Chapter 30
Eventually, Charlie started reading his emails again. A few days later he video called Ava. “Hey stranger,” she greeted him, looking happy and a bit surprised. She was at home, in her Brooklyn brownstone. “Thanks for taking the call.”
“Is this real?” he asked her. She snorted.
Apparently, while Charlie’s life had been crashing and burning, Wise Old Crone had been doing so well that Advance Media had bumped up their initial offer.
Just as Ava had predicted, they wanted to buy Charlie’s column, along with Charlie and Ava to run it.
They’d have much more editorial control and the kind of money he’d thought was a typo at first. It was in every way his dream job.
“Yes, it’s real,” she said, beaming. “And you deserve it. Congratulations, Charlie!”
“Thanks.”
She sat forward, her forehead filling up the screen. “Thanks? That’s all the reaction I get? I thought you’d at least scream, or throw up, or something.”
He tried to smile. “It is a lot of money.”
“Yeah,” Ava said, looking increasingly concerned. “It is.” When Charlie didn’t respond, she said, “Okay, what’s wrong?”
He rubbed his face with his hands. He hadn’t showered in days, and he was suddenly regretting taking this call in the first place. “Uh, nothing. I met someone while I was living here,” he said. “And it . . . it didn’t work out.”
“Oh,” Ava said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay, well,” she said, “let’s sublimate the heartache by focusing on work. Like, talking about this amazing deal!”
Charlie rubbed his eyes. He felt numb. “You’re sure it’s real?”
She laughed again. “Yes, and I think we should move quickly. You’re overdue with your Crone columns, and I want to close this thing before we get any pushback from management here.”
“Right,” he said, more out of muscle memory than anything else.
In his peripheral vision, he could see Ava staring at him through the screen, trying to puzzle him out. “You and me running the whole thing,” she said. “It’s going to be amazing. Independence, status, and—y’know, the money.”
He sighed. “I don’t know, Ava.”
“You don’t know what?” she asked. “Do you want to counter? Are you worried about their ownership of your work—”
“No,” he said, “I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.”
“This,” she asked, “like . . . write?”
He put his head in his hands, feeling like he was collapsing inward. “I don’t know.”
“Charlie, babe,” Ava said softly, “I’m sorry for what you’re going through right now, but that’s nuts! You’re a great writer. Look at what you’ve accomplished! You took what they did to you—and you thrived. Wise Old Crone is doing better than ever! You’re a total Cinderella story!”
“So I should be proud of this?” he asked sharply.
Ava sat back in confusion. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because it’s not—because it’s bullshit,” Charlie snapped. He felt like everything inside him was tying itself into knots, the pressure building and building. “Like, what do I—I’m just using people’s lives and drama for my own benefit.”
“Well, you’re getting paid,” Ava said doubtfully, “but I don’t think you’re—”
“Taking a huge deal, that you arranged?” he spat. “Just to, what, like—hurt people? Is that what you want me to do?”
Calmly, Ava said, “Why are you yelling at me right now.”
Charlie took a breath. “I wasn’t—”
“Charlie,” she said, and it pierced the last of his pride and defensiveness. He sighed again, his eyes burning, and didn’t try to talk anymore.
“What’s going on?” Ava asked quietly. “Because you’re acting like I did something wrong by trying to get you paid for your work.”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Hm?” she prompted.
Louder, and properly, he said, “I’m sorry.”
Ava waited.
“I’m not mad at you,” Charlie said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m . . . I’m mad at myself.”
Ava sat forward. “What is going on?”
Half an hour later, he’d crawled into bed, taking Ava with him under the covers. She’d slumped over at her desk, in absorbed listening mode—all he could see was an ear. He sniffed, hating how congested he got when he cried.
“Oh man,” Ava said softly. “So—what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “I want to fix it. But I can’t.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“I want to fix it more than that,” Charlie said, forcefully. “I want to . . .”
“Take it back?” Ava asked.
Quietly, Charlie said, “No.” Then he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Ava said nothing, just sitting with him while the sounds from her apartment filtered out into the cocoon Charlie had made.
“I just want . . .” He took a shaky breath before the tears started again. “. . . to do right by him.”
“What would you say if this was you writing in to the column?”
Miserably, Charlie choked out, “I’d tell him to dump me.” He squeezed his eyes shut against a fresh sob fighting its way up his throat.
“Not if it was him writing in,” Ava was saying. “What would you tell you to do?”
Charlie took a deep breath and thought, and Ava waited with him.