Chapter 13
WEDNESDAY, JULY 14
Sawyer had become so obsessed with logging into AOL and checking her inbox, she had forgotten to pay much attention to her regular mailbox.
Then, on the following Wednesday, she keyed open the tiny brass door of the mailbox in the antechamber of her apartment building to find something unexpected there.
An envelope. Slightly thick.
The self-addressed stamped envelope was both instantly familiar and alien to her at the same time. SASEs were standard practice when it came to sending out submissions to literary magazines. Sawyer had created this one on her home printer—feeding one of the security envelopes she’d bought in a value pack from Duane Reade through the printer’s tray slot while praying that nothing jammed.
It was strange to print an envelope addressed to yourself. It reminded Sawyer of how, when she was a child, her father insisted that if she wrote to Santa, Santa would write back to her. Now, Sawyer pictured her father writing those letters, addressing them to their own house, and even taking the trouble to drop them at the post office, so Sawyer could have the joy of having them delivered by the mailman, and how he must have felt when he spotted their return. Her SASEs were a bit like that—a little jolt of recognition to see something you made coming back to you.
However, while her father’s envelopes had brought charming albeit somewhat fictitious words from Santa, so far, Sawyer’s SASEs had only brought tidings of rejection.
Submitting to a literary magazine via snail mail meant picking out one or two of your best short stories, or a handful of your best poems, writing a cover letter, enclosing a self-addressed stamped envelope, and popping the whole thing in the mail. Sawyer had mostly forgotten about the handful of submissions she’d sent off via snail mail. One had come back within a week. The rejection slip itself (Thank you for thinking of us. Unfortunately, your submission was not right for the magazine at this time…) actually appeared to have been typed multiple times on a single piece of printer paper, photocopied, and scissored into narrow strips. When Sawyer opened the envelope, she thought it was empty at first, until she felt inside and found that narrow little slip of paper, like a little piece of ticker tape, neatly folded in half. Well, she figured—at least they weren’t killing more trees than they had to.
Another three SASEs had trickled back very slowly, all of them also very thin envelopes, but containing a full or at least a half sheet of paper. One even had a handwritten scrawl of blue ink: We enjoyed reading your poems! Do please try us again! Sawyer had been touched by the handwritten note…and even more touched by how happy it made her to be rejected so encouragingly. She’d all but forgotten about the “straggler” still out there. It was a long shot, anyway, and at some point, she figured no answer was an answer.
So, she was shocked when, that Wednesday evening, she reached into her small brass rectangle of a mailbox and pulled out her long-forgotten SASE. She was even more surprised when it felt like it wasn’t so thin as to contain a single slip of paper. She looked at the return address (the address she had typed and printed herself) and flinched at the confirmation: The Paris Review.
Her heart leapt into her throat. She worshipped The Paris Review.
As she stared at the envelope (not fat exactly, but definitely much thicker than any of the others had been!), her mind raced through the possibilities. Maybe it was a mix-up. Maybe they’d returned her submission pages to her, although their submission protocol specifically said that was not their practice.
Sawyer only knew one thing for sure: she couldn’t open the envelope there, in the cramped antechamber to her building where a neighbor (most likely Mrs. Kallenbach, who walked her incontinent beagle at least five times a day) was bound to pass by and ask Sawyer about the envelope she was clutching so tightly in her hand.
She took the envelope upstairs.
Once safely inside her apartment, Sawyer put the envelope on the desk in the kitchen and fired up the computer. She was tempted to email Autumn in Japan, but she knew she couldn’t expect any kind of immediate response.
She needed to tell someone about the envelope right now.
She contemplated phoning Charles at his office. She might not catch him. And even if she did…where to start? She hadn’t meant to keep her writing a secret; it had just sort of worked out that way.
The last time Sawyer had told Charles about her writing was back when they were in college. He’d humbly told her up front that he’d never been smart enough to really get poetry. So she’d given him a short story to read…and felt awful when he fell asleep, leaving most of it unread. This happened on a few successive nights, until she’d taken the story back. He never asked about it, and she let it drop.
