Chapter 2 #2
I declined the call and added another item to the list:
6. Red flags are apparently my favorite color
I was three drinks in and creating a subcategory titled "Signs Your Boyfriend is a Lying Sack of Shit" when my phone rang again. Not Ollie this time—my boss, Margaret, the Editorial Director who'd hired me eight years ago and scared me into competence.
I considered not answering. But Margaret didn't call unless it was important, and the last thing I needed was to be fired on top of everything else.
"Hello?"
"Farley." Her voice was sharp, efficient, laced with something that might have been concern if Margaret did concern. "What the hell happened tonight?"
"I'd rather not—"
"I don't care what you'd rather. Half of publishing is texting me about you having a breakdown at Savannah's party. Are you okay?"
The genuine worry in her voice made something crack in my chest. "I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar. Are you drinking?"
I looked at my glass. "Defining 'drinking' is really more of a philosophical—"
"Farley."
"Yes. I'm drinking."
She sighed, long and heavy. "Listen to me very carefully. You're taking your vacation time. All of it. Starting tomorrow."
"Margaret, I can't just—"
"Yes, you can. And you will. You've got four weeks of unused vacation time, and I'm not asking. I'm telling."
"But the acquisitions meeting on Monday—"
"Will happen without you."
"And the Whitmore manuscript—"
"Is being handled."
"Margaret—"
"Farley Michael Davenport." She used my full name, which meant she was done playing.
"You're one of the best editors I've ever worked with.
You're also wound tighter than a Victorian corset and apparently having some kind of personal crisis that I don't need details about but absolutely need you to deal with.
So here's what's going to happen. You're going to pack a bag and leave the city.
And you're going to take exactly zero work with you. "
"I can't just abandon—"
"If I hear from you even once during this vacation—if you send one email, make one phone call, edit one manuscript—I will fire you. Do you understand me?"
I blinked. "You'd fire me for working?"
"I'd fire you for being an idiot. You're burnt out, Farley. You've been burnt out for months. And now something's happened that's clearly broken something in you, so you're going to go fix it before you become useless to me."
"That's very touching."
"I don't give a fuck about whatever this is, Farley, so don’t read too much into this. I pay you for brilliant editorial instincts, which you can't have if you're having a nervous breakdown." She paused. "Where were you planning to go?"
I looked at the cabin reservation still open on my laptop. "Virginia. Blue Ridge Mountains."
"Perfect. Middle of nowhere. No cell service?"
"Probably spotty at best."
"Even better. Go. Drink. Cry. Do whatever you need to do. Come back in January as a functional human being."
"Margaret—"
"Goodbye, Farley. Merry Christmas. Don't contact me."
She hung up.
I stared at my phone, then at my drink, then at the cabin listing with its promises of "luxurious mountain retreat" and "perfect escape."
My phone buzzed with notifications. Publishing Twitter was apparently on fire.
@BookishGossip: SOURCES SAY major drama at Savannah Flores party tonight involving prominent editor and cheating scandal??? ????
@PublishingTea: Not naming names but a certain power couple in publishing might be OVER and we are LIVING for this mess
@LiteraryNews: Industry insiders report altercation at high-profile book launch. Details emerging.
I closed Twitter before I could see more, then another text popped up on my phone.
Ollie: Can we please talk like adults?
I started typing a response, deleted it, started again, deleted it again. What was there to say? Hey, thanks for cheating on me with my assistant and also stealing my editorial strategies to boost your own career, really appreciate the three years of lies.
Instead, I opened a new note and started yet another list:
Reasons This is Actually Fine: 1.
I stared at the blank space for a long moment, then added:
1. It's not fine.
2. Nothing is fine.
3. Everything is terrible.
4. But at least I have bourbon.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was a group text from three other editors I occasionally got drinks with:
Laura: Oh honey. I just heard. Are you okay? David: Who do I need to kill?
Rachel: We're coming over with ice cream and wine.
Me: Please don't. I'm fine. Going out of town.
Laura: LIAR
David: We're coming anyway
Me: I'm already drunk and packing. Save the ice cream for when I'm back.
