2. Casey
CASEY
It’s a few minutes before my brain registers the tap-tap-tapping of my pen against the wood of my desk.
It’s otherwise silent in my office at Anastasios Press, with the light streaming in through the west-facing windows to my right.
It’s golden light, I realize now that my mind has been dragged from the manuscript on my computer screen by the unconscious rhythm of my pen.
Which means it’s late afternoon. It also means I haven’t moved from this position for around four hours.
If I don’t stand up now, I might as well never stand up again.
It sounds a little dramatic, but at thirty-five years old, I can already feel the effects of over a decade of office work on my body—stiff joints, eyes that don’t focus the way they used to, a twinge in my left shoulder that has been bothering me off and on for the past year or so.
As it is, I have to brace my hands on my knees to push myself out of the chair. I’m almost surprised my bones don’t creak like the spine of a new paperback as I unfurl my body and stretch out my arms. As soon as my limbs are fully extended, my elbows let out two loud pops.
That’s a new one.
Just add it to the catalog of weird quirks my body has developed as a result of this relatively sedentary job.
This press was founded on the very real need for more work-life balance in publishing.
It was why I moved here from JMP three years ago—I desperately needed that.
But Anastasios generally lets us dictate our own lists and schedules based on what we can take on at any given time.
And I’ve been taking on more and more over the past year.
“Hey,” a familiar voice comes from the doorway. I turn to see Ryan Whitlock, my friend and one of the other editors here, popping his head around the doorframe.
“What time is it?” I ask by way of greeting.
“Close of business.” He steps fully into my office and nods, indicating my still-open laptop. “So, close your business.”
Is it five o’clock already? Have I really been sitting here for four hours since lunch? That can’t be right.
“I’m really close to done with this—”
“Nope,” Ryan cuts me off. “It’s the freaking weekend. Close the laptop and let’s go.”
Frowning, I blink at him in silence for a moment. “Go where?”
“Home. To a bar. Out of here. Wherever it is you go on a Friday when you’re young and single and don’t have any work to do until Monday,” he says as if it’s obvious. Then he tilts his head and regards me for a minute. “You’re not working over the weekend, are you?”
Well, I had planned on it, but now I’m feeling like that might be the wrong answer.
Turns out I don’t even need to admit it—my face must say it all. Ryan lets out an exasperated sigh as he adjusts his dark-rimmed glasses. “Whatever you’re working on can’t be that important.”
The book is due back to the author next week, but he’s right. It’s not like I can’t get it done on Monday. It’s just that, aside from visiting my brother every Sunday morning, I don’t have much else to do.
“Okay. That’s it. You’re coming with us.” Ryan tips his head back toward the door.
Apparently, I don’t need to have an actual part in this conversation, since he got all of this out of my confused silence. “Come with whom, where?”
“Scarlett and me. To dinner. She’s meeting me in…” He checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes. Let’s go.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not trying to be a third wheel for your happy hour.”
“Not happy hour. Dinner. And you’re not a third wheel. You’re a friend.”
Ryan’s entire face changes when he smiles—something I’ve seen a lot more of lately, now that he’s back with the love of his life after she disappeared for five years.
When she showed up a year ago and Ryan ended up editing her comeback manuscript, no one was really sure how it would go, but it worked in their favor.
He doesn’t edit her work professionally anymore, though I’m sure he works on her books at home.
But now they’re newly engaged and expecting a baby, and Ryan is happier than ever.
I try not to let the pang of jealousy that starts low in my belly take over.
At one point, that’s about how I saw my future going.
A wife, a couple of kids, a stable job. Maybe even a house in the suburbs with a dog and a white picket fence.
But when my mom died three years ago, my entire life changed. And then, there was Trina…
But I have to shut that thought down before it can take root.
Trina and I had agreed to hook up when we needed to blow off steam which, in a stressful industry like publishing, was often enough.
And then, when we were worried we’d get caught, we decided to end it.
I couldn’t be sleeping with her while she was pitching me manuscripts, or there would be accusations of favoritism at best—especially after Anastasios lost his cool over Scarlett and Ryan being intimately involved. At worst, we’d both be unemployed.
Except that was a year ago, and I haven’t heard a peep from her since.
Ryan’s phone rings far too loudly, ripping me from my memories. He glances at the screen, then shoots me a pointed look and answers it on speaker.
“Hi, beautiful. I’m still at the office with Casey.”
“Beautiful isn’t the word I’d use. I’m not even showing yet, but there’s not a single pair of pants that fit me. Whoever said pregnancy was magical was a damn liar. I can barely stomach food, and when I can, it makes me so bloated it’s like I’m a damn balloon—”
“When I said I was with Casey, I meant I’m in his office. You’re on speaker,” he rushes to cut her off.
I chuckle lightly. “Hi, Scarlett.”
She pauses for a moment, and the sound of the road hums through the phone in the silence. “You know what? I’m not even sorry you heard that. Don’t ever tell a woman early pregnancy is magical.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Now that that’s settled,” Ryan jumps in. “Casey’s coming to dinner with us.”
“Oh, great!” Scarlett immediately perks up. “That’s actually why I’m calling. Since I couldn’t find pants, I’m running about five minutes late.”
“I don’t want to impose on your date night,” I try again, even though I know it’s useless.
“Nonsense,” Scarlett says, her tone completely flat as if she’s not even sure she wants to dignify what I said with a response. “See you both soon.” And then she hangs up.
Ryan slides his phone into his back pocket, then stalks over to my desk. He uses his pointer finger to slowly, intentionally close my laptop, staring at me the entire time. “You heard the lady. Let’s go.”
Unlike most publishers’ offices, Anastasios Press is not in a city.
Rather, it’s situated firmly in the western suburbs of Chicago.
Anastasios was apparently hell-bent on creating a better work-life balance for himself and his employees and thought a suburban setting would do the trick.
For the most part, it seems to have worked.
The building backs up to a grassy park with benches, picnic tables, and walking paths that almost everyone takes advantage of on their lunch breaks.
For several employees, working in the suburbs means less of a commute.
But a few JMP transplants—myself included—kept our places in the city.
Suburban life is slower and quieter, and I don’t say that as a value statement.
It’s just true, and it’s not for me. Give me the vibrant, fast-paced noise of the city any day.
I was born and raised in Chicago. My dad and brother are still in Chicago, too.
And I’d rather have the small, local pubs and quaint independent bookstores the Chicago neighborhoods provide over the chain restaurants and big-box stores that have populated outside the city’s borders.
So when Ryan drives for about fifteen minutes and turns down the street of what looks like an older, downtown area, I’m pleasantly surprised.
The buildings are huddled together and entirely unique, and the sun has set enough that the streets are illuminated by old-timey streetlamps.
Café tables are situated under awnings lined with string lights, and people crowd around them, enjoying their drinks in the warm, late-spring evening air.
“Huh,” I muse. “I didn’t know this suburb had a downtown.”
“That’s because you don’t venture out of the office very much,” Ryan says pointedly as he swings the steering wheel around and pulls his car into a parking space right in front of what looks like an Italian restaurant.
The building has a limestone facade and large, arched windows offering a view of a dimly lit interior.
My gaze slides to Ryan, who is typing something on his phone. “Did you invite me out tonight as some kind of intervention?”
“Honestly, I had no intention of inviting you out until I did it.” He pushes his glasses further up his nose and locks his phone. “But it’s not bad to have a social life, you know?”
“Says the man who moped around for five years after his girlfriend ghosted him.”
“I never said I was perfect,” he concedes, clapping me on the shoulder. “But I’m trying. And now, so are you. Scarlett grabbed a table already. Let’s go.”
I’m a little disappointed when we walk right past the Italian place because even from the sidewalk, it smells amazing. But when I see Scarlett sitting outside at a wood-fired pizza joint, my mouth starts watering.