Page 77 of Cut Off
I cross the room and hug her around the bump. “What are you doing here? You’re going to pop.”
“I’m aware. The doctor used the word ‘majestic,’ which I think is code.” She holds me at arm’s length and looks me up and down. “You look incredible. That dress is criminal.”
“Holt picked it.”
“Impressive. Sawyer can barely pick a sock.” She grins. “Listen. I came to wish you well in the new job, although you can’t leave us, but also, because I have a friend in legal at a network in Seattle who needs a podcast partner for a true-crime spinoff, and I’m not above leveraging a pregnancy for a favor. I’ll text you Monday.”
“Dylan.”
“Don’t get weepy. My ankles are already swollen.”
“I’m not getting weepy.”
“You absolutely are. There’s a tear. Right there. Stop.”
“I’m not.”
“Get it together, Lane. You’re at your own party.”
I laugh and wipe under my eye with one knuckle, very carefully, because I can’t ruin this eyeliner. Dylan grins at me with the kind of warmth that makes me remember why I liked her before she became somebody’s wife and somebody’s lawyer and a person about to be somebody’s mother.
The rest of the night unspools like a dream. I shake hands. I exchange cards. I get pulled into a corner by a podcast producer who wants to discuss a six-episode arc on small-town news ecosystems. I drink slowly, because I want to remember this. Jonah floats in and out of my peripheral vision, never far, never hovering, just there—a hand at the small of my back when I need it, a champagne flute swapped out for a fresh one, a quiet “you good?” against my ear every twenty minutes that I answer with a nod and a squeeze of his fingers.
A woman with shoulder pads sharp enough to puncture drywall approaches me. She’s a producer for one of the public radio stations east of the mountains. I know this because she introduces herself before shoving a business card at my chest and telling me, with real gravity, “You need to say something, dear.”
I freeze. My gut—already a tangle of adrenaline and two glasses of champagne—goes polar. I haven’t had to make a speech since my birthday party two years ago, and I was completely wasted, so it was fine. I’m a behind-the-scenes person. What I say onZoe Knowsis edited. My face in front of a live room full of people? I’d rather be set on fire.
Jerry, who has been eavesdropping at the cheese table, claps me on the shoulder. “Go, Lane! Give ‘em the reel, live and uncut!”
I want to sink through the floor, but Jonah’s here, his voice a calm rumble. “You don’t have to if you don’t want,” he says, and for a second I want to take the out. But then I catch the look in his eyes, and they’re filled with certainty—like he already knows I’ll do it and it’ll be fine.
I inhale, slow, and let it out even slower. “I do, and I have on my big-girl panties. Not literally, don’t worry.”
He grins, dimple deep. “Good.”
My heels click as I step onto the dais, and all heads rotate, eighty pairs of eyes fixed on me, waiting for the big moment. The string trio quiets. The air is thick with expectation and cologne.
I grip the microphone with both hands, just to be sure.
“Uh—hi,” I say, blushing. “So, ironic. I’m a talk radio host, I struggle with words. Go figure.”
The room laughs. Jerry booms, “That’s our girl!” from somewhere near the back. My knees threaten to liquefy.
I glance down at my white knuckles. I want to disappear, but instead I tell the truth. “Two months ago, I started a podcast with a half-broken laptop and no idea if anyone would listen, except maybe my mom and my sister. If you’d told me I’d be standing in the Kingston ballroom, talking to most of the people I’ve spent my life admiring from a safe, digital distance, I’d choke on my coffee.”
I pause. People smile, and the edge of my panic blurs.
“So, my apologies for keeping this short. But thank you, all of you. For coming. For listening. For making space for whatever this weird thing is that we all do.”
I finish, hands shaking, but there’s a warmth in the room that wasn’t there before. The applause that follows is real. Sincere. The string trio picks up a new song—cheerful—and I’m flooded with relief.
Jonah’s waiting at the bottom of the dais, arm out.
“That was heartfelt. Perfect,” he says, and I believe him.
I get stopped for photos, for handshakes, for more toasts, and through it all, Jonah’s hand keeps finding mine, like a touchstone, a silent message: you’re okay, I’ve got you.
By the time the trio plays its last song, and people drift toward the doors, I have business cards stuffed into a tiny clutch that was not built for this, four firm meeting requests in my inbox, a guest spot offer for the Seattle show, and a heart so bursting it might blow.
