“Even if it means a trip over there?”

  She grimaced. London in January—yuck. “If I have to, yes. But maybe we can send some of the old men over there instead.” She meant her board. “London might find them more impressive.”

  “Than the CEO?”

  She sighed. “Okay. If it means sealing the deal, I’ll go. Use the old men first. Set up a meeting in London for them as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He leapt to his feet.

  “And Ted?”

  “What?”

  “Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  He blushed to the tips of his ears, almost grinning. “Thanks. I won’t let you down.”

  As he left, Gloria returned with a clutch of wrinkled message slips.

  “Took you long enough,” Ryann said, taking them from her.

  Gloria paled. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sands. John from—”

  “I don’t need excuses. Be quicker next time.”

  She visibly relaxed. However, she continued to stand there, lips working on themselves nervously as she tried to speak.

  “Yes? What is it?” Ryann asked.

  “Y-you told Jessica to tell you anytime your friend Stuart called. Jessica wanted me to tell you that he did this morning. More than once.”

  Ryann’s chest squeezed, and she waved at the door. “Yes, Gloria. Thanks for letting me know. You can leave now.”

  She almost ran from the room, and Ryann riffled through the pile of messages she held. Stuart’s name appeared once, twice, three, four times. It was only nine in the morning here, and his calls had started coming almost an hour ago. That meant he’d called at what, six or six thirty his time?

  She picked up her desk phone, her fingers hovering over the keys, and then set it back in its cradle. Her hand was starting to shake, and she balled it into a fist, turning to the window and crossing her arms tight across her chest.

  A little over two years ago, her friend Stuart had moved to Colorado. Despite the distance, their friendship hadn’t stumbled at all the first six months he’d lived there. They’d split the costs of his flights to New York once or twice a month, and he usually stayed with her for the whole weekend. They’d go dancing on Friday, have a long, gossipy, all-day mimosa brunch and a boozy dinner together on Saturday, and he’d fly home again on Sunday. In fact, they saw each other more during his first months in Colorado than they ever had when he’d lived here.

  At the beginning of his time there, Stuart had been something of a wreck, terrified he’d made a big mistake moving, missing his friends and the nightlife in New York. She’d had to hold back an “I told you so” every time she saw him. Then, almost overnight, he’d started getting caught up in his new life. His career had taken off, and he was busier than ever. And not just busy—happy, excited even.

  At first, the changes had been subtle. One weekend trip was switched for a later one—no big deal. Then the trips became less frequent—once a month, then every other month, then every third. Then, late last spring, they stopped altogether. The weekly phone calls had also gotten less frequent, until sometimes a whole month would pass without them catching up one way or another. Still, they’d managed to keep their friendship on life support through social media, and he’d met her in San Francisco for the Fourth of July weekend a little over six months ago. That, however, had been the last time they’d talked in depth. Ever since, they’d been missing each other altogether when they did try, or managing, at best, a five-minute chat here and there.

  This wasn’t entirely his fault. She’d been incredibly busy all autumn and early winter, and without him around, pestering her to leave the office, she’d allowed herself to overwork. She’d occasionally seen his calls and tried to return them, but with the different times zones and her extremely late hours, they simply hadn’t managed to sync up for a long conversation, and they hadn’t talked at all in over two months.

  Still, she’d tried harder than he had. He hadn’t even attempted to contact her for a few weeks now. She’d managed to suppress her disappointment with her busyness, but his behavior still hurt and, she realized now, angered her. He’d basically abandoned her.

  Someone knocked on the door, and she spun, startled.

  “Come!” she shouted.

  Gloria and Jessica entered, followed by several more administrative assistants and interns, all of them carrying vases of flowers. People behind them continued to stream through the door, dropping off vases before rushing out again, seeming terrified of her reaction. She, however, watched this parade happen in stunned silence. Gloria held back, her eyes dark and worried, until the two of them were alone.

  The vases were enormous, all tied with large, silk ribbons. Each was filled with different arrangements of roses and hydrangeas, all red, all gaudy. Altogether, the flowers covered nearly every surface of her office, their scent heavy and heady in this small room.

  “This card came with the flowers,” Gloria said, handing it to her.

  “Thank you. You can leave now.”

  Gloria practically fled again, slamming the door.

  The card was in a thick, creamy envelope lined with velum—heavy, substantial, and soft. She tended to choose exactly this kind of paper—impressive without being tacky, solid, dignified, but also beautiful. She didn’t even have to open it to know who’d sent it.

  Inside was a simple card with bold, thick script.

  Please Forgive Me.

  Love Stuart

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she shook her head, dismissing them, trying to retain her earlier anger. The flowers were ridiculous. He knew her tastes ran to the simple and elegant, not the ostentatious, and this display was exactly that.

