Chapter 4
THURSDAY, JUNE 10
If Sawyer had one thing in plentiful supply that summer, it was “alone time.”
Even before the summer rolled around, Sawyer spent her lunch hours alone. It wasn’t that Sawyer necessarily wanted to eat alone; it had to do with the daily schedule. In addition to being a stickler about the pronunciation of her name, Johanna was also a stickler about the phones being manned at all times. She lived in horror of the idea that a single call for her desk might roll to voicemail, or worse yet, roll down to the publisher’s central receptionist.
Most days, Johanna was scheduled to have lunch with a literary agent or a fellow publishing executive…or occasionally, an author. A little after the clock struck noon, she would typically tie a Hermès scarf about her neck, tuck her handbag under her arm, and sail out the door, calling over her shoulder (somewhat erroneously), Be back soon, girls. As a faint cloud of Chanel No. 5 settled in Johanna’s wake, Kaylee—who held three months’ seniority over Sawyer and was assigned to the first lunch shift—would quickly gather her things and dash out to catch up with a gaggle of other editorial assistants headed to lunch, while Sawyer would remain behind to answer Johanna’s phone. Around 1:30 p.m., Kaylee would return to cover the phones, and Sawyer would be free to take her lunch from 1:30 to 2:30 p.m.
By then, though, there would be no one to take lunch with.
When Sawyer first started at the company, she’d hoped to make friends—she’d always imagined publishing to be a very social industry. But she felt completely cast adrift, especially during her lunch hour. The publishing house was located in the East Fifties. Midtown was all concrete and narrow sidewalks, cabs honking, everyone walking fast, no place for dawdling or a leisurely bag lunch.
Then, a few months into the job, she turned a corner and happened upon something she never in a million years expected to see in Midtown Manhattan: rushing water, and an oasis of green. She stared into the peaceful space wedged amid a cluster of high-rise buildings, utterly baffled. She thought it was some fancy restaurant’s patio, but a sign announced the name, “Greenacre Park.” The benches, the tables and chairs, were open to the public.
She started bringing her brown-bag lunch to the park, where she would sit at a little café table overlooking the waterfall that rushed over the vaguely Japanese-style geometric blocks of granite, a fountain of green ivy cascading lushly beside it. She often brought along a manuscript from the office. There, in the park, working didn’t feel like work; she enjoyed reading and coming up with editorial notes—a reminder of why she’d wanted so badly to work in publishing in the first place. She was starting to feel like she had what it took to be a top editor—someone who read carefully and whose mind automatically flexed like a muscle, gravitating naturally to all the places that could use a little tightening and brightening, and knowing where to suggest cuts.
Discovering the park had transformed her otherwise lonely lunch hour into a peaceful, productive part of her day.
And then there were days when, instead of a manuscript from the office, she started bringing a notebook of her own. She’d always liked to write, though she had never called herself “a writer.” Calling yourself a writer required a kind of hubris Sawyer found embarrassing. The people her own age who called themselves writers usually weren’t; most were pompous young men who dreamed of fame and fortune. They did a lot of posturing, but very little actual writing.
Over the course of that first year in New York, Sawyer had begun to finish full drafts of stories and poems. She was surprised when she finished not only first drafts but second drafts. Before she knew it, she began to finish third drafts…and then drafts that felt so finished she didn’t know what else she could possibly do with them.
Except, she did know. The next logical step for a writer was to submit her work for publication. The thought thrilled Sawyer—but also terrified her a little. Earlier that spring, in a fit of sudden bravery, she’d mailed a handful of her best poems to some of the literary journals she revered, knowing it was a long shot. New, online literary “e-zines” had started to become a thing. They were less of a long shot, but a number of them were becoming rather well regarded, putting their poets up for Pushcarts and The Best American Poetry series. Sawyer picked her two favorites and also mailed off a pair of “e-submissions.”
Then the fit of bravery passed. Her submissions were out in the world, but she didn’t expect anything to really come of them. She almost forgot she’d sent them anywhere at all (which spared her the rush of embarrassment to imagine an editor might be actually reading them).
So, when Sawyer arrived home that Thursday, she wasn’t thinking of her poems as she opened the apartment windows, then plopped down in the chair at the little computer desk in the kitchen. She waited through the snowy hiss and squelch of the dial-up for a familiar sound—
“WELCOME! You’ve got mail!”
She smiled, assuming Autumn had replied to her latest email.
But when she clicked on her inbox, she discovered a surprise: there, in the top line, a reply to a batch of poems she had submitted…and best of all, the editor of the e-zine was writing to say that they would love to add one of her poems to the online edition they were about to post, and also enter it into consideration for their prestigious end-of-year printed edition.
Sawyer read the email once, then twice, then made an involuntary noise that sounded like a crow cawing and clapped a hand over her mouth.
She got up from the computer desk and went to the fridge, unsure if she was looking to celebrate or tranquilize herself. She found a bottle of white wine that she and Charles had opened a few nights ago and forgotten about…She pulled out the cork and sniffed, then poured herself a glass. The evening was muggy and the wine was icy cold from having been pushed to the back of the fridge.
When she sat back down at the computer desk, she reread the e-zine editor’s acceptance letter one more time, and thought about emailing Autumn to share the news. But when she clicked over to her inbox, she noticed a second email waiting there. She blinked, baffled, and squinted more closely at the sender’s name.
She didn’t know any [email protected].
The subject line read: “My Apologies.”
Frowning, she clicked on it.
From: [email protected]
Hi Sawyer.
I wanted to say I’m sorry if I was a dick to you at the Wexler Gibbons thing. I didn’t mean to pick on your name. I’m not always good with people. I can be insensitive, or so I’m told. I kind of have a biting sense of humor, too. It gets me into trouble. Anyway, I promise it was nothing personal. You seem perfectly nice and it’s been on my mind that maybe I offended you. That was not my intent.
Sorry again,
Nick
Sawyer stared at the email in shock. She was still baffled—no longer baffled about who the sender was, but rather, utterly surprised that he had sent it.
How had he even gotten her email address?
She seriously doubted he’d asked Kendra to ask Charles for her address. In fact, something in her gut told her Kendra and Charles were oblivious to the contentious exchange she’d had with Nick, let alone the fact that he’d sent an email to tell her he was sorry.
So, Nick had looked her up somehow. Which must have taken at least a little effort. She’d never mentioned her last name to Nick at the Wexler Gibbons dinner. Her screen name, [email protected], was a roundabout jokey reference to her first name, easy for friends to remember but probably not easy for a stranger to pull out of thin air.
Sawyer stared at the screen. She tried to make up her mind whether to respond.
The angel sitting on her right shoulder felt touched that Nick had decided to apologize—maybe even strangely flattered in a way…but the devil sitting on her other shoulder needled her with his pitchfork to give Nick a little bit of what he’d dished out at the Wexler Gibbons dinner back to him.
She clicked on the reply button. A new window popped open, the message screen white and blank, the cursor blinking. Waiting. She thought for a moment.
An idea came to her, and she clicked back to his message, copied it, and pasted it into her reply window. Then she got to work, her fingers dancing lightly over the keyboard. When she was done, she reread her reply:
From: [email protected]
Hi Nick,
I’ve inserted my editorial comments below, in parentheses, and free of charge:
I wanted to say I’m sorry if I was a dick to you at the Wexler Gibbons thing. (Reconsider use of “if”) I didn’t mean to pick on your name. (Fact check: You absolutely meant to pick on my name) I’m not always good with people. (This checks out) I can be insensitive, or so I’m told. (Cut—redundant) I kind of have a biting sense of humor, too. (“Humor” implies wit, amusement, making people laugh…word choice does not seem to apply to what you are calling “humor”) It gets me into trouble. Anyway, I promise it was nothing personal. (Erroneous use of expression “nothing personal”—you mocked my name and made assumptions about my personal background) You seem perfectly nice and it’s been on my mind that maybe I offended you. That was not my intent. (Ambiguous ending—What WAS your intent?)
Sorry again,
Nick
This concludes your free editorial consult. You’re welcome.
Sawyer.
Sawyer looked the message over, wondering if she should actually send it. She wasn’t used to being so acerbic and in-your-face. He might be offended.
After a moment, Sawyer convinced herself: Why should it be her problem if Nick was offended? He started it. And young women were always tiptoeing around men. He was probably expecting her to thank him for the apology. And as far as she could tell, he could use a little pushback.
She took a breath, and moved her mouse to click send.
WHOOSH!
Sawyer assumed it would be easy to keep her mind occupied with the good news about her poem…but as the minutes ticked by, she found her thoughts returning to Nick’s email…and her reply. The exchange danced in her brain.
After an hour of debating her own regret, Sawyer decided to log back on and reread what she’d written. She returned to the computer desk and waited for the dial-up to connect. Once it did, she was surprised to be greeted yet again by the same sound she’d heard earlier—“You’ve got mail!”
She clicked on her inbox, and there it was:
[email protected]. RE: My Apologies
A hot flush crept into her cheeks. She tried to ignore it. She clicked on the email and opened it.
From: [email protected]
Hi Sawyer.
Good to know you got my email. Thank you for your free editorial consult. I guess you DID give me fair warning at the dinner that you work in publishing. I have other friends who work in publishing; from what I hear, given the pay scale in your field, “free editorial consult” might be somewhat redundant, so maybe that’s an edit you can use on your edits. But what do I know, I’m just the guy who sold his soul to work in that field of lesser literary masterpieces, otherwise known as advertising, where the object is to sell something with as few words as possible, and preferably with a photo of a hot girl or a chimp in a tuxedo. It ain’t Chekhov, but we do try to dot our “i”s and cross our “t”s from time to time.
I really am sorry that I was rude to you.
—Nick
Sawyer blinked at the glowing computer screen, unsure how to make heads or tails of what she’d just read. Was he putting her down again? Or putting himself down? Or…both?
In the next second, Sawyer had clicked on reply.
From: [email protected]
Dear Nick,
Your publishing friends speak the truth. While it is currently 1999, publishing salaries are stuck in 1959. But if this is your punch line of sorts, we need to revisit that “definition of humor” thing again.
As for your commentary about your own profession—I only met you once, and this is the second time you have dubbed yourself a “sellout” for working in advertising. If you don’t like it, why don’t you just quit?
—Sawyer
Sawyer clicked send.
Ordinarily, when she was done checking and sending emails, she logged off. But this time she got up to pour the remainder of the wine from the fridge in her glass, then sat back down at the computer desk. And there it was again—“You’ve got mail!”
She clicked on [email protected] without a second’s hesitation, now deeply curious about his response.
From: [email protected]
Can’t quit. But that’s another story.
—N
Sawyer clicked reply.
From: [email protected]
Funny thing about people who work in publishing—we happen to like stories. Lay it on me.
—S
She waited. After five minutes, her inbox lit up with a new email again.
From: [email protected]
Nah, we’ll save it for another time. It’s great that you love your work. What is your favorite part?—N
Sawyer grinned and replied immediately.
From: [email protected]
Lunch.
—S
She waited. And waited.
Then, suddenly a box popped up on her screen—AOL Instant Messenger. Sawyer jumped.
Nikolai70:No, seriously.
Nikolai70:Or is this your attempt to school me further on the subject of humor?
Sawyer blinked, feeling a little naked, almost as if Nick had come into her apartment unannounced. She thought about what to do. She wasn’t one for instant messaging—it seemed like that was for people who spent their time in chat rooms. She took a deep breath, braced herself, and placed her slightly trembling hands over the computer keys.
Adventures_of_Tom:No—seriously!
Adventures_of_Tom:Lunch.
Nikolai70:So you’re a slacker in wolf’s clothing?
Nikolai70:Hey, no judgment from me. Lunch has been my favorite part of the day ever since they started serving tater tots in the school cafeteria in the third grade, whereupon it narrowly beat out my other favorite, recess.
Adventures_of_Tom:“Whereupon”?
Nikolai70:Yes. I believe that is an accurate use of the term.
Adventures_of_Tom:It’s very formal.
Nikolai70:I told you—lunch is my manifesto. Lunch, and general slack-ery.
Adventures_of_Tom:Oh, man. You’re going to hate the real reason that lunch is my favorite, then.
Nikolai70:Don’t tell me!—“You get your best work done on your lunch hour.” Barf.
Adventures_of_Tom:But I do!
Nikolai70:You’re right, that violates every tenet of my manifesto. You’re beyond saving if you sit at your desk. Nothing sadder than a chick sitting at her desk during lunch eating a yogurt.
Adventures_of_Tom:Do people still say “chick” these days?
Adventures_of_Tom:And while we’re on the subject, do people still say “barf”?
Nikolai70:I do. I say both.
Adventures_of_Tom:Well, to answer your question, I do NOT sit at my desk.
Nikolai70:There is hope for you yet.
Adventures_of_Tom:But I do go to the same place every day. I found this tiny but really amazing place—Greenacre Park. Do you know it?
Nikolai70:Nope.
Adventures_of_Tom:Oh, it’s crazy! It’s smack in the middle of Midtown, this little green oasis with a waterfall and café tables.
Nikolai70:New York has a lot of cool surprises. I’m from here, but you still find unexpected stuff to inspire you, all the time.
Adventures_of_Tom:Stuff inspires you?
Nikolai70:Yeah, you know. To write the perfect one-word slogan to pair with a giant photo of a chimp in a tuxedo.
Adventures_of_Tom:Don’t sprain yourself.
Nikolai70:I don’t. Like I said: Chimp in a tuxedo. That does all the heavy lifting.
Adventures_of_Tom:Anyway. I like it there. In the park. And because I take my lunch late (the other editorial assistant goes first) the park is always empty when I go.
Nikolai70:That sounds a little sad.
Adventures_of_Tom:I don’t ALWAYS do work. Sometimes I just write.
Nikolai70:Write?
Adventures_of_Tom:My own things. I like to write.
Nikolai70:Hmm. So you’re a writer.
Adventures_of_Tom:I like to write. I don’t know if that makes me a writer.
Nikolai70:OK, I concede. You’re a cut above the yogurt-at-their-desks girls.
Adventures_of_Tom:I’m glad my existence meets with your approval.
Nikolai70:I’m sensing some sarcasm, but I’m gonna move past that.
Nikolai70:What have you written?
Adventures_of_Tom:Ha ha. Nothing you would know.
Nikolai70:I won’t take that personally.
Nikolai70:But my friend the chimp might. He’ll have you know, he’s very well read and up on all his literary fiction. Like I said: Tuxedo. Classy.
Adventures_of_Tom:Well
Sawyer stopped typing abruptly, and her pinky accidentally hit enter as she froze. Why was she telling him all this? About the park. About her writing.
Was it the wine? Or the fact that talking over the internet didn’t feel quite real? She couldn’t figure it out.
And she couldn’t figure out why she wanted to tell him even more.
The computer pinged with a new message.
Nikolai70:“Well”—what?
Adventures_of_Tom:Sorry
Adventures_of_Tom:Actually, I got my first acceptance from a literary magazine today.
Adventures_of_Tom:Well, it’s an online e-zine. But it’s pretty cool. My poem’s not up yet, but here’s a link to the site—www.DeckleEdgeOnline.org
Nikolai70:Congratulations. That’s big.
Adventures_of_Tom:Thank you.
Sawyer stopped typing again. She immediately felt a small twinge of regret. Her cheeks grew warm with embarrassment. The computer pinged again.
Nikolai70:Hey, I have to run.
Nikolai70:But congrats again.
Nikolai70:And I’m glad I didn’t offend you.
Sawyer smiled.
Adventures_of_Tom:Short memory. You DID offend me.
Nikolai70:Oh, yeah—that’s right. I did. I meant I’m glad you’ve forgiven me.
Adventures_of_Tom:Did I?
Nikolai70:If you didn’t, I’ll get the chimp in a tuxedo on the case. That’ll do it.
Adventures_of_Tom:I’m sure.
Nikolai70:No one says no to a chimp in a tuxedo. I’m telling you.
Nikolai70:OK, but for real, gotta go. Nice talking to you.
Sawyer scrambled for something to say back—something nice. But before she could type anything at all, he was already gone, logged off.
She sat there, staring at the screen, still surprised by the interaction. She scrolled and skimmed back over the messages they had exchanged. He was still kind of a cocky jerk, but he wasn’t all bad. She sighed, alone again, and closed the AIM window.
Then she glanced at the time and blinked in surprise. The evening had flown by, which felt strange—Sawyer had grown so accustomed to watching the clock and wondering when Charles might come home.
A short while later, Sawyer heard Charles’s key turn in the lock. She glanced at the time again—force of habit. 8:58 p.m. That wasn’t so bad. And, he was balancing a six-pack of cold beers atop a box of hot pizza. Sawyer recognized the logo from the devilishly delicious-yet-greasy pizza joint on the corner by the subway. He threw his keys on the entry table and grinned.
“I thought since it was looking like I’d be home in time for Thursday-night TV, we could do pizza and beer on the couch.”
Sawyer smiled.
“Sounds perfect.”
He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, tossed his clothes over a chair, and flicked on the TV. Sawyer ducked into the kitchen, grabbed two plates and a roll of paper towels, and brought them over to the coffee table.
The show started. It was a rerun of Frasier that Sawyer had already seen, but Charles hadn’t, and Sawyer was content to enjoy it together. The pizza was hot and delicious; they folded each slice in half and reddish-orange pepperoni oil dripped from the corners. During commercials, their hands were too greasy to hit mute on the remote, but they tried to talk over them.
“Any wedding updates from my mom?” Charles asked.
“Not today,” Sawyer answered.
“Hey—how’s Autumn doing in Japan?”
“She’s good. She made a French friend.”
“In Japan?”
Sawyer nodded. Charles laughed as though to say, That Autumn, what a nut, but didn’t ask anything further. The commercial ended and the show came back on.
Later, after Frasier ceded to Will Grace, and eventually to ER, Sawyer glanced over to where Charles sat, now reclined on the couch, his expression tired and zombie-like. She couldn’t help but wonder if they should have spent some of their time actually talking to each other.
Or doing something else.
They hadn’t had sex in a while.
They’d always found time in the past—even when Charles was in law school and had to cram all night for a test, Sawyer had put on a pot of coffee and stayed up with him and they’d found ways to fit in “study breaks” (I’ve never seen someone take the “flash” in “flashcards” so literally, Charles had once joked with a smile). They’d been together since college, when Sawyer was just nineteen—so she knew it wasn’t always glamor and fireworks; sometimes it was beer and laundry day. But they were comfortably affectionate. They’d always made time.
Her mind flicked back to the Chinese restaurant receipt she’d found.
As hard as she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to get it out of her head.
When they got into bed an hour later, Charles rolled over on his side and immediately began snoring. It always took Sawyer a little longer to drop off. She stared up at the ceiling, thinking. Tomorrow would mark another summer Friday. She pondered what she could do to fill up the time.
It dawned on Sawyer: she hadn’t told Charles her news about having her poem accepted to the online literary magazine.
The only person she’d told was Nick—Nick, the guy who had so rudely snubbed her at the Wexler Gibbons dinner.
How strange that was.