Chapter 9
Ryan
After leaving Scarlett’s apartment, I go straight home with every intention of working remotely for the rest of the day. I wasn’t getting anything done at the office; I couldn’t stop thinking about her. And while I knew randomly showing up at her apartment could majorly backfire, I was willing to take the risk.
But when I get back to my Hyde Park condo and open my laptop on top of my desk, it doesn’t take very long for my thoughts to drift. I have other projects besides Scarlett’s that I’m working on, but after finding out who S.J. Falmouth really is, the directive from the higher-ups has been clear: All my other projects are secondary to this one. They know what a find they have on their hands, and they’re going to put a lot of resources behind it.
I’m glad everyone at Anastasios seems to be on board. I would never tell Scarlett this, but after her dramatic exit five years ago, I was worried she’d be blacklisted in the industry if she ever tried to come back. But it seems, with enough time and turnover and a good enough book, they’ve been willing to overlook it.
Her book is good enough, that’s for sure. It has stuck with me since that first reading when it latched onto something in my soul. I haven’t been able to get it to let go.
That’s not what’s overtaking my thoughts now, though. Every time my mind drifts, whatever I had tried to focus on is replaced with the image of her in those purple satin pajamas, the fabric pooling at her bare feet, the chipped navy polish on her toenails peeking out under the hem. The way her blue eyes looked at me almost as eagerly as I left my handwritten notes on her table haunts me, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I wish she was more excited to see me than my editorial commentary.
I’m still thinking about it the next day as I wander into the office, hoping at least being there will keep me from looking at my bed, my couch, my kitchen counter, the makeshift desk she used to work at in my bedroom…everywhere she lingers even after all these years.
No such luck, though I am able to finalize a manuscript that’s been sitting, almost finished, on my desk for a week. But the whole time I’m reading through the last chapter to make sure my notes are cohesive, I have to force myself to not compare this author’s writing to Scarlett’s. Not that it’s a fair comparison; no one can out-write her.
The ding of an incoming email snaps me back to reality. Assuming it’s the author whose work I just sent over with a quick thank-you, I hover my cursor idly over the alert, but Scarlett’s name on the notification has me scrambling to click open the full email.
From: Scarlett Frye [email protected]
To: Ryan Whitlock [email protected]
Subject: MS Notes
Ryan,
Respectfully, have you lost your mind? The bicycle is integral to the story and cannot possibly be omitted.
I will, however, begrudgingly admit that the rest of your notes are spot on, as usual.
—Scarlett
The bark of laughter I let out is so loud, Margie pokes her head in from the hallway.
“Everything okay?”
I clear my throat and brush a piece of lint off my sleeve. “Yes. I got a funny email is all.”
“Oh, okay,” she says. “You don’t laugh very often, so I had to make sure.” Then, she pops out of my field of vision.
I frown at the space her head just occupied, thinking about that for a moment. She’s right, though I’ve never noticed that I don’t laugh often when I’m here. It has me thinking about how often I laugh when I’m not here. I’m sad to admit it’s not as often as I’d like. Thankfully, before I can go too far down that rabbit hole, another incoming email dings.
From: Scarlett Frye [email protected]
To: Ryan Whitlock [email protected]
Subject: Re: MS Notes
Ryan,
Sorry about my brash question. I will be more professional in the future. But the bike stays.
—S
I don’t waste any time typing up a reply.
From: Ryan Whitlock [email protected]
To: Scarlett Frye [email protected]
Subject: Re: MS Notes
Scarlett,
No apology necessary. Your candor has brought some levity to an otherwise dreary day.
I may have lost my mind, but it would be unrelated to this. I don’t have a problem with the bike specifically. Surely you can see that you have multiple objects that are accomplishing the same thing; they all symbolize growing up, coming of age. By getting rid of one, you would strengthen the others. Do you have a suggestion for a different one that could go?
—Ryan
It’s not strictly necessary for me to ask her opinion. A seasoned writer like Scarlett who has been through this process before might even read it as rhetorical—something to think about and nothing more—and not respond. She knows she can reject changes I suggest if she has good reasons. But I tell myself that I want to keep this line of communication open in case she needs more direction, even though I know, deep down, I want her to respond for entirely different reasons. So I am delighted a few moments later when she does.
From: Scarlett Frye [email protected]
To: Ryan Whitlock [email protected]
Subject: Re: MS Notes
Ryan,
The bike is so much more than a symbol of Madeline growing up. It’s transportation, freedom from the confines of her situation, but there are also limitations to that freedom because it can only take her so far. It’s about fitting in with her friends who also have bikes but not quite being able to because her bike is secondhand and looks like a boy’s.
I’m, frankly, amazed you didn’t see this while you were reading. Is it possible you’re losing your touch and not your mind?
As far as what else could go, I’ll have to revisit the text and get back to you.
—S
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but my chest swells with hope that she’s asking a question for the same reason I did: She wants me to respond. That has to be it, otherwise why would she ask something that anyone else would find cutting? It’s so similar to the way we used to tease each other—poking at each other’s insecurities, popping them open until they deflated like balloons and took up less space—that I’m sure this is her intent. She wants to goad me into a reply.
From: Ryan Whitlock [email protected]
To: Scarlett Frye [email protected]
Subject: Re: MS Notes
You probably won’t believe this, but of course I noticed all of that. I do think several of your other symbols accomplish the same thing, and better. The birds, for example, do this and more while simultaneously creating beautiful imagery. The clouds, too. And don’t forget the songs they sing together at the end. The bike is a wonderful symbol, but the others are gorgeous, rich, and help to create the visuals that really draw the reader in. The bike is…a bike. It’s only in one scene, whereas the others are prevalent throughout, so they’ve been woven into the text more. But I am open to other ideas.
—Ryan
A giddiness rises up within me, like the bubbles in champagne zigzagging to the top of a glass. Effervescent. Shimmery. Natural, in a way. It has only been five emails, but this back-and-forth is familiar. It’s like slipping on an old, favorite sweater. Scarlett and I started sparring the night we met and would continue to do so over the course of our relationship. It became almost a form of verbal foreplay and often ended with us in bed, exploring more ways to elicit different kinds of responses from each other. This feels so similar to that, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I’m holding out hope that it’s having the same effect on her.
Another email from her pops up in my inbox, and my excitement intensifies.
From: Scarlett Frye [email protected]
To: Ryan Whitlock [email protected]
Subject: Re: MS Notes
The bike is gritty. Dirty. On the ground. Everything you mentioned is ethereal and sky-bound. The bike is not meant to be pretty or create imagery. It’s meant to be tangible and real. And (again, I’m surprised I need to point this out to you), it exists in direct contrast to the birds and the clouds. A foil, if you will.
So, what I’m hearing is that I actually need to weave the bike into the book more, to make it inextricable from Madeline’s story. Would that appease you?
The contrasting symbols did not, in fact, escape me, but the bicycle felt extra. The scene in which it appeared was stilted, almost as if Scarlett had been trying too hard to include it. But if she could work it in even more, make pieces of the book grittier and, by comparison, make the other scenes even more ethereal…
My elation at communicating with Scarlett morphs into the exhilaration of solving a puzzle. Something clicks into place. It’s so satisfying—so obvious—that I can’t believe it escaped me before.
From: Ryan Whitlock [email protected]
To: Scarlett Frye [email protected]
Subject: Re: MS Notes
That’s brilliant. Yes. More of the bike would solve the problem. But keep the bike gritty and real; keep the birds and clouds airy and light.
Her response is almost immediate. Yet again, I dare to hope everything I’m reading between the lines of these emails has been reciprocal.
From: Scarlett Frye [email protected]
To: Ryan Whitlock [email protected]
Subject: Re: MS Notes
I might be rusty, but I’m not an amateur. Trust the process.
I’d better get to work on this. My editor is known to show up at my house unexpectedly with more notes.
Thanks, Ryan.
And even though I know that message is a clear indication that she’s signing off, I risk another question anyway.
From: Ryan Whitlock [email protected]
To: Scarlett Frye [email protected]
Subject: Re: MS Notes
Are you open to your editor stopping by with more notes in the future? I can warn him to stay away if you prefer.
I don’t expect an immediate response. Her last email was final, and my question is loaded. There are a hundred reasons why she might not write back, and only half of them have to do with me making a move she’s not ready for. But I still check my email frequently throughout the rest of the day. I’m disappointed every time there’s nothing from her.
Later that night, after a lonely dinner of microwave lasagna and a cold shower that does nothing to calm my thoughts of her, I lie awake in bed, staring at the dark ceiling and kicking myself. First I show up unexpectedly at her apartment, then I ask if I can do it again? What was I thinking? I probably scared her away by being too forward. I should be handling her with kid gloves, like Casey suggested the other day.
Around midnight, as I’m just starting to drift off to sleep, my phone lights up with a text message. Groggily, I open the app without thinking, but I’m jolted awake when Scarlett’s name appears at the top of my screen. She blocked my number when she disappeared all those years ago. It’s been so long since she’s texted me that our past messages have disappeared into the ether, so just one message sits in a little gray bubble at the top. Just the sight of it has my heart swelling up with longing.
Scarlett: If you need to hand-deliver notes, I wouldn’t mind.