  Her hands were shaking again when she picked up her office phone, and she struggled to remember how to use it. She needed to push a number for an outside line and couldn’t recall what it was. Normally, she connected through the front desk, but this was a personal call, and that would be unprofessional.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” she said, her hands shaking even harder. She slammed the phone down and jumped up, breathing hard. This emotion was strange, overwhelming. The rage was there again, but it was at war with something else now—sadness, happiness? She couldn’t explain it to herself.

  Her personal cell phone was somewhere in this room, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d even used it.

  Suddenly her office phone rang. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and picked it up.

  “Yes?” She tried to convey every bit of her anger in that one word.

  “There’s my beautiful lady,” Stuart replied.

  She sighed, sitting down in her chair hard, almost collapsing. She could stay angry at the idea of him, but hearing his voice was something else. Still, that hurt was there.

  “You can’t buy me off, Stuart.”

  He laughed. “You don’t like the flowers?”

  “You know I don’t. You did this to piss me off even more. It worked.”

  He laughed again, braying nearly, and she couldn’t help her own amusement. But she wouldn’t let him win—not yet, anyway.

  Stuart, as if sensing her train of thought, sounded a little chastised when he spoke again. “Can we be serious?”

  “Please.” Her anger was rising again.

  “I’ve been a complete ass. I know I have, and you don’t even need to make me feel bad, since I already do. I was checking my phone yesterday when I was going to call you and realized that you’d tried to get in touch six times last month. You even called me on Christmas, which is the saddest thing ever, by the way. I’m a shit for missing that. Anyway, guess how many times I called you back?”

  “Not once,” Ryann said.

  “Exactly. I’m sorry, Ryann. I really am. What I did was inexcusable. The flowers might be kind of a joke, but I did want to show you how sorry I am for what I did—well, didn’t do.”

  She was quiet again, suddenly overwhelmed and almost choking on sorrow and rage. Christmas had been a low point. It was a terrible day for her every year, and she’d wanted to hear at least one friendly voice. When he’d lived in town, the two of them got drunk together and watched bad musicals all day, singing along and making fun of each other, screaming and laughing to the point of hoarseness. The year before last, they’d been apart but had managed a version of their ritual via videoconference. This year, she’d been entirely alone. She’d gotten very, very drunk and cried herself to sleep. That had been almost four weeks ago, and she hadn’t tried to call him since.

  Again, as if sensing her train of thought, he didn’t make her respond. “But hey, listen,” he said. “I hope what I tell you next will go a little way toward explaining what happened.”

  “Uh-huh,” she managed, blinking rapidly. The last thing she needed to do was cry at work, and she’d almost done that twice now.

  “Okay, hon—you better be sitting down.” There was a long, dramatic pause. “I’m getting married.”

  She jumped up, her wheeled desk chair flying into the windows behind her. “You’re what?!”

  He laughed. “I’m getting married, you old fag hag, and I want you to be my maid of honor!”

  “Hold the fuck on—to whom? Who the hell would marry you?”

  He laughed again. “Do you remember me mentioning this guy I met last year about this time—Jai?”

  She tried to recall. He dated so many men, it was hard to keep up. Still, she had a vague memory of this one. Jai worked for the city Stuart lived in now, if she remembered correctly, which was unlike Stuart’s usual beaus. He normally refused to date anyone who wasn’t an artist, like him, or something similar. There’d been actors, musicians, professions of that nature, but nothing so workaday as a city employee. He had been upset about Jai last summer—she remembered that much, anyway, and she recalled him making fun of his job, but he hadn’t really wanted to talk about him much after that first day together.

  “You two were on the outs last time we discussed him,” she said.

  “Well, yes, but not exactly. I was scared, I guess, and causing drama, like I do, pushing him away.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, anyway, after I saw you last summer, I spent another couple of months being a dickhead, trying to convince myself I was over him, or that he wasn’t what I really wanted—all the crap I usually tell myself when I meet someone I like. But it was just that—crap. I realized I was in love with him and knew I was jeopardizing the best thing that ever happened to me. But I was still too scared to do anything about it. I didn’t call him. I avoided him—the whole nine yards. I was making myself sick with it.

  “Then, one night, right before Halloween, after stewing in stupidity for all that time, I basically forced him to meet up with me, and I apologized. I begged him to take me back, Ryann.”

  “You did what?”

  He chuckled. “I know. It was totally out of character for me. Anyway, I apologized, we made up, and we’ve spent practically every second together for the last three months. Now we’re getting married.”

  She was still dazed. “Wow. WOW. I’m so, so happy for you, Stuart. I hope this guy is good enough for you.”

  “It’s the other way around, honey. He’s the best man—no, best person I’ve ever known. He’s my person. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him.”

  She was still too surprised to reply. People changed, everyone changed, but Stuart had always been a playboy, a browser. She couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a boyfriend for more than a couple of months. College maybe? The idea of him settling down was almost too much to take in.

  “He must be great if a wedding is on the way. Congratulations. Really. I’m so happy for you. I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “Thanks, hon.”

  They were quiet for a while, Ryann still trying to absorb this news. The emotions of the morning were warring with each other, but one was winning out—happiness. The resentment, the anger, the loneliness—all of it was drifting away. Her best friend was getting married.

  “Anyway,” Stuart said, clearing his throat, “will you?”

  “Will I what?”

  “Will you be my maid of honor?”

  She laughed. “Of course! What kind of jerk would I have to be to turn that down? And anyway, I think I still have your wedding dream book around somewhere.”

  “You what?” Stuart laughed. “I can’t believe you kept that.”

  “It’s only twenty years old,” she said, smiling. “And I keep everything—you know that.”

  “You have to bring that when you come here.”

  “I will.”

  He was quiet again, and she thought she heard a soft sob.

  “So you’ll really do this?” he asked, voice breaking. “Even after I treated you so poorly?”

  “Of course, you old queen! You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

  “Thank you. I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Me, too.”

  They were quiet again, and she had to brush away a few loose tears. She was relieved, happy, and somehow sad—relieved to hear from him again, happy for his news, but sad that he seemed to have moved on without her. The two of them had been closer than siblings since the day they met—closer than any friend she’d ever had before or since. Losing him these last months had been like losing part of herself.

  “So how quickly can you get here?” he asked.

  She flinched. “What? What do you mean?”

  “How soon can we expect you in town? I’d say you could stay with us, but Jai has about a thousand cats, and I know you’re not a fan. There’s a pretty cute B&B in town, though, or I could see if one of Jai’s sisters could put you up—whatever you’re more comfortable with. I know you have the money, but a couple weeks in a hotel is a lot to ask.”

  Ryann paused. Had she missed something?

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “When are you guys getting married?”

  “Oh! I didn’t mention it, did I? In a little over three weeks. On Valentine’s Day.”

  Chapter Two

  Ryann had never been more uncomfortable or worn out. No, scratch that—she had, once, after taking the cheap bus between Puerto Vallarta and Mexico City in her early twenties. She and Stuart had thought it might be fun to travel like the locals. It hadn’t. That said, this trip to Colorado was almost as bad, and it hadn’t been some naive, youthful, classist whim. Instead, every part of her journey had conspired against her to put her right here.

  It took several days to even consider leaving New York, and then she’d been delayed further. Her board members were flying to London this week in the private jet, so she’d been forced to fly commercial. It had snowed Sunday, the first time she’d tried to leave New York, and after several canceled flights, she’d accepted an economy-class ticket to Salt Lake City Monday afternoon to get closer, at least. After an incredibly uncomfortable and long, hot flight squashed between two corpulent chatterboxes—really, how did people travel like this?—she’d landed in Utah in the middle of a blizzard well after midnight her second full day of trying to get to Colorado. Her luggage had somehow been routed through to Denver after all, and she was stuck in a city in the middle of nowhere, still hours from her destination, with nothing but her purse and a dead cell phone. The car-rental agencies were snowed in or closed entirely, and all the nearby hotels were booked. She’d spent the rest of that night freezing and dozing on an airport bench with only her light blazer to use as a pillow.

  The storm continued overnight, and by morning she was marooned in a mountain of snow outside the airport. She’d planned to drive from here, but with the roads clogged, and the snow still falling, driving and flying were a no-go. Everything was grounded. After another screaming match with another incompetent ticket agent, some jerk employee had suggested taking the bus, and, basically to spite them, she had done just that.

  Which is where she found herself now—in the last seat at the back of a bus many, many hours later—Wednesday, now, actually—overheated and sweating despite her light clothing. The bathroom, if it could be called that, was right next to her, and even without someone using it, the odor leaking from the door was nauseating. That smell wasn’t as bad as the stench of spoiled and sour milk that drifted from somewhere, everywhere here in the cabin—a stink she was pretty sure could be traced to a child some three seats ahead who had been trying to make eye contact with her the last several hours. Fucking kids.

  They’d crossed the Colorado border from Wyoming over an hour ago as the sun was rising. They’d stopped three times already since the border, all in towns she’d never heard of before. She’d asked the driver to warn her when they were close to Loveland, where she was headed, but she needn’t have bothered. Once they’d crossed into Colorado, the billboards practically screamed it at her, letting her know almost in real time that Loveland was coming their way. Every single sign she saw announced some kind of major Valentine’s Day festival—Fire and Ice, it was called. She had to hand it to the town—it was smart marketing. She couldn’t imagine they had much else going for them to bring in tourists, so banking on Valentine’s Day and dropping the name Loveland every five miles on the interstate was pretty clever.

  The bus finally made it to the Loveland exit, pulling in next to a dirty, gray slush pile that had been cleared to the side to make room for vehicles. She was the only person to stand up. The kid who had been eyeing her most of the ride here stuck his tongue out at her, and it took everything in her power not to flip him off. She made eye contact briefly with the mother, glared at her, and stumbled the rest of the way to the front, tripping and nearly going down on the wet rubber steps.