Rachel: We love you. Ollie's an asshole.
David: A HUGE asshole
Laura: The biggest asshole in publishing and that's really saying something
I smiled despite myself, feeling tears prick at my eyes again.
Me: Love you guys. Talk in January.
I set my phone face-down and opened my suitcase, the expensive leather one I'd bought specifically for this trip. The trip that was supposed to be romantic, and where I was going to propose.
I laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that echoed in my apartment.
The ring box was in my bedside drawer. I'd bought it two months ago, a simple platinum band that cost three months' salary. I'd been planning to propose on Christmas Eve, in front of the fireplace, with snow falling outside and every cliché romantic detail perfectly arranged.
I pulled out the box, opened it, stared at the ring that represented a future that no longer existed.
Then I threw it across the room.
It bounced off the wall and rolled under the couch, and I felt absolutely nothing.
I returned to packing with methodical precision, because if I couldn't control my relationship or my career or my personal assistant's wandering tongue, I could at least control my luggage organization.
Clothing: Sorted by type and temperature appropriateness
Toiletries: Alphabetized Books: Stacked by priority reading order
Alcohol: All of it
I was folding my fourth sweater when my phone rang again. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Farley? It's Savannah. I'm using my publicist's phone because I figured you'd ignore mine."
"I'm not ignoring you. I'm just—"
"Having the worst night of your life?" Her voice was gentle, concerned. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea about Ollie and Roger. If I'd known—"
"It's not your fault." I sat down on my bed, suddenly exhausted. "Your party was perfect. I'm sorry I ruined it."
"You didn't ruin anything. But honey, are you going to be okay?"
I looked around my apartment—at the packing list, the half-empty bourbon bottle, the engagement ring somewhere under my couch—and wondered what "okay" even meant anymore.
"I'm going to Virginia tomorrow. Taking some time off."
"Good. That's good." She paused. "For what it's worth, Ollie's an idiot. And Roger's been blacklisted by every editor in that room. Nobody's going to hire him after this."
The vindictive part of me felt a small spark of satisfaction. "Really?"
"Really. Publishing might be messy, but we take care of our own. You're well-loved, Farley. Don't forget that."
My throat tightened. "Thanks, Savannah."
"Go to Virginia. Drink too much. Cry. Scream at mountains. Whatever you need. We'll handle New York."
After she hung up, I poured one more drink—a small one, because I needed to be functional enough to get to the airport tomorrow—and pulled up the cabin photos on my laptop.
The pictures still looked like paradise: rustic elegance, mountain views, the promise of peace. But now they felt like a reminder of everything I'd lost. The romantic getaway had become an exile. The carefully planned surprise had become an escape from humiliation.
I clicked through the photos, landing on one of the deck overlooking misty peaks. I'd imagined standing there with Ollie, watching the sunrise, planning our future.
Now I'd be standing there alone.
A tear rolled down my cheek, hot and unwelcome. Then another. Then I was crying in earnest, shoulders shaking, the bourbon glass forgotten on my nightstand.
Three years. Three years of loving someone who'd been fucking my assistant in coat closets while I planned romantic getaways.
I grabbed my phone and opened my notes app, creating one final list through blurry vision:
Things I'm Never Doing Again: 1. Trusting anyone in publishing 2. Dating colleagues 3. Hiring attractive assistants 4. Falling in love 5. Planning romantic surprises 6. Believing in happy endings 7. Giving people the benefit of the doubt 8. Being this fucking stupid
I closed the laptop, finished packing, and set my alarm for 5 AM. The flight to Charlottesville left at noon, and I needed to be on it before I did something stupid like respond to Ollie's texts or throw myself off my balcony.
As I finally collapsed into bed, drunk and exhausted and heartbroken, I pulled up the cabin reservation one last time.
Ashford Gap, Virginia. One month. Complete privacy.
I stared at the ceiling, at the shadows cast by streetlights through my window, and felt the full weight of my isolation pressing down on me.
Tomorrow, I'd get on that plane and I'd start over.
But tonight, I let myself break.
And somewhere in the wreckage of my perfectly organized life, I wondered if there was anything left worth saving.