She thought about this now.
And about Nick, and how he’d taken the trouble to find her previous poem on the internet and read it. There was really only one person in particular she was dying to tell about the envelope.
She hadn’t spoken to Nick since they’d spent Friday riding the Staten Island Ferry. Since then, she’d found herself staring pensively at an empty AOL inbox, daring herself to email him and chickening out.
But now, staring at that envelope, she decided to simply roll the dice. She opened up Instant Messenger. The green dot indicated that he was currently online. Her heart skipped a beat.
Adventures_of_Tom:Hey
She hit enter and waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Finally, the computer beeped.
Nikolai70:Hey back
Nikolai70:Look who decided to take the initiative to be the first to say hello
Sawyer felt herself grinning from ear to ear.
She took a minute, trying to think of what she wanted to say, and where she wanted to start. But evidently, she’d taken a second too long—the computer beeped again.
Nikolai70:I’m happy to hear from you
Sawyer’s smile widened to the point where it was almost maniacal.
Adventures_of_Tom:I’ve missed talking to you
Nikolai70:Ditto
Sawyer blushed, then felt ridiculous, then giggled, then felt more ridiculous, then chuckled harder.
Nikolai70:What’s up how’ve you been?
Her fingers flew over the keys, typing her response. She told him about the envelope she was looking at, and the fact that it was from The Paris Review.
Nikolai70:Wow. The Paris Review. That’s big.
Nikolai70:Even us ad company guys know about that one.
Adventures_of_Tom:It could be a rejection.
Nikolai70:It could be. But it’s not. You said the envelope feels thicker than one sheet of paper. I have a feeling. YOU have a feeling.
There was a pause as Sawyer stared at the envelope, realizing she’d failed to consider how her present plan could go wrong. Now she had an audience. The computer pinged with a new message.
Nikolai70:What are you waiting for? Rip that sucker open
He was right. There was no going back now. Sawyer took a breath, wiggled a finger under the sealed envelope flap, and ripped the envelope open.
Inside was a typed letter. Her eyes hungrily devoured the words. She read them twice, just to be sure.
Adventures_of_Tom:Nick…they want two of my poems! TWO
Nikolai70:That’s great!!!
Adventures_of_Tom:TWO
Adventures_of_Tom:I can’t believe it
Nikolai70:I can. We need to celebrate!
Sawyer was giddy. She read the letter again. There were other pages, too…a release form for her to sign and return, and an offer to pay fifty dollars for each of her poems. The grin on her face was so wide, her muscles actually ached.
Adventures_of_Tom:Yes! Let’s do something this Friday
Adventures_of_Tom:Oh! I know! Coney Island is on my list. Let’s celebrate by going to Coney Island!
Adventures_of_Tom:They’re paying me 50 big ones for each poem, and I owe you a hot dog or two. We can eat hot dogs and ride the rides until we’re literally sick with happiness
There was a pause when he didn’t respond right away. Finally, the computer pinged.
Nikolai70:I would love to
Nikolai70:But
Adventures_of_Tom:But what?
Nikolai70:I have a gig this Friday.
Sawyer frowned. A gig actually sounded like fun; she’d give anything to hear Nick play. But…there was no invitation implied by his words. A peculiar feeling came over her.
Adventures_of_Tom:There’s something else, too
Adventures_of_Tom: Isn’t there?
Nikolai70:Yes.
Nikolai70:Kendra. She wants to hang out this Friday.
Sawyer blinked at the screen, dumbfounded for a reply. Her ears were ringing, and her fingers hovered over her keyboard, frozen.
Nick’s words that day at the Yale Club about Kendra came floating back to Sawyer…he’d called her “spectacular,” and “uncomplicated.” Any time I’ve taken a step back, he’d said, she’s always made it worth my while to stick around. Sawyer’s stomach twisted.
