being… worth it. Or if… someone else… shows up and… I want… something… different.”
The words tasted like acid.
The idea made her stomach churn.
But she meant it.
She refused to become someone who lied by omission just to keep a man around.
“And you,” she added, voice low. “You tell me… if you… can’t… keep doing this. If… the book… or your dad… or… you… need to run again. Don’t… disappear… out of my life without… saying goodbye. Not… this time.”
His throat worked.
“I won’t,” he said.
Lightning of a different kind flashed between them.
A promise.
Not binding in any legal sense.
Binding in a way that mattered more.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” he echoed.
Kelsey’s voice floated over.
“Hey, lovebirds! Table four’s drooling in his pancakes. We need a mop and possibly a defibrillator.”
Rae let go of his hand.
Stood.
“I’ll get the mop,” she said.
“You get the defibrillator,” Noah said.
“I thought you didn’t like hospitals,” she shot back.
“Maybe I like you better,” he said.
She walked away before her knees could give out.
Collateral, she thought, as she grabbed the mop.
That’s what love would be.
Collateral damage of his choices.
Of hers.
Of their intersecting lives.
She’d spent so long avoiding being anyone’s collateral.
Maybe it was time to accept that you couldn’t care about someone deeply without… risking that.
Without risking… being hurt.
The question was whether the risk was worth the story they were building.
She looked at him across the diner.
The pen in his hand.
The softness in his eyes when he watched her.
The weight of his name in her pocket.
She thought—yeah.
For now.
For as long as this strange, liminal window lasted.
It was worth it.
***