Chapter 17
THURSDAY, JULY 22
The next morning, Sawyer stirred to the rustlings of Charles getting up while it was still dark, and packing up his gym bag.
She felt strange that morning, withdrawn and a little down; after talking to Kathy on the phone, they’d never gotten a chance to circle back to the conversation about Chicago…or about other things. Now, as Charles soft-shoed around the bedroom, Sawyer rolled to face away from him, and accidentally fell back into a deep, dark sleep.
When she woke up later, she was jolted from a comatose state. She immediately realized she’d somehow overslept.
She was late for work.
She scrambled to shower and dress and tumbled out the door, running for the subway.
Usually, Sawyer beat Kaylee into the office by fifteen minutes, and beat Johanna into the office by at least an hour or two. As the “second assistant,” she was unofficially expected to be the first person in. But as luck would have it that day, Sawyer wound up running for the elevator and shouting, “Hold it, PLEASE!”
A kind soul held the closing door, and as Sawyer slipped inside, she found herself in a crowd of bodies that included Kaylee…and an early-to-rise Johanna. The elevator smelled of coffee, newsprint, soap, and competing perfumes.
“Hey, Sawyer,” Kaylee said, smiling sympathetically.
“Morning,” Sawyer replied.
Johanna had not removed her sunglasses, but Sawyer was able to make out the shape of her eyes through the dark lenses. Her eyelids were partially lowered in a disapproving squint. She probably now assumed it was Sawyer’s regular habit to arrive barely on time.
“Morning, Johanna,” Sawyer said, immediately regretting her overly cheerful tone.
There was another woman in the elevator with them, also headed to their floor—a young, up-and-coming editor named Erin Michaels. Erin was older than Sawyer but still probably in her late twenties or very early thirties. She represented a kind of transitional make-it-or-break-it point in publishing; Erin didn’t have an assistant yet (given that she had somewhat recently been one herself) but was already established enough for Sawyer to have admired the budding list of impressive authors and titles Erin had acquired over the past year.
Sawyer liked her, but didn’t know her very well.
“Morning, Sawyer—I’ve actually been meaning to congratulate you,” Erin greeted her, smiling.
Sawyer frowned, confused. “Congratulate me?”
“Yes.” Erin nodded enthusiastically. “A good friend of mine works at The Paris Review…When we were out for drinks the other night, he mentioned that they’d accepted a poetry submission from someone who works here at the publishing house. I asked him who, and was excited to hear it was you—I didn’t even know you wrote poetry; that’s so great.”
Sawyer’s face had gone crimson, but she was grinning in spite of herself.
“Oh—thank you,” she stammered.
“Of course,” Erin said as the elevator dinged, announcing their floor. “I can’t wait to read your poems, and congratulations again—it’s an honor to have an accomplished writer among us.”
Erin led the way off the elevator, dressed for summer in a casual linen sheath dress and matching linen jacket, somehow chic and practical, all at the same time. She smiled and nodded, then continued through the maze of open-plan cubicles, bound for the section designated for a neighboring imprint under the same overall publisher. Sawyer watched her go, feeling both flattered by Erin’s compliment and a little overwhelmed. She hadn’t really thought about telling anybody she worked with about her poems, much less pictured what it would be like to have her colleagues read one.
“Tea, Sawyer,” Johanna reminded her, snapping her out of her reverie.
“Of course!” Sawyer said, shaking herself. “I’m on it.”
She hurried across the office floor, threw her messenger bag on her desk, and headed directly to the kitchen to make Johanna’s morning tea. Johanna disappeared into her office, but Sawyer was surprised when she felt Kaylee behind her, close on her heels.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Sawyer volleyed back, filling an electric kettle with filtered water and standing on tiptoe to reach for a packet of English breakfast tea.
“God, that was awkward,” Kaylee said. “But I don’t think Erin meant to out you.”
Sawyer frowned as she hunted for a teacup that would pass Johanna’s standards of approval (no mugs, and definitely no mugs with logos was Johanna’s rule…).
“What do you mean—‘out’ me?” Sawyer asked, confused.
Sawyer turned to look at her. Kaylee’s eyes went wide.
“Oh…” she murmured. “You don’t know…”
“Know what?”
Kaylee stared, wide-eyed, for another moment, then refocused her attention on Sawyer. “Can you grab a drink after work?” She darted a look in both directions, almost as though she was guilty of something. “Like, a quick drink?”
“Um, sure,” Sawyer replied, caught off guard. “Is everything OK?”
Kaylee darted another furtive look, quickly left and right.
“Yeah. It just dawned on me that there are some things you might not know. And…well, we should do a drink and talk.”
Kaylee pushed her hair behind her ears and smiled, then hurried back to her desk, leaving Sawyer to finish making Johanna’s tea.
The day went by slowly after that. Sawyer couldn’t help but wonder what Kaylee had meant—oh, you don’t know—and what she wanted to tell Sawyer over drinks. Sawyer knew they would both wait until Johanna had left before leaving themselves. She would have to be patient.
Eventually, as the workday dragged to a close, Johanna emerged from her office and headed to the elevator, trailing a fresh spritz of perfume—the usual sign that she was done for the day. Once Sawyer and Kaylee were sure she wasn’t coming back, they exchanged a look and quickly packed up their things.
Out on the streets of Midtown, Sawyer left it up to Kaylee to choose a place as they walked around. Sawyer understood: Kaylee was looking for a restaurant where Johanna was unlikely to ever set foot, in order to reduce the chances of running into her as close as possible to zero.
They passed a Houston’s, and Kaylee finally stopped and doubled back.
“Here,” she said.
They went inside and found a pair of empty seats at the bar.
The restaurant’s ambience was difficult to pin down. A modernist Texas steak house, with iron sculptures, dark leather, and random splashes of black-and-white-spotted cowhide. The menu boasted “New American Cuisine” with steak and lobster prices. It was a confusing mixture of chic urban steak house and suburban chain restaurant, odd in the context of New York City.
Sawyer and Kaylee sat at the bar, and set about studying a menu that listed the restaurant’s “signature cocktails.” It was happy hour, which meant the overpriced sixteen-dollar cocktails were now eight dollars—still a little steep for Sawyer’s everyday budget. She picked something that promised to have vodka and lime, and a splash of raspberry.
“I’ll do the same,” Kaylee agreed, after the bartender came to take their order.
She handed him the menu, which he accepted, but simply repositioned on the bar. He bustled off to make the drinks. Kaylee turned to Sawyer, her long strawberry-blond hair shining halolike under the bar’s dark-and-bright spotlights.
“I feel bad,” Kaylee started, “because you have that god-awful late lunch hour, so no one keeps you up-to-date when it comes to…well, the grapevine.”
“The grapevine?”
“Yeah. Especially about Johanna.”
“What about Johanna?”
“Well, for starters, let me just say: I think it’s great that you write,” Kaylee said. She grabbed Sawyer’s hand and squeezed it for emphasis. “I think it’s great that you’re a writer.”
Sawyer was touched. She smiled cautiously, not sure where this was going.
“But rumor has it, Johanna hates having writers for assistants. Evidently that’s a thing with her. Usually, she refuses to hire them,” Kaylee explained.
“Huh,” Sawyer said, mulling this. Great, she thought. Yet another reason for Johanna to dislike me. She attempted a weak smile for Kaylee’s sake. “But I’ve already been hired,” she said with a small but cheerful shrug.
Kaylee made a pained face. “Well…that’s the thing. When I first started, some of the other assistants told me a little bit about the girl before me—the one I replaced. I think her name was Christine, if I remember right. Anyway, everyone said she was really smart and organized and a hard worker…but it came out that she also liked to write. She was working on a short-story collection or a novel or something, and Johanna couldn’t stand that about her.”
Sawyer shook her head, confused. “What are you saying happened? Johanna fired her?”
“Well, yes and no,” Kaylee replied. “The girl worked under Johanna for three years, and was due for a promotion. But I guess at some point she got into Yaddo, and asked for some time off to go. It was just going to be for two weeks in order to do a little work on her novel, and Johanna has always had the luxury of having two assistants anyway, but according to the girls who told me the story, that was the kiss of death for the girl’s job. Johanna told the girl she could have the time off to go to Yaddo, but when she came back, Johanna basically made her life miserable, to the point of quitting. So, she didn’t exactly fire her, but…”
“I see…” Sawyer replied, taking all this in. She chewed her lip, suddenly feeling more than a little doomed.
“I’m not saying that’s what’s going to happen to you,” Kaylee insisted in an encouraging voice. “I…just…I thought you should know.”
“I appreciate it, Kaye,” Sawyer said. “I do.”
“I feel bad. Like…I get all the gossip from the other assistants, and you don’t…”
“That’s not your fault, Kaye.”
“Well, anyway, I wanted to pull you aside and give you the heads-up. It’s good just to have a chance to talk outside the office sometimes. Let me get these drinks.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Nah, I want to. And, Sawyer—whatever happens, I know you’re doing a really good job for Johanna. I think you’ll make an awesome editor someday.”
Sawyer was moved by Kaylee’s kindness.
She thanked her.
As they sat sipping their drinks, Sawyer could feel her brain whirring away, replaying this news about Johanna, and wondering what, if anything, she could do.
Back at her apartment a short while later, Sawyer sat in front of her computer, once again staring at an empty inbox.
The kiss was still on her mind, a swirl of confusion, longing, and guilt—all adding up to the conclusion that she should probably leave well enough alone. But she also sort of, just…missed Nick. Was that possible? She’d only seen him in person a total of six times—including the time they’d briefly met and he’d insulted her. And yet, somehow he’d become a sounding board for her.
Now, she wanted to tell him about how badly everything seemed to be going with her boss—the stuff about Johanna nicknaming her “Eve Harrington,” and the warning Kaylee had just given her.
She wanted to talk to him…even just to hear one of his cocky opinions…she wouldn’t even mind getting into a heated debate over his insistence on using the word “chick.”
But then she remembered how he’d stormed off after kissing her, almost as if he was angry. And she recalled how she had suddenly left the club that night, when his band had been in the middle of playing a song—her song.
Maybe Nick didn’t want to hear from her at all.
But she also recalled his words…If you feel like talking to me, you should talk to me, he’d written over chat. After staring at her empty inbox for a few more minutes, Sawyer finally made up her mind. She opened a blank email and, without salutation or preamble, tapped out:
From: [email protected]
You once said that if I felt like talking to you, I should talk to you. So here I am. I’ve been having some issues at work, and I’ve been wanting to talk to someone about them. Well—not “someone.” You.
Sawyer hesitated, then added:
We don’t have to talk about the…you know, the thing that happened last Friday. If you don’t want to.
She paused one last time, gathering her courage, then added:
I just…I miss you. I’ve been thinking about you all week.
Before she could change her mind, she clicked send.
An hour later, she checked her email and saw that Nick had replied. She immediately clicked on his response.
From: [email protected]
Tomorrow’s Friday. Meet me by the subway entrance at the south end of Union Square when you get off work. I’ll be waiting.—N
Sawyer blinked at the terse email, reading and rereading the spare, toneless lines. She couldn’t guess what he was feeling, or what was going through his mind.
But she did know one thing: she knew she was going to be at the south end of Union Square tomorrow afternoon.