I didn’t say anything.

“Is that a yes or a no for him?” she asked.

“He can come in.”

“Alright, great.” She took my temperature and headed to the door. “Do not get out of that bed again, Mr. Weston.”

I stared at the doorway and within seconds my father appeared, looking nothing like himself. He was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, and the usual look of confidence in his eyes was nowhere to be found.

“Why does it look like you were in a plane crash?” I asked.

“Funny.” He smiled, walking over to me. “I take it you haven’t looked at yourself in a mirror lately.”

“I will once they take the bandages off my head.”

He laughed. “Yes, well, I’m sure your growing fan-club outside will continue to love you either way...I just need five minutes.”

“You said that last time and it turned into thirty.”

“Fair enough.” He pulled a packet of paper from his pocket, tossing it to me.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the piece that’s going to run in The New York Times next week. I wanted you to see it first.”

“I’m not taking over your airline, so if this is your sad attempt to get me to think about that again, it’s still a no.”

“Jake—”

“I’ll never forgive you for what you did with Riley, I’ll never forgive you for what you did to my mother,” I said, looking him straight in the eye—wondering if he was worth the rest of what I wanted to say. “But I can forgive you for being you. I don’t want your airline, though.”

“I’m not asking you to think about anything. I just want you to read the paper.” He leaned over me and hugged me against my will. “I’m sorry, and I always will be...Remember that.” He looked at me one last time and left the room.

For the second time in months, I found myself face to face with some shit I didn’t really want to read, but curiosity won me over, yet again. I flipped open the packet and couldn’t force myself to look away from the article’s headline if I tried:

The Truth About Flight 1872 & How I “Lost” My Wife, How I Really Built Elite Airways, and Why I Want My Oldest Son Back.

GATE C53

GILLIAN

New York (JFK)

“How do you think the literature lovers of America would feel if they knew that their latest beloved novelist was a slob?” Meredith asked as she drew the curtains in my bedroom, letting what was left of the sunset seep through my windows.

“I’m not a slob.” I groaned, tossing the latest copy of The New York Times across my bed. “I’m just depressed.”

It’d taken everything in me not to call Jake when I’d read all of the confessions from his father in the press, when I saw what was the first to come of media backlash for all those hidden lies. I wanted to ask him how he was feeling about everything, if he could see himself ever forgiving his family now.

Then again, since he was probably the one who so quickly banned me from his visitor’s list at the hospital, he probably wouldn’t have picked up my phone call anyway.

“You’re not depressed, Gillian. You’re pathetic.” Meredith was still talking, picking up my clothes from the floor and tossing them into a pile in the corner. “This whole Jekyll and Hyde thing—smiling for the cameras during the day and crying at night has got to stop, and it’s got to stop now.”

“Tomorrow.” I rolled across the bed. “I promise I’ll be better tomorrow.”

“You’ll be better tonight.” She yanked the covers off me. “You’ll also start writing your next book, you know the one that’s due in six months, the one your agent keeps “checking in” on you about. As your friend, I’ll give you a couple more hours to mope, but then we’re going out.”

“Out where?”

“A party.” She gave me an ‘Is that a serious question?’ look. “Where else? Remember how heartbroken you were when you and Ben came to an end all that time ago?”

“No.” And I honestly didn’t...

“Yeah, well, I do,” she said. “And the way you got over him is the same way you’re going to get over Jake. I can’t deal with your daily pity party anymore.”

“You can’t force me to do a one-night stand.” I dodged her pillow toss. “I’m not ready for that.”

“Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson. You and one night stands don’t work. I’m only suggesting a party—something non-book related, something non-Jake related so you can start moving on.”

“Do you think he’s seeing someone else? Do you think she’s more of his type?” I knew I asked her these questions every day, knowing damn well she had no idea, but I couldn’t help it. I was not over Jake, and there was a part of me that didn’t want to ever completely get over him. A part of me that was still holding out hope.

“Gillian...” She sighed and walked over to my closet, opening the doors. “You and me are going to leave for a friend’s private party in exactly two hours. For those two hours, and the four to five hours we spend at the party, there will be no mentions of Jake, Elite Airways, the newspapers, nothing. The only thing I want to talk about is what you’re drinking, what you’re wearing, and who you’re interested in bringing home. That’s it.”