She went to the fridge and poured herself a glass of cold wine.
She took a sip and sat back down.
Adventures_of_Tom:That’s great. Have fun!
Nikolai70:Yeah. I guess
Nikolai70:We’ll see. I should probably have a talk with her either way.
“A talk”? Sawyer wondered what this meant. But she reminded herself she had already gotten too involved, as evidenced by the present knots in her stomach.
Adventures_of_Tom:Hey, I’ve gotta run. I’ve got some stuff I’ve gotta go do.
Nikolai70:OK. Well, it was good to hear from you.
Nikolai70:Congrats on that Paris Review acceptance. That really is huge. I’m honored you looped me in. Someday, I’ll be telling everyone “I knew her when…”
Adventures_of_Tom:Ha ha. I doubt it. But that’s sweet.
Nikolai70:I mean it. You’re
Sawyer waited.
Nikolai70:I’m trying to think of the right word. But all I can think of is “something else”
Adventures_of_Tom:Huh. That’s sweet (I think?). Anyway, I really should go.
Nikolai70:OK. But let’s celebrate soon?
Adventures_of_Tom:Sure. Talk to you later
She didn’t wait for him to reply; she logged off.
The next day, Sawyer tried to hang on to her good feelings about having poems accepted by The Paris Review as long as she could. She carried the acceptance letter around in her bag and snuck a peek at it whenever she found herself feeling a little tired or discouraged about the workweek.
Or whenever she thought about Nick having plans on Friday.
That morning, Johanna surprised her by telling her to fetch a notepad and pen and follow her to the conference room, where she invited Sawyer to listen in on a scheduled call with Preeti Chaudhari to go over editorial notes.
“You said you wanted to shadow me,” Johanna said to Sawyer in a dry monotone. “Just remember: shadows don’t speak, so your role is to be a fly on the wall and take notes.”
“Of course!” Sawyer eagerly agreed. “Thank you so much for including me, Johanna. I really am very passionate about this author’s book, and I’m so grateful for the chance to learn.”
“All right. No fawning. Let’s see how we go. Remember—observe and take notes, only.”
The hour-long call passed quickly. Johanna started by unpacking the thoughts in her editorial letter—the content of which was already intimately familiar to Sawyer, who had typed the final draft of the letter and mailed it, along with a marked-up draft of the manuscript, to Preeti.
Together, Johanna and Preeti discussed some of the changes that needed to be made, and different ideas of how they might be accomplished. It was especially interesting to hear Preeti talk about her original inspiration for the novel, and which things she wanted to keep, and why. Toward the end of the call, Johanna shifted the focus to talk about deadlines, publication season, and a preliminary discussion of the book’s marketing tone. Preeti seemed humbly amenable and slightly awed. She laughed and admitted, “All of that part I totally leave in your expert hands, Johanna. Whatever I can do to help, I will, of course!”
What a strange thing it must be, Sawyer realized—to dedicate all that time to telling a particular story that seems to live solely inside you, and then hand it over to a publisher to be so formally introduced to the world as a “book”…and to have someone else decide the tone of that introduction, to boot.
As Johanna wrapped up the call, Sawyer felt a small inkling of confidence working its way into her bones. Something within her was rising like a balloon, growing increasingly certain with every passing day: She could do this. She could be an editor someday.
“Thank you again, Johanna.”
“Type up those notes and make a copy for Kaylee,” was all Johanna said.
“Oh, for sure. I’m on it!” Sawyer grinned.
Feeling like she’d had a productive workday, Sawyer went home that evening, her mood buoyed, despite the occasional thought that caused her mind to drift back to Nick.
When she arrived home, she was in for another shock: the sight of Charles in the kitchen, unpacking several bags of groceries.
“You’re…home early!” Sawyer said, shocked. The time on the oven clock said 6:09 p.m. The summer evening’s sunshine was still bright in the windows. “And…you brought home groceries?”
