Quite suddenly, I knew what I had to do, and I found I had the bravery—or stupidity—to actually do it. Before I could lose my nerve, I responded.

@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: What if I told you that I’m Annie Catrel? What if I told you that I’m crazy in love with Ronan Fitzpatrick? What if I told you he already knows I’m The Socialmedialite, but I freaked out when I found out he knew, and, petrified, I left him in Ireland? And now he’s shut me out?

I hit send then waited, pacing my apartment. WriteALongSong, for better or for worse, was my closest friend. All my earlier reasons for not reaching out to her felt stupid. I suddenly wanted to know her, and I wanted her to know Annie. I was tired of hiding. I wanted a real relationship—with Ronan, with WriteALoveSong, with the world. I wanted to trust. My phone chimed almost immediately with her response.

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Haha, funny.

I growled my frustration as I messaged her back.

@Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I’m serious. I’m Annie Catrel. I work at Davidson & Croft. I graduated from Wharton School of Business. I’m still wearing the irritating formal dress from earlier, and it itches like hell. I AM HER! And I need your help. I need your help as my friend. What am I supposed to do? I love him. I want to fight for him. How do I fight for him? Tell me what to do.

Five minutes passed, and she didn’t respond. And then five became ten, then twenty. I was staring at my phone, willing her to message me back. I was concentrating so hard that when my phone rang I jumped.

I blinked at the screen and saw that the number was reserved; nevertheless, I quickly swiped my thumb across the screen and answered.

“Hello?”

I heard someone shift in a chair or on a couch before a male voice asked, “Annie?”

I hesitated, frowning at the air in front of me, but then answered, “Uh, yes. Who is this?”

“Annie who is also The Socialmedialite?”

I tensed as the deafening sound of blood rushed between my ears, and I demanded, “Who is this?”

“It’s WriteALoveSong.”

Um…what?

“I…what?”

He cleared his throat, and I heard him shift again in the chair. “I’m WriteALoveSong.”

I blinked at the air in front of me and blurted, “Oh my God! You’re a man!”

He chuckled, “Yes. I’m a man.”

“I thought you were a woman.”

“I figured you did.”

“But-but-but you’re a man.”

“Yes.”

A smile laden with incredulity tugged on my lips, and I shook my head. “I-I can’t believe—I can’t believe I’m talking to you. How did you get my number?”

“I looked up Annie Catrel; she—I mean, you—have an unlisted number, which is smart. But I have a friend who can get me any number I need, listed or unlisted.”

“Well, that’s handy.”

“Yes, it can be.”

We were silent for a long moment, and my heart was acting all wonky, my internal temperature rising then falling. Somehow I needed to get Ronan’s attention, convince him that I was all in. I needed my friend’s help—I needed WriteALoveSong’s help—and so I’d trusted that she would want to help.

But she was a he…and I didn’t know if that changed everything.

Ronan had been so right. The physical—for better or for worse—mattered. It was part of the person, and it was diluted, changed by the barrier of online interactions. I’d known WriteALoveSong for over two years, but…did I really? Obviously not.

I inhaled, intent on apologizing for bothering him with my girl drama, but he spoke before I could. “Annie, we’re friends, right?”

“Right.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a lot ridiculous. This was so odd and awkward.

I heard him take a deep breath before he said, “You asked me for help; you asked me what to do, and I want to help you.” He sounded solemn, like he was making me a promise. “If you really love this guy, then this is what I think you should do…”

Chapter Twenty-Two

@ShellyKeeling08: @RonanFitz Have you read New York’s Finest today??!?!

@Starryeyes: @RonanFitz I just read the blog post and my heart is bursting at the seams <3 <3 <3

@Jennybabes45: @RonanFitz If you don’t love her back, I swear I’ll punch you in the testicles.

*Ronan*

I was going to end up wearing a hole in the rubber; I knew I was. The screen on the treadmill read twenty-two miles; the calories I’d burned were well into the thousands. I was even starting to feel lightheaded. I knew it was Tom when I heard the front door open and somebody step inside because he was the only one with a key. Ma and Lucy had long since gone home, and, despite the fact that Ma had been getting on my last nerve, I kind of wished they were still here. It would make my heart feel less alone.

My heart that Annie was destroying.

How a person could be so afraid of rejection that they’d give up the potential for true happiness boggled my mind. We were finished. I was done…but my fucking heart still held out hope, making every breath feel like someone was stabbing me with a thousand needles.

Tom came into the room and stood watching me for a minute. Then he walked up to the treadmill and told me I had five seconds to get off before he pulled the plug out. I didn’t savor the prospect of face-planting on the rubber, so I reluctantly slowed my run and stepped off. My entire body was dripping with sweat, and my muscles spasmed in a way that said I’d overdone it. Tom handed me a towel.