Page 75 of Cut Off
Past the bar. Past the elevators. Down a hallway lined with framed black-and-white photos of old Dickens—main street in the forties, Maisie Kingston’s grandparents on the front porch of the house she still lives in.
I grow increasingly confused. “Holt.”
“Mm.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“You realize I work in news. I hate not knowing things.”
“I’m aware.”
We stop in front of a set of double doors at the end of the hall. There’s a discreet sign on a stand outside. I don’t get a chance to read it because a hotel staffer in a black vest is already there, smiling, and as he reaches for the handle, Jonah looks down at me with this expression I can’tread—nervous, almost. Which is so unlike him, I think something’s genuinely wrong.
“What did you do,” I say.
“Just—” He swallows. “Just trust me.”
The staffer opens the door.
I stop breathing.
“Surprise!” a collective group of voices yell.
The ballroom’s full. Like eighty people in cocktail dresses and suits, holding flutes of champagne, standing in clusters under soft gold lighting. White linens drape high-top tables, and a string trio in the corner plays something low and pretty. Along the back wall, in tall, elegant letters lit from below, is a sign that says:
Good Luck in Seattle, Zoe.
Below that is myZoe Knowslogo. The one I designed in Canva at midnight in my crappy apartment four months ago when I still wasn’t sure I’d ever finish an episode.
I make a sound; I don’t know what kind. Something between a laugh and a gasp. I want to cry.
And here’s the thing: it’d be happy and sad tears, and my brain’s recalibrating. Because I can’t help the pang that hits as I realize, with clarity: this isn’t a date. It's not a private candlelit dinner, not a dimly-lit booth where he’d drop the grumpy act and, I don’t know, confess to a crush, or at least say something inappropriate about the dress.
Still.
He planned this whole thing. Roped in a string quartet. Arranged for canapés. Gotten people—important people, the ones I religiously stalk on LinkedIn—to show up. All for the sake of my little podcast.
God, maybe I’m a terrible person. Because I want both. I want to be impressive, but I also want to be desired.
He keeps his hand on my back, barely touching, like he’s reminding himself I’m real. “You worked your ass off,” he says. “You built something from nothing. This is what you deserve.”
And just like that, I know he means it. I know it’s not just about fixing my career or undoing guilt or even about impressing me. It’s about believing in me more than I ever did.
“Jonah,” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Everyone’s staring at me.” Icannotbe the center of attention, the person everyone’s watching and talking about.
He turns to me, keeping his voice low. “They’re here to celebrate you.” He shrugs, like this is a small thing, like a man casually filling a ballroom with friends, locals, and industry people is nothing. “And, you know. See about any collaborations that could be mutually beneficial for your podcast.”
“Collaborations.”
“I made some calls.”
“Some calls.”