Charles grinned.
“Everything needed for…spaghetti night,” he said.
He brandished an arm to a row of ingredients he’d neatly lined up along the counter.
Sawyer smiled, taken off guard. “Spaghetti night” was an old ritual they used to have, back when Charles was still in law school. Sawyer would spend all evening helping him cram for one of his exams—constitutional law, torts, civil procedure—and when they were just about ready to drop, they would take a break, put on an old Louis Armstrong album, and cook spaghetti Bolognese together.
The cheerful, nostalgic music and the busywork in the kitchen somehow always revitalized them. Charles, in particular, really got into all the chopping and the dicing. At one point, after seeing Goodfellas, Charles insisted on trying the kitchen trick with the garlic that Paul Sorvino does in the movie—the one where Sorvino slices the garlic with a razor blade, slicing it “so thin that it liquefies in the pan with just a little oil.” Charles’s garlic never fully liquefied, but it was heavenly nonetheless: paper-thin slices that turned as transparent as glass in the extra-virgin olive oil, releasing a heady aroma into the air that made your mouth instantly water.
“How long has it been since our last spaghetti night?” Charles asked.
“I…can’t remember.”
“So: too long, then. Go get some comfy clothes on,” he said. “I’ll put the music on and start prepping.”
Sawyer hesitated, lingering for a moment. She glanced at the computer on the little desk in the kitchen, possessed by a brief longing to log on and check her email.
“What’s up, slowpoke?” Charles prodded. “Something wrong?”
Sawyer shook herself. “No,” she said. “I’ll go get changed.”
As Sawyer was changing out of her pencil skirt and blouse and into a comfy tank and pair of boxer shorts, she heard Louis Armstrong start to sing “La Vie en Rose” on the living room stereo speakers.
Back in the kitchen, she and Charles chopped and boiled and strained and simmered and prepared the spaghetti Bolognese like a well-olive-oiled machine. They had forgotten none of their old routine, and he had even bought some of the cheap Chianti they liked that came in a funny bottle encased in a straw basket that (as they had once been informed by a waiter) was called a fiasco. They sipped from two huge wineglasses as they cooked, the wine staining their lips and tongues a sickly purple.
The spaghetti came out perfect. Their teamwork was surprisingly still seamless, and Louis Armstrong’s froggy crooning had lost none of its charm. But Sawyer couldn’t help but feel she was floating outside her body, watching two strangers execute the motions to prepare a meal based on muscle memory alone.
When the food was ready, they sat down at the tiny kitchenette table squeezed between the computer desk and window. A tall glass votive with a picture of a Catholic saint on it that Sawyer had bought at the corner bodega flickered on the table between them. Charles refilled their wine with the straw Chianti bottle.
Their first few minutes of conversation were about how the food came out (good). Their next few minutes of conversation were about how Louis Armstrong was able to sing about sad things, yet put people in a happy mood (true then, true now). They politely asked each other how work was going (good, good).
A mutual silence settled between them as they continued eating.
“Hey,” Charles said, breaking into a smile. “Remember the time we tried to do spaghetti night with that pressure cooker my aunt sent us for Christmas, back in our old apartment in Boston?”
Sawyer nodded and laughed. “I had to use a mop to get the red sauce off the ceiling. I’m pretty sure I never got it all; it was everywhere.”
They laughed some more, and spent the rest of the dinner chuckling over old memories.
Later, as Sawyer washed the dishes and Charles dried, he planted affectionate kisses on her cheek in exchange for each dish she passed him. Eventually, she felt him sidle up behind her and nuzzle the back of her neck, planting little kisses there, too. Sawyer smiled at the warmth of his soft lips, but she found herself wondering at the return of the happy tide between them. Her thoughts eventually drifted back to how surprised she’d been to see Charles unpacking groceries in the kitchen in the first place…and then to his long hours, and Kendra.
She thought, too, about Nick and their online chat the day before. How he’d said he had plans with Kendra on Friday. It was only Thursday, but maybe Nick and Kendra were spending more time together in general. It was possible. Was Charles home now because Kendra was busy? Busy with Nick? Sawyer stiffened, bothered, though she could not be sure which part of the whole idea bothered her the most.
Meanwhile, Charles’s kisses to the back of her neck had escalated. His hands began to run lightly over the curves of her hips and waist. Sawyer shook herself, then pushed the nagging thought of Kendra and Nick from her mind. She tugged the rubber gloves from her hands, threw them in the sink, and turned to face Charles, meeting his lips with her own.
They moved together in the direction of the bedroom and eventually to the bed. He lifted her tank over her head. She reached for his shirt in return. They kissed again and fell together on their sides—their routine move; they would kiss on their sides until it was silently decided between the two of them who would be on top. Sawyer was surprised by how familiar it all felt. It was as if they had picked up exactly where they had left off, the dry spell immediately forgotten.
Charles’s torso twisted over hers and she understood he was moving to be on top. His kisses moved from her neck down her chest, his hands reached for the elastic waistband of the shorts she was still wearing, and—
“I KNOW,”Sawyer suddenly blurted out, before she was fully cognizant of the words leaving her lips.
Charles froze, his lips parted, mid-kiss. He sat up, then sat back on his haunches, kneeling on the bed, no longer on top of her. He frowned. “Know what?” he asked.
Sawyer thought for a fleeting moment. She’d been thinking of Kendra, the gym, the restaurant receipt, but she surprised herself again by saying, “That day in Central Park, during the carriage ride…your father told me about their, um…financial troubles.”
A dark shadow fell over Charles’s face. He looked strange.
“Why would he do that,” Charles finally said, when he spoke. It sounded like a thought, not a question, but Sawyer tried to answer it anyway.
“He was trying to help me understand why you’ve been working so hard, why you’ve been working such long hours to get your foot in the door at the firm,” Sawyer ventured.
Charles didn’t say anything.
“He felt it was important that you and I understand each other,” Sawyer added softly. “I think he just wanted to let me in.”
Charles remained silent. They were still on the bed together, but no longer touching. An unexpected palpable distance had opened up between them.
Sawyer pressed on.
“It did…” she started, but faltered, then gathered herself. “It did make me think about the timing of everything.”
At this, Charles’s spine straightened. “Timing?”
“Of our wedding,” Sawyer replied. “I feel strange now, to think of the expense…”
“That’s not why my father told you,” Charles said. “He doesn’t want you to worry about that.”
“I know,” Sawyer agreed, then paused. “And I know how important the wedding is to Kathy.” She hesitated again. “But it also made me wonder if that’s why our timeline has been so…you know, accelerated.”
Charles frowned, studying her face. A sudden comprehension filled his features.
“I’d always planned to propose,” he insisted.
Now, sensing that he needed to reassure her, he leaned forward on the bed and moved to draw Sawyer into his arms. He pulled her toward him, and they were lying together on their sides again, his arms around her.
“You were always the one for me,” Charles said, gently stroking her hair as he hugged her to his chest.
It sounded sincere. Sawyer slipped her arms through his and hugged him back. Then, after a minute, she wiggled free just a little, looking to restart things. She began by kissing his neck.
But something had shifted.
Charles kissed her back, but his kisses had cooled. Eventually, he curled around her so that they were spooning. He held on to her carefully, but with an unfamiliar sense of tension in his arms. Several long minutes passed, and Sawyer wondered if Charles intended for them to eventually fall asleep like that.
His voice was strangely cold when he finally spoke.
“I’m sorry. My father shouldn’t have told you anything about that stuff.”
She realized: He was embarrassed and angry. He hadn’t wanted to share with her about his parents’ financial situation. She’d forced his hand.
She didn’t know what to say. She threaded her arms through his, like drawing a coat tighter. They lay together in silence, both of them lost in thought, holding on to each other as if across a widening distance.