Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

“Maybe both?”

“I think I liked that you didn’t see that part of me. The widower part,” I say.

“Why?” It comes out so soft, so tenderly that it’s easy to tell her more.

“You’re the first woman . . .” I can’t even finish.

I don’t have to, though, because she reaches for my arm, wraps her hand around my biceps. “I don’t see you differently.”

“You don’t?” There’s more relief in my tone than I expected. “Everyone sees me as a project. As the man who lost his wife. Who is missing something. Who needs to be set up. I don’t like being known that way.”

“That’s why you don’t play darts or like group things,” she says thoughtfully. “Those are your reasons.”

My brow knits. “Reasons?”

“The other night, Riya said you didn’t go out much. That you had reasons. But she didn’t say anything more and I didn’t press.”

I tilt my head, surprised she didn’t ask. “You didn’t ask her what those reasons were? Surely, she’d have told you.”

“No. It seemed like prying. I felt you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”

And she waited patiently for me until I was ready. Knowing that, I fall a little harder, a little deeper.

“I do want you to know,” I tell her. “I want you to know me, and I also really like that you . . . well, that you liked me without knowing my past.”

This is much more vulnerable than I want to be.

But I have to lower my guard.

Because I want to be with her.

She inches closer, her eyes shining. “I still like you.”

Her words wrap around me like a warm caress. I close my eyes for a moment, wanting to reach for her, to hold her.

To kiss her in the garden.

To bring her back to my flat.

To touch her. To please her.

I open my eyes. “Do you want to see more of the gardens?”

“I do,” she says.

I take her on a proper tour, and we shoot photos for Griffin and for her friends, including one of the two of us in front of the fountain.

She sends it to them in a group chat.

My London friend, she titles it.

I’ll take that.

14

JO

“No!”

I’m the first to unleash a devastated cry before the credits even roll.

Emerson fires next, her jaw unhinged, middle fingers aimed at her computer screen. “Are you kidding me?”

TJ falls onto his back on his couch, flinging a hand to his chest. “Oh, man. Shoot me in the heart.”

Easton simply stares like he just can’t believe they broke up the main characters on That’s What She Said after a glorious season spent finally getting together.

“What kind of justice is there in the world of romantic fiction?” I pop up from my couch, pacing the tiny living room with my phone, where the four of us are Zooming. What else would we do on a Saturday evening but have a watch party for the finale of the show we’ve followed together from the first season? “They were perfect together,” I say, as if the strength of my conviction will bring Carly and Dane back to romantic bliss.

“They were meant to be,” Emerson says, dragging a hand through her wavy brown hair. “Clearly, I must boycott Webflix forever.”

“Or until they move forward with plans to adapt my novel,” TJ points out.

“Well, obviously. But that’s the only exception we’re making,” I say, shaking my finger at the screen, still livid over that jerk-the-rug-out-from-under-you ending to the comedy. “Have you noticed that there isn’t really any comedy anymore? Everything is dramedy? What’s up with that?”

“It’s a Hollywood trick. Get you to watch by calling it a comedy, and then someone’s spouse, or sibling, or parent dies,” TJ says.

I stop in my tracks but I’m reeling inside.

Those hit close to home—the first one and the last one.

Perhaps I’m living in a dramedy.

“You okay, JoJo?” Emerson asks.

“Is her Zoom frozen?” Easton puts in.

I smile apologetically, refocusing on the discussion. “You’re right, though. You can’t just have the good and the laughs and the sexy times on TV or in books anymore. Or in life.”

“Exactly. It’s the new storytelling. A little more authentic. Going a little deeper. Making you think about the chances people take and the ones they don’t,” TJ adds. “Humor and tears, like reality.”

“I don’t think that’s such a bad thing,” Emerson says. “Well, conceptually—not counting That’s What She Said. But for TV shows, even lighter ones, it’s good. We’re all swimming through bad times to get to the good times.”

“And working out what you’re willing to risk on the way,” Easton says. He certainly knows about risk, having experienced his fair share on the path to his own happily ever after with Bellamy.

What am I willing to risk?

Sure, I left my safe harbor in New York to come here to London. But is that the same level of uncertainty? Maybe. Maybe not.