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got it published. For all the good it did.”
    “What do you mean?” said Cassie. “It’s great that you got them published, isn’t it? I thought it was really hard for poets to get into print. You must have done something pretty special to have been accepted so quickly.”
    “I published them myself,” Nick spat. “I got rejections from everyone I sent them to until I finally just paid to have them printed.” He drained his glass in one swallow and refilled it.
    “Well, a lot of people self-publish,” Cassie said, trying to placate him, thrown by his sudden change of mood. “Even people like Proust—”
    “The difference, Cassie, is that Marcel Proust didn’t have the New York Times Literary Review saying his work was vapid, juvenile and derivative. I did.”
    “But you got an agent.”
    “Yeah. A seriously small-time agent who’s hoping that my father will buy me the huge publicity campaign I’d need to sell anything I ever write.
    He thinks I’ll learn my lesson and I’ll pay for some great reviews next time. He knows you can sell dog shit if you put enough advertising money behind it.”
    After so much alcohol, Nick’s speech was beginning to slur. “Nothing has gone right since she left, Cassie. Nothing.” He fell silent and stared morosely at the floor. Cassie put a comforting arm around him.
    “That will change now,” he continued. “Now that you’re here, Cassie. Things will be right now that you’re here.” His head lolled onto her shoulder. “You’re better than she was. Prettier. Smarter. We can -” he yawned – “we can love each other properly.”
    Did I hear that right? Cassie thought, worriedly. 
    Nick’s body went slack against her as he fell asleep. She wondered if she could drag him across the room and put him to bed, but he was too heavy for her to carry alone. She eased her shoulder from under his drooping head and lowered him onto the couch.
    She found some stationery and scribbled a quick note to thank him for dinner and to say she’d call the following day. She had planned to offer to split the check for their meal, but she knew the Four Seasons was way out of her budget. She thought about mentioning it in her note, but decided against it.
    She tiptoed to the elevator, her feet sinking into the plush white carpet. As the doors closed on the spectacular view, Nick’s words replayed over and over in Cassie’s head.
    He’s drunk , she reminded herself. People say weird things when they’re drunk. Stop over-thinking this. You need a place to stay, and you’re out of options.

Chapter 7
     
    “Cassie, I am so sorry,” Nick’s voicemail showed up on Cassie’s phone while she was in the shower the next day. “I was a little jet-lagged, I should have gone easier on the champagne.”
    Yeah , Cassie thought, and the dessert wine, and the brandy.
    “I hope I didn’t say or do anything too embarrassing. There’ll be a room ready for you in the house on Louisburg Drive on Monday. I’ll come by and pick you up. Just let me know what time. I can send a truck for your things, if need be. I’m planning to put you in the master bedroom; I think you’ll like it, you can see right out over the Atlantic. I’ll call again later so we can talk about the details.”
    Francine padded into the kitchen in her robe and slippers. “How did it go?” she asked.
    “Oh, fine,” Cassie replied. For the first time in her long friendship with Francine, she felt exhausted at the thought of sharing the details with her. She couldn’t handle the idea of another interrogation or another suggestion that she should go south for an indefinite period of stifling parental affection.
    She wished that things didn’t have to change, that she could stay in the apartment with Francine, step out of her complicated whatever with Nick, and go back in time to before the argument with Brendan.
    Brendan. Cassie wondered what she should do about Brendan. She decided to text him.
     
    Hi. Wanted 2