Page 73 of The Hitman

Ryan’s standing just inside the hotel room with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. He has that smile on his face, the one that he uses in the movies. He had an agent who’d told him once that his smile was his moneymaker. He spent three weeks perfecting that smile in the bathroom mirror before his first movie audition. Over the years, his movie role smile completely supplanted the lopsided grin he used to aim at me when we first started dating. I wonder if he even knows that I know that this smile is acting. Actually, maybe it’s not even acting anymore.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

“Well, this was supposed to be our honeymoon,” he says, much too nonchalantly for my taste.

“You didn’t show up to our wedding. Why are you showing up to our honeymoon?”

He winces at my words, so I guess he’s not a complete lost cause. “Zahra, what can I do to make it up to you? How can I make this right?”

I don’t mean to laugh, but I cackle so loudly that my throat feels raw. I need to drink some water, eat some food, and get the fuck out of here.

Ryan’s face falls, wiping that million-dollar grin away. Thank God for small miracles. “Zahra, I was an idiot.”

“Yeah, I realized that. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I never loved her.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? You fucked my best friend behind my back, and you didn’t even love her. Besides, you already told me that in front of her. I said, tell me something Idon’tknow.”

“I want to be with you,” he says, as if it’s a heartfelt admission, as if it’s supposed to make my heart swoon, and my eyes fill with tears. I wonder what his fans would think if they knew how absolutely useless he is without a good script, lighting, and time to do as many takes as he needs.

“Why?” I ask him. I don’t actually care, but I realize that I was in such a rush to run away on our wedding day that I didn’t ask the questions that really needed answers.

“Why do I want to be with you?” He relaxes, as if he spent the entire flight across the Atlantic, thinking of the perfect answer to this question. Maybe he did.

I suck my teeth and shake my head. “No, I get why you would want to be with me. Hell, I could even understand why you would want to be with Trisha. I want to know why you wasted damn near a decade of my life and asked me to marry you and then fucked my best friend. I want to know why you weren’t man enough to just break up with me or be faithful. I want to know why you thought flying here would make any difference in my life.”

“Zahra—”

“I’m not done. I also want to know which one of your agents had to convince you to come here. I want to know which journalist you’ve chosen to conduct our reconciliation interview. I want to know which movie role has you running all the way to Italy, thinking you can win me back to try and minimize the bad PR. Oh, or is it the contract for our wedding special? Is there a film crew in the lobby? I want to know why you think I’m so stupid that I don’t see exactly what you’re doing. And I guess I want to know how you’ve spent nearly a decade with one of the best public relations managers in New York, and you think I’m dumb enough not to see the work. Now I’m done. Answer.”

Cathartic isn’t a strong enough word to describe how I feel seeing Ryan red-faced and dumbfounded at what I’ve said. I feel as if a weight I had no idea how to unload has completely vanished in the span of a few minutes. I feel — necessary therapy notwithstanding — as if this moment is closure.

“You stole my credit card,” he says.

Technically, that was Shae, but I would never snitch. “And what if I did?”

“I can press charges.”

“You sure can. Are you going to?”

“Not if you give me another chance.”

“Ugh.” I wait for a second to see if he realizes how absolutely disgusting what he’s just said is. That moment of realization never comes, and that’s sad on a human level, but wonderful on a this-relationship-is-really-fucking-over level.

I realize that I’m still clutching my cell phone in my left hand, only when it vibrates. I look down and see so many message notifications that my phone can’t even display the number. My phone vibrates with a new text message. From Zoe. I unlock my phone and pull up my text messages. I open the text chain between my sister and me and see days of missed messages.

Where are you?

Are you OK?

Do you want me to fuck Ryan up? ‘Cause I will.

Call me.

Call us.

Dad’